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!
Showing posts with label pemberley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pemberley. Show all posts
Saturday, 3 April 2010
Monday, 15 March 2010
Training twin bottoms
Monday, March 15 ‘10
There were two different kinds of bottoms in bite-size Modern Pemberley: the ones who were pro-potty and the ones who, if Mrs. Bennet allowed, would still be wearing nappies until they were 18. Four bottoms were trained. One bottom was not. And the untrained bot was quite clearly very happy to stay that way. She saw no need for it but was quite happy for her twin-bottomed-pal to enjoy her new-found independence.
To be honest Mrs. Bennet didn’t like potty training. Miss Megan Bennet had been somewhat later than her older siblings due to the fact that the massive double bump had prevented her mother from getting anywhere near the floor to a) reach the potty or bottom in question and b) clear up any spillages or deposits. The thought therefore of training two little derrieres at the same time did not fill Mrs. Bennet with joy.
But in the past few weeks something extraordinary happened with Miss Bennet Number Five. The smallest twin, known affectionately in written fashion as Bol, and Gorgeous in spoken form; decided to potty train herself. So efficient was this tiny dot, that not only did she take herself to the potty when she needed to go, but she wiped herself with a toilet roll put down by her side, emptied the contents into the toilet (without spilling any), climbed on to the side of her sister’s no-chance-of-anything-getting-in-here-potty, reached the flush, pressed the button, climbed down and then proceeded to wash her hands using the bath taps, pulled her pants and trousers up and did a little run and jump to end the routine. Mrs. Bennet was stunned by this spurt of independence and hoped that it would rub off onto Miss Bennet Number Four. But so far, nothing. Spag, as this twin was known on paper, Fantastic to her face, showed no sign of following.
“Well done Bubba!” she frequently yelled, accompanied by a clap. Bubba was the affectionate name Rosie gave her sister. Never once had she called her Kezia. Bubba was her name and probably would be for the rest of her life. Using the toilet or potty, dressing herself, walking everywhere and helping Mummy was a Kezia thing, not a Rosie thing. In Rosie’s world, one drew faces and people, used lots of bright coloured felt tips all day long, got pushed around in pushchairs, was dressed by Mummy only and didn’t go anywhere near a bathroom unless lifted into the bath.
These two children may share a birthday and a womb, but they were so refreshingly different that even Mrs. Bennet found it hard to believe they were twins. Miss Kezia was a mini Miss Bennet Number Two and Miss Rosie was a mini Miss Bennet Number One or Three. Miss Emily, daughter number two was Mrs. Bennet’s memory stick. She remembered every detail her mother was likely to forget. And Miss Kezia was fast becoming her back-up or hard-drive.
Only the other day Mrs. Bennet in sorting out the washing had made seven piles ready to take to the corresponding drawers, to discover one had disappeared. Without being told, the pile had been delivered to the correct landing spot by a two-year-old! Mrs. Bennet wasn’t sure how she managed to produce such a young and enthusiastic laundry helper when her older siblings just watched and let their mother get on with it.
“Please watch Kezia and take note everyone!” she remarked. But only Miss Bennet Number Two took notice. Mr. Bennet was now in Japan, so couldn’t. But he left his washing behind anyway.
Mrs. Bennet marvelled at the diversity within her household. Life was never dull. Sitting at her toddler table, drawing perfectly formed people, complete with bodies and head hair, her elder twin was now dressed in a fairy dress with a winter bobble hat on her head while her sister waddled pant-less towards the downstairs bathroom with potty in hand refusing any help. Mrs. Bennet’s nappy days were almost coming to an end. But somehow she knew there were a few more dirty bottoms in store for her yet.
There were two different kinds of bottoms in bite-size Modern Pemberley: the ones who were pro-potty and the ones who, if Mrs. Bennet allowed, would still be wearing nappies until they were 18. Four bottoms were trained. One bottom was not. And the untrained bot was quite clearly very happy to stay that way. She saw no need for it but was quite happy for her twin-bottomed-pal to enjoy her new-found independence.
To be honest Mrs. Bennet didn’t like potty training. Miss Megan Bennet had been somewhat later than her older siblings due to the fact that the massive double bump had prevented her mother from getting anywhere near the floor to a) reach the potty or bottom in question and b) clear up any spillages or deposits. The thought therefore of training two little derrieres at the same time did not fill Mrs. Bennet with joy.
But in the past few weeks something extraordinary happened with Miss Bennet Number Five. The smallest twin, known affectionately in written fashion as Bol, and Gorgeous in spoken form; decided to potty train herself. So efficient was this tiny dot, that not only did she take herself to the potty when she needed to go, but she wiped herself with a toilet roll put down by her side, emptied the contents into the toilet (without spilling any), climbed on to the side of her sister’s no-chance-of-anything-getting-in-here-potty, reached the flush, pressed the button, climbed down and then proceeded to wash her hands using the bath taps, pulled her pants and trousers up and did a little run and jump to end the routine. Mrs. Bennet was stunned by this spurt of independence and hoped that it would rub off onto Miss Bennet Number Four. But so far, nothing. Spag, as this twin was known on paper, Fantastic to her face, showed no sign of following.
“Well done Bubba!” she frequently yelled, accompanied by a clap. Bubba was the affectionate name Rosie gave her sister. Never once had she called her Kezia. Bubba was her name and probably would be for the rest of her life. Using the toilet or potty, dressing herself, walking everywhere and helping Mummy was a Kezia thing, not a Rosie thing. In Rosie’s world, one drew faces and people, used lots of bright coloured felt tips all day long, got pushed around in pushchairs, was dressed by Mummy only and didn’t go anywhere near a bathroom unless lifted into the bath.
These two children may share a birthday and a womb, but they were so refreshingly different that even Mrs. Bennet found it hard to believe they were twins. Miss Kezia was a mini Miss Bennet Number Two and Miss Rosie was a mini Miss Bennet Number One or Three. Miss Emily, daughter number two was Mrs. Bennet’s memory stick. She remembered every detail her mother was likely to forget. And Miss Kezia was fast becoming her back-up or hard-drive.
Only the other day Mrs. Bennet in sorting out the washing had made seven piles ready to take to the corresponding drawers, to discover one had disappeared. Without being told, the pile had been delivered to the correct landing spot by a two-year-old! Mrs. Bennet wasn’t sure how she managed to produce such a young and enthusiastic laundry helper when her older siblings just watched and let their mother get on with it.
“Please watch Kezia and take note everyone!” she remarked. But only Miss Bennet Number Two took notice. Mr. Bennet was now in Japan, so couldn’t. But he left his washing behind anyway.
Mrs. Bennet marvelled at the diversity within her household. Life was never dull. Sitting at her toddler table, drawing perfectly formed people, complete with bodies and head hair, her elder twin was now dressed in a fairy dress with a winter bobble hat on her head while her sister waddled pant-less towards the downstairs bathroom with potty in hand refusing any help. Mrs. Bennet’s nappy days were almost coming to an end. But somehow she knew there were a few more dirty bottoms in store for her yet.
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.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Spag and Bol – the tonic
Wednesday, November 11 ‘09
Now the dolls-on-the-roof had completed their ball-point pen removal therapy, they were back in full working order – being dragged along feet-first and lovingly manhandled by Spag and Bol. Under the lounge spotlights, the baby plastic now looked decidedly blotchy and Mrs. Bennet realised she had slightly overcooked the poor things. But the little Miss Twin Bennets didn’t seem to mind. They shoved Cheerios into the dolls’ mouths regardless and then wondered why they couldn’t get them back out.
Mrs. Bennet was so grateful to Spag and Bol right now. They were proving a real tonic. Their in-built rechargeable batteries never ran out enabling them to clip-clop in clumsy yet beautifully-comical style around the downstairs circle-route in bite-size Modern Pemberley wearing dressing-up high heeled shoes which didn’t match. They had no worries; only giggles and smiles. Mrs. Bennet wondered what age worry set in. How she would love a bottle of care-free childlike innocence at times. All was well in Spag and Bol’s world even if it wasn’t quite as it should be in Mrs. Bennet’s. With Christmas looming, Mrs. Bennet had no desire to buy any presents. Getting to Christmas dinner with every family member in one piece would be the best gift of all. Right now her dad was in hospital, having been rushed in passing out with acute stomach pains. Jannie had bravely fought breast cancer, but was still suffering the aftermaths and had seen enough medics to last a life-time. It certainly hadn’t been the best of years. And yet, despite seeing her dad, happy on morphine, eyes tinged yellow with his unshaven chin dappled with white specs as if he’d been caught dipping it into a packet of icing sugar, Mrs. Bennet felt grateful. Jannie had made it and so too would her dad – with the help of gall-bladder removal and a low-fat diet.
“Donuts don’t have any fat in do they?” he half-hoped, half-joked. It wasn’t good news for a sweet-tooth.
“They’re giving me a list of what I can have,” he informed his wife, still heart-broken that he hadn’t been given any ice-cream or milk for his breakfast cornflakes by the nurses.
“Good, because if they tell you, you might listen,” replied Jannie.
“Have you told them about your allergies?”
“Yes, but they only put down - beer. I think it was the only one they remembered but it made the consultant laugh,” the patient said smiling.
If there was one thing which held her family together it was humour. Watching her parent’s playful banter despite the situation they were in, gave her hope. A man wretched noisily into one of those funny cardboard bedpans in the corner bed; another snorted loudly in his sleep while one poor chap was stuck in the toilet waiting to be wheeled back to his bed. Visitors had sat around talking to an invisible man for 20 minutes wandering where he had gone. It was like watching a scene from Only When I Laugh, a classic early 1980’s comedy series set in the ward of an NHS hospital with an odd trio of male patients. Humour was everywhere if you chose to see it. And Mrs. Bennet had it on tap. She only had to spend a few minutes observing her youngest two daughters to get a free dose.
Now the dolls-on-the-roof had completed their ball-point pen removal therapy, they were back in full working order – being dragged along feet-first and lovingly manhandled by Spag and Bol. Under the lounge spotlights, the baby plastic now looked decidedly blotchy and Mrs. Bennet realised she had slightly overcooked the poor things. But the little Miss Twin Bennets didn’t seem to mind. They shoved Cheerios into the dolls’ mouths regardless and then wondered why they couldn’t get them back out.
Mrs. Bennet was so grateful to Spag and Bol right now. They were proving a real tonic. Their in-built rechargeable batteries never ran out enabling them to clip-clop in clumsy yet beautifully-comical style around the downstairs circle-route in bite-size Modern Pemberley wearing dressing-up high heeled shoes which didn’t match. They had no worries; only giggles and smiles. Mrs. Bennet wondered what age worry set in. How she would love a bottle of care-free childlike innocence at times. All was well in Spag and Bol’s world even if it wasn’t quite as it should be in Mrs. Bennet’s. With Christmas looming, Mrs. Bennet had no desire to buy any presents. Getting to Christmas dinner with every family member in one piece would be the best gift of all. Right now her dad was in hospital, having been rushed in passing out with acute stomach pains. Jannie had bravely fought breast cancer, but was still suffering the aftermaths and had seen enough medics to last a life-time. It certainly hadn’t been the best of years. And yet, despite seeing her dad, happy on morphine, eyes tinged yellow with his unshaven chin dappled with white specs as if he’d been caught dipping it into a packet of icing sugar, Mrs. Bennet felt grateful. Jannie had made it and so too would her dad – with the help of gall-bladder removal and a low-fat diet.
“Donuts don’t have any fat in do they?” he half-hoped, half-joked. It wasn’t good news for a sweet-tooth.
“They’re giving me a list of what I can have,” he informed his wife, still heart-broken that he hadn’t been given any ice-cream or milk for his breakfast cornflakes by the nurses.
“Good, because if they tell you, you might listen,” replied Jannie.
“Have you told them about your allergies?”
“Yes, but they only put down - beer. I think it was the only one they remembered but it made the consultant laugh,” the patient said smiling.
If there was one thing which held her family together it was humour. Watching her parent’s playful banter despite the situation they were in, gave her hope. A man wretched noisily into one of those funny cardboard bedpans in the corner bed; another snorted loudly in his sleep while one poor chap was stuck in the toilet waiting to be wheeled back to his bed. Visitors had sat around talking to an invisible man for 20 minutes wandering where he had gone. It was like watching a scene from Only When I Laugh, a classic early 1980’s comedy series set in the ward of an NHS hospital with an odd trio of male patients. Humour was everywhere if you chose to see it. And Mrs. Bennet had it on tap. She only had to spend a few minutes observing her youngest two daughters to get a free dose.
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.
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.
Saturday, 4 April 2009
That tooth fairy again...
Thursday, April 2 09
“She didn’t come Mummy,” declared a very forlorn Miss Bennet Number Two as she emerged from her quilt cocoon.
“Who didn’t?” mumbled a half-asleep Mrs Bennet, grateful her friend had just rung her mobile to act as a wake-up call.
“The tooth fairy. She didn’t leave me anything and she didn’t take my tooth either,” replied her toothless daughter.
Mrs Bennet inwardly kicked herself. Emotionally she wasn't yet ready to write about it but life was so surreal right now, the tooth fairy obviously had her mind on other matters and as the male tooth fairy was away on business abroad, he hadn’t reminded his companion to fetch the all-important molar.
“I remember when I was a little girl that the tooth fairy forgot to visit me one night, so I put the tooth back under my pillow and she ended up giving me double the money the next. So don’t worry,” replied Mrs Bennet.
Mr Bennet was in Lyon. Next week he was flying to Milan and the following week he was heading off to Dubai. He was probably doing more mileage than the Bennet tooth fairy. This morning it was lucky the children were awake. Mrs Bennet had forgotten to put her own alarm clock forward an hour. It suddenly made all the little Bennets jump when it sprang into action at 8.20am. It was just as well Mrs Bennet’s friend had called. She knew mornings were not Mrs Bennet’s strong point.
Meanwhile bite-size Pemberley was still not finished. The lounge was currently out of action due to a face-lift operation, leaving nowhere for Spag and Bol to play - although they would have quite happily have reenacted sword fights with paintbrushes smothered in turps if allowed. With their playground out of bounds it meant Mrs Bennet had to time it so she arrived back at the house ready for their lunch-time nap, get them up promptly at 2.50pm and out of the door to pick their sisters up from school.
Right now though her priority, as well as clearing the lounge, getting two nappies on two bottoms, clothes on six bodies, five heads of hair brushed (hers just warranted a bit of gel), finding twelve matching shoes and socks, three book bags, three lunch boxes, a nappy bag with adequate supplies and a set of car keys, was to fix the tooth fairy issue. Miraculously a coin appeared on the front door, stuck there by a piece of Sellotape.
It was Miss Bennet Number Three who discovered it.
“Mummy, what’s that on the door?!” she inquired.
“I don’t know love, ask Emily.” To which toothless Miss Bennet Number Two was quickly summoned to the front door and asked to examine the mysterious object.
“Look Mummy, she did come after all but obviously ran out of time and didn’t get chance to take my tooth!” declared a delighted daughter.
“Perhaps with all the building work, she was too scared to go upstairs afraid the builders were still there,” replied Mrs Bennet.
“I’m still going to leave my tooth under my pillow to see if she comes back for it, “said the toothless one.
Following the sad saga of her own tooth problem in the summer, the pain had returned which her new dentist (the young dishy Darcy one had left) had informed her this week was in fact an abscess. There was no chance of saving the tooth and it would have to come out. Mrs Bennet did wonder whether the tooth fairy would visit her when the time came and perhaps leave £30,000 so they could finish bite-size Pemberley as originally intended. She could but wish.
As the male tooth fairy had returned from Lyon, she prodded him at 1am and asked him to kindly go and see to the tiny tooth which lay underneath a top bunk pillow. As he did so, Spag, Miss Bennet Number Four, cried out. While her elder sister had lost her baby tooth, hers was coming in and she didn’t like it too much. Mrs Bennet didn’t like the pain hers was causing either, so grabbed a pain killer, rolled over and dreamt about drills.
“She didn’t come Mummy,” declared a very forlorn Miss Bennet Number Two as she emerged from her quilt cocoon.
“Who didn’t?” mumbled a half-asleep Mrs Bennet, grateful her friend had just rung her mobile to act as a wake-up call.
“The tooth fairy. She didn’t leave me anything and she didn’t take my tooth either,” replied her toothless daughter.
Mrs Bennet inwardly kicked herself. Emotionally she wasn't yet ready to write about it but life was so surreal right now, the tooth fairy obviously had her mind on other matters and as the male tooth fairy was away on business abroad, he hadn’t reminded his companion to fetch the all-important molar.
“I remember when I was a little girl that the tooth fairy forgot to visit me one night, so I put the tooth back under my pillow and she ended up giving me double the money the next. So don’t worry,” replied Mrs Bennet.
Mr Bennet was in Lyon. Next week he was flying to Milan and the following week he was heading off to Dubai. He was probably doing more mileage than the Bennet tooth fairy. This morning it was lucky the children were awake. Mrs Bennet had forgotten to put her own alarm clock forward an hour. It suddenly made all the little Bennets jump when it sprang into action at 8.20am. It was just as well Mrs Bennet’s friend had called. She knew mornings were not Mrs Bennet’s strong point.
Meanwhile bite-size Pemberley was still not finished. The lounge was currently out of action due to a face-lift operation, leaving nowhere for Spag and Bol to play - although they would have quite happily have reenacted sword fights with paintbrushes smothered in turps if allowed. With their playground out of bounds it meant Mrs Bennet had to time it so she arrived back at the house ready for their lunch-time nap, get them up promptly at 2.50pm and out of the door to pick their sisters up from school.
Right now though her priority, as well as clearing the lounge, getting two nappies on two bottoms, clothes on six bodies, five heads of hair brushed (hers just warranted a bit of gel), finding twelve matching shoes and socks, three book bags, three lunch boxes, a nappy bag with adequate supplies and a set of car keys, was to fix the tooth fairy issue. Miraculously a coin appeared on the front door, stuck there by a piece of Sellotape.
It was Miss Bennet Number Three who discovered it.
“Mummy, what’s that on the door?!” she inquired.
“I don’t know love, ask Emily.” To which toothless Miss Bennet Number Two was quickly summoned to the front door and asked to examine the mysterious object.
“Look Mummy, she did come after all but obviously ran out of time and didn’t get chance to take my tooth!” declared a delighted daughter.
“Perhaps with all the building work, she was too scared to go upstairs afraid the builders were still there,” replied Mrs Bennet.
“I’m still going to leave my tooth under my pillow to see if she comes back for it, “said the toothless one.
Following the sad saga of her own tooth problem in the summer, the pain had returned which her new dentist (the young dishy Darcy one had left) had informed her this week was in fact an abscess. There was no chance of saving the tooth and it would have to come out. Mrs Bennet did wonder whether the tooth fairy would visit her when the time came and perhaps leave £30,000 so they could finish bite-size Pemberley as originally intended. She could but wish.
As the male tooth fairy had returned from Lyon, she prodded him at 1am and asked him to kindly go and see to the tiny tooth which lay underneath a top bunk pillow. As he did so, Spag, Miss Bennet Number Four, cried out. While her elder sister had lost her baby tooth, hers was coming in and she didn’t like it too much. Mrs Bennet didn’t like the pain hers was causing either, so grabbed a pain killer, rolled over and dreamt about drills.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Out of control – and not liking it very much
Tuesday, February 10 09
The Scooby-Doo van was in trouble. It was slipping and sliding. Mrs Bennet was in trouble. She was streaming and screaming. The more the car cruised out of control, the more the driver cried. It was a horrible sound. Mrs Bennet turned the steering wheel, pressed the accelerator, but the car couldn’t obey. Caught on a patch of ice, it could only swerve.
Mrs Bennet – with the twins on board – was in a car park, which like most of her home town, was based on a slope. She was desperately trying to avoid crashing into the collection of metal objects before her. So many tears were forming in her eyes, the cars no longer resembled cars. They looked more like a colour swatch. Earlier, a blob of snow had fallen off the car roof onto her head as she got into the driver’s seat. Now it had melted and was joining the tear stream. Mrs Bennet sat crumbled over the steering wheel. The Scooby-Doo van sat motionless on its ice blanket. As Mrs Bennet’s mobile phone was sitting on the dusty kitchen work top, the crying mother couldn’t ring for help. Instead she sat like Alice in Wonderland in her own pool of salty tears, with her twin dormice for company. Of course it wasn’t really the scary-out-of-control-feeling of this experience which had provoked the outburst. Rather it was the fact the experience epitomized what she felt inside. Last night Mr Bennet had walked through the door with such a long face, she feared a death had occurred. But it wasn’t the death of a person, it was the death of a dream. A dream that sometime soon bite-size Pemberley would be finished. Mr Bennet explained that the house – with all its extended glory – was, in the current climate, only worth £10,000 more than what it had originally been valued. As the next phase of the build was dependent on borrowing 75% of that figure, it now meant Pemberley could not be completed. It would be built, but there would not be enough funds for carpets, windows, furniture, cupboards, driveway, bathroom refurbishment, porch and even a front door – all the essentials which made the house a home. Today it was too much for Mrs Bennet’s nerves and she cried - cried because she was fed up with dust and upheaval and because even after all of this, the house would not be finished.
After her emotional outburst - made even more dramatic with the twins’ whimpering discords - she felt marginally better and somehow managed to cajole the Scooby-Doo to swing into a car park space. It was only when the snow had melted, she realised just how badly she had parked. Thankfully she was not alone. Cars were jutting out at strange angles all over the place.
Momentarily back in control, her emotions and car in order, Mrs Bennet got through the day. Wearing her heart on her sleeve, she later revealed her frustrations to a couple of ballet mums, who had asked about the building project. Eager to help, one of them came up with the obvious solution.
“Well you can always sell one of your girls!” she announced.
Mrs Bennet smiled. She would live in a shack rather than do that. And some people did live in shacks which to them were their mini-Pemberley and they were grateful. Mrs Bennet knew really where her riches lay. After all without her five daughters and Mr Bennet there would be no need for a home. It was just that sometimes life didn’t always go the way she wanted. But press on with a smile she would.
The Scooby-Doo van was in trouble. It was slipping and sliding. Mrs Bennet was in trouble. She was streaming and screaming. The more the car cruised out of control, the more the driver cried. It was a horrible sound. Mrs Bennet turned the steering wheel, pressed the accelerator, but the car couldn’t obey. Caught on a patch of ice, it could only swerve.
Mrs Bennet – with the twins on board – was in a car park, which like most of her home town, was based on a slope. She was desperately trying to avoid crashing into the collection of metal objects before her. So many tears were forming in her eyes, the cars no longer resembled cars. They looked more like a colour swatch. Earlier, a blob of snow had fallen off the car roof onto her head as she got into the driver’s seat. Now it had melted and was joining the tear stream. Mrs Bennet sat crumbled over the steering wheel. The Scooby-Doo van sat motionless on its ice blanket. As Mrs Bennet’s mobile phone was sitting on the dusty kitchen work top, the crying mother couldn’t ring for help. Instead she sat like Alice in Wonderland in her own pool of salty tears, with her twin dormice for company. Of course it wasn’t really the scary-out-of-control-feeling of this experience which had provoked the outburst. Rather it was the fact the experience epitomized what she felt inside. Last night Mr Bennet had walked through the door with such a long face, she feared a death had occurred. But it wasn’t the death of a person, it was the death of a dream. A dream that sometime soon bite-size Pemberley would be finished. Mr Bennet explained that the house – with all its extended glory – was, in the current climate, only worth £10,000 more than what it had originally been valued. As the next phase of the build was dependent on borrowing 75% of that figure, it now meant Pemberley could not be completed. It would be built, but there would not be enough funds for carpets, windows, furniture, cupboards, driveway, bathroom refurbishment, porch and even a front door – all the essentials which made the house a home. Today it was too much for Mrs Bennet’s nerves and she cried - cried because she was fed up with dust and upheaval and because even after all of this, the house would not be finished.
After her emotional outburst - made even more dramatic with the twins’ whimpering discords - she felt marginally better and somehow managed to cajole the Scooby-Doo to swing into a car park space. It was only when the snow had melted, she realised just how badly she had parked. Thankfully she was not alone. Cars were jutting out at strange angles all over the place.
Momentarily back in control, her emotions and car in order, Mrs Bennet got through the day. Wearing her heart on her sleeve, she later revealed her frustrations to a couple of ballet mums, who had asked about the building project. Eager to help, one of them came up with the obvious solution.
“Well you can always sell one of your girls!” she announced.
Mrs Bennet smiled. She would live in a shack rather than do that. And some people did live in shacks which to them were their mini-Pemberley and they were grateful. Mrs Bennet knew really where her riches lay. After all without her five daughters and Mr Bennet there would be no need for a home. It was just that sometimes life didn’t always go the way she wanted. But press on with a smile she would.
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
Where's the wife?
Tuesday, February 3 ‘09
A year ago Mrs Bennet had very strongly suggested to Mr Bennet that if he wanted a wife at the end of the proposed building project, he had better consider moving out. To his credit, he did consider. To her dismay, he then reconsidered. So being the good wife she was, she agreed to live through it. But now, four months after work had started, Mrs Bennet wondered whether she really was a good wife and questioned where the wife had in fact gone? She no longer recognised herself. She had a strange tinge of grey about her, which, if you touched her was so tangible, it rubbed off. Mrs Bennet had surreptitiously turned into the duster. It was the house’s pay-back time – revenge for all the years she had failed to clear, duster or remove its cobwebs. The Bennet duster was huddled next to a small halogen heater, which radiated light and heat, subsequently melting any ice in its wake. As the Darcys in the Dirt had now broken through in two places: in the hallway as well as the landing, it meant the unheated brand new half of bite-size Pemberley stole the heat of its older half, at a time when Britain was experiencing its worst winter for 18 years. Mrs Bennet didn’t do cold well. She couldn’t function, think or concentrate. She drank far too much tea on these occasions and no matter how many layers she wore, she couldn’t get warm. She took great delight in robbing Mr Bennet of his body heat with her icepack feet. It was his punishment for not allowing her to move out. Of course the older three Miss Bennets were oblivious of mess and disorder; their twin siblings just relished the attention from the growing breed of Darcys in the Dirt and Mr Bennet had left the building before work started and returned when work had finished. So why should any of them complain? Thankfully the duster had a sense of humour. But it was getting drier. The wit was edging towards sarcasm and she didn’t like it. The day was drawing near when she’d have to pack the kitchen away as well. Today Mrs Bennet, feeling and acting like a whinge-bucket, had snapped at the children and had felt even worse for doing so. Then she apologised and spent the rest of the evening undoing what damage she may have done. Perhaps there was one consolation. Having never been very religious about dusting, she felt no obligation to start now when the house was at its worse.“My dear Mr Bennet, I promise to duster every day for the rest of our married life, so long as I don’t have to live through another building project!” she informed her warm-blooded-who-never-feels-the-cold-husband.“Are you renewing your wedding vows? Because I’ll need a witness for this,” he remarked. The duster hit him, covering him in a shower of grey soot.
A year ago Mrs Bennet had very strongly suggested to Mr Bennet that if he wanted a wife at the end of the proposed building project, he had better consider moving out. To his credit, he did consider. To her dismay, he then reconsidered. So being the good wife she was, she agreed to live through it. But now, four months after work had started, Mrs Bennet wondered whether she really was a good wife and questioned where the wife had in fact gone? She no longer recognised herself. She had a strange tinge of grey about her, which, if you touched her was so tangible, it rubbed off. Mrs Bennet had surreptitiously turned into the duster. It was the house’s pay-back time – revenge for all the years she had failed to clear, duster or remove its cobwebs. The Bennet duster was huddled next to a small halogen heater, which radiated light and heat, subsequently melting any ice in its wake. As the Darcys in the Dirt had now broken through in two places: in the hallway as well as the landing, it meant the unheated brand new half of bite-size Pemberley stole the heat of its older half, at a time when Britain was experiencing its worst winter for 18 years. Mrs Bennet didn’t do cold well. She couldn’t function, think or concentrate. She drank far too much tea on these occasions and no matter how many layers she wore, she couldn’t get warm. She took great delight in robbing Mr Bennet of his body heat with her icepack feet. It was his punishment for not allowing her to move out. Of course the older three Miss Bennets were oblivious of mess and disorder; their twin siblings just relished the attention from the growing breed of Darcys in the Dirt and Mr Bennet had left the building before work started and returned when work had finished. So why should any of them complain? Thankfully the duster had a sense of humour. But it was getting drier. The wit was edging towards sarcasm and she didn’t like it. The day was drawing near when she’d have to pack the kitchen away as well. Today Mrs Bennet, feeling and acting like a whinge-bucket, had snapped at the children and had felt even worse for doing so. Then she apologised and spent the rest of the evening undoing what damage she may have done. Perhaps there was one consolation. Having never been very religious about dusting, she felt no obligation to start now when the house was at its worse.“My dear Mr Bennet, I promise to duster every day for the rest of our married life, so long as I don’t have to live through another building project!” she informed her warm-blooded-who-never-feels-the-cold-husband.“Are you renewing your wedding vows? Because I’ll need a witness for this,” he remarked. The duster hit him, covering him in a shower of grey soot.
Sunday, 1 February 2009
Meeting the Italian Mr Cappuccino part two
Friday, January 30 09
Apart from the frisking, the journey itself to Milan was painless. No children to worry about or chase, Mr and Mrs Bennet could read at leisure and shut their eyes, without the fear of a little Miss Bennet pushing up their eyelids.
Despite it being such a short trip, Mrs Bennet did manage a small taste of Italy. Mozzerella balls, which Mrs Bennet mistook for eggs; nuggets of aubergine accompanied by battered zucchini flowers (courgette) stuffed with melted cheese; toasted bread, dripping with olive oil and topped with tomato, fried chicken, salad and tiramisu to end. This was a true Italian restaurant and plates of endless tasty morsels appeared from nowhere; the waiter only too keen to educate Mrs Bennet who was intrigued by what was set before her; he, equally intrigued as to why she ordered a cappuccino at the end of a meal. It was past six o'clock and obviously not the done thing. But he gave her one anyway, much to her delight. At least she hadn't ordered a cup of tea!
They were leaving before six the next day, so she could avoid making the same mistake. She did think about home, her children, her parents, her Darcys in the Dirt and wondered how they all were. But she did so need this break. She needed the sleep, but unlike Mr Cappuccino who obviously managed to recharge his batteries. Neither Mr or Mrs Bennet could do so. They both woke continually throughout the night thanks to an extremely noisy fan in their room, which neither of them knew how to turn off. Mr Bennet worked out where the off switch was in the morning - far too late.
He left Mrs Bennet early for a breakfast briefing and then for a morning of meetings. She felt oddly alone. For weeks she craved some quiet, some space, some time where she didn’t pretend to have six heads and twelve arms to meet the demands of Mr Bennet and the Bennet brood. But now, sitting alone in the hotel’s dining room, sampling Italian cheeses and meats, the romance of Italy had left her. Surrounded by men in suits, talking animatedly in their singing tongue, she missed the familiar noise of home. Who would want to spend hours in a hotel room tied to a computer, sitting on their own at a table looking lost and jumping from plane to plane to make the next meeting? One night away was enough. Italy without a partner must be tough. The last time she visited, she’d got lost in Venice, the capital of romance and had spent two hours aimlessly wandering the streets and attractive arched bridges looking for her friend, who was aimlessly wandering about looking for her. All Mrs Bennet remembered was celebrating their reunion with a cappuccino. Both single at the time, they then questioned what they were doing in such a romantic place without a beau. A question Mrs Bennet was asking herself some 14 years later...and she was married. She spent her time writing, reading, researching and putting together a feature on Bourton-on-the-Water, the Venice of the Cotswolds, for a glossy magazine. Sad as it was, it was refreshing to be able to use what was left in her brain without the interruption of drills and demands from little children. But after 24 hours confined in a small hotel room with just a bottle of carbonated water for company, she was ready to go home. A shuttle bus, a Metro experience, a double decker train trip (her first), a bumpy flight and car journey later, Mrs Bennet arrived back at the part-built bite-size Pemberley and dashed upstairs to kiss all five sleeping heads. That night, Mr and Mrs Bennet slept fitfully - he dreaming of business deals going wrong; she of handsome young Italians making her go through a never ending tunnel of security arches.
Apart from the frisking, the journey itself to Milan was painless. No children to worry about or chase, Mr and Mrs Bennet could read at leisure and shut their eyes, without the fear of a little Miss Bennet pushing up their eyelids.
Despite it being such a short trip, Mrs Bennet did manage a small taste of Italy. Mozzerella balls, which Mrs Bennet mistook for eggs; nuggets of aubergine accompanied by battered zucchini flowers (courgette) stuffed with melted cheese; toasted bread, dripping with olive oil and topped with tomato, fried chicken, salad and tiramisu to end. This was a true Italian restaurant and plates of endless tasty morsels appeared from nowhere; the waiter only too keen to educate Mrs Bennet who was intrigued by what was set before her; he, equally intrigued as to why she ordered a cappuccino at the end of a meal. It was past six o'clock and obviously not the done thing. But he gave her one anyway, much to her delight. At least she hadn't ordered a cup of tea!
They were leaving before six the next day, so she could avoid making the same mistake. She did think about home, her children, her parents, her Darcys in the Dirt and wondered how they all were. But she did so need this break. She needed the sleep, but unlike Mr Cappuccino who obviously managed to recharge his batteries. Neither Mr or Mrs Bennet could do so. They both woke continually throughout the night thanks to an extremely noisy fan in their room, which neither of them knew how to turn off. Mr Bennet worked out where the off switch was in the morning - far too late.
He left Mrs Bennet early for a breakfast briefing and then for a morning of meetings. She felt oddly alone. For weeks she craved some quiet, some space, some time where she didn’t pretend to have six heads and twelve arms to meet the demands of Mr Bennet and the Bennet brood. But now, sitting alone in the hotel’s dining room, sampling Italian cheeses and meats, the romance of Italy had left her. Surrounded by men in suits, talking animatedly in their singing tongue, she missed the familiar noise of home. Who would want to spend hours in a hotel room tied to a computer, sitting on their own at a table looking lost and jumping from plane to plane to make the next meeting? One night away was enough. Italy without a partner must be tough. The last time she visited, she’d got lost in Venice, the capital of romance and had spent two hours aimlessly wandering the streets and attractive arched bridges looking for her friend, who was aimlessly wandering about looking for her. All Mrs Bennet remembered was celebrating their reunion with a cappuccino. Both single at the time, they then questioned what they were doing in such a romantic place without a beau. A question Mrs Bennet was asking herself some 14 years later...and she was married. She spent her time writing, reading, researching and putting together a feature on Bourton-on-the-Water, the Venice of the Cotswolds, for a glossy magazine. Sad as it was, it was refreshing to be able to use what was left in her brain without the interruption of drills and demands from little children. But after 24 hours confined in a small hotel room with just a bottle of carbonated water for company, she was ready to go home. A shuttle bus, a Metro experience, a double decker train trip (her first), a bumpy flight and car journey later, Mrs Bennet arrived back at the part-built bite-size Pemberley and dashed upstairs to kiss all five sleeping heads. That night, Mr and Mrs Bennet slept fitfully - he dreaming of business deals going wrong; she of handsome young Italians making her go through a never ending tunnel of security arches.
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.
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!”
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