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.
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
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, 30 January 2009
Meeting the Italian Mr Cappuccino
Thursday, January 30 09
Mrs Bennet was stunned. She was fortunate to be in the country that smelt of rich strong coffee, but Mr Cappuccino didn’t exist after 6 o’clock. He was obviously very passionate and needed his beauty sleep. What Mrs Bennet hadn’t realised was the night shift belonged to Mr Expresso, who being slightly more resilient, could last longer. Although that didn’t make sense to Mrs Bennet because he was only dolls cup size. She’s learnt all this in a quaint Italian restaurant.
She was in Italy, a country full of noise, hand gestures, romance and chat. Here for just 24 hours, as she had tagged along with Mr Bennet who was needed for a business meeting in Milan. Here because she was no longer the cow feeding a calf or two, here because she had the opportunity to fly without a babe in arms, here because she had the opportunity to go somewhere. Mr Bennet flew all over the world: Malaysia, Canada, Spain, Dubai and Egypt, and sometimes did so without much warning, leaving her with the five Bennet girls and on occasion with a packed-up boiler, stomach bugs, diggers and foundation specialists. But the first time in 10 years, thanks to very accommodating set of parents, Mrs Bennet was able to go as the extra luggage, for good behaviour. She felt guilty leaving her mum and dad with the new extended Bennet family of plasterers, electricians and the original Darcys in the Dirt - the builders - but not guilty enough to refuse such an invitation. Just to fly away was an adventure and the thought of spending time with Italian Mr Lattes and Cappuccinos was thrilling; that and having some mental space of her own. She knew Mr Bennet would leave her to her own devices most of the time, and as the hotel was in the middle of a built up industrial site, Giotto and Giovanni would be spared a visit from Mrs Bennet, who did so appreciate a bit of culture.
Bristol Airport was unbelievably quiet: no queuing, no buzzing of people whizzing off to various countries and no delays. It was nothing like her previous life of flying. Procedures had changed, and staff appeared a lot more serious. It brought out her mischievous side and she could see exactly why Mr Bean had pretended his hand was a gun when queuing up to get his holiday luggage checked in. What was it about airports and security staff which instantly made you feel guilty? Perhaps she looked it.
“That guard followed you with his eyes until you were out of sight,” observed Mr Bennet.
“I smiled at him, is that so wrong?!” Mrs Bennet questioned.
“And how come I set the alarms off and you walk through that radar arch and nothing! I’m not sure I liked being frisked by a woman,” she added.
The buckles on her boots and jeans belt had set the alarm off. Mrs Bennet was immediately accosted by a stern looking woman, asked to remove both items and hold her arms out in surrender position, while she endured being frisked. It was not a pleasant experience. It could have least been a dishy Italian. And anyway, her belt held her jeans up, and with that now removed, she felt the waist slipping down. What can you do but allow the humiliation to increase. With arms outstretched she watched helplessly as her black jeans started to slide downwards. Thankfully the frisking stopped in time for her to reclaim what dignity she had left. She made a mental note to strip before walking through the arch on her homeward journey. Sadly it prevented a dishy Italian getting his hands on her.
Mrs Bennet was stunned. She was fortunate to be in the country that smelt of rich strong coffee, but Mr Cappuccino didn’t exist after 6 o’clock. He was obviously very passionate and needed his beauty sleep. What Mrs Bennet hadn’t realised was the night shift belonged to Mr Expresso, who being slightly more resilient, could last longer. Although that didn’t make sense to Mrs Bennet because he was only dolls cup size. She’s learnt all this in a quaint Italian restaurant.
She was in Italy, a country full of noise, hand gestures, romance and chat. Here for just 24 hours, as she had tagged along with Mr Bennet who was needed for a business meeting in Milan. Here because she was no longer the cow feeding a calf or two, here because she had the opportunity to fly without a babe in arms, here because she had the opportunity to go somewhere. Mr Bennet flew all over the world: Malaysia, Canada, Spain, Dubai and Egypt, and sometimes did so without much warning, leaving her with the five Bennet girls and on occasion with a packed-up boiler, stomach bugs, diggers and foundation specialists. But the first time in 10 years, thanks to very accommodating set of parents, Mrs Bennet was able to go as the extra luggage, for good behaviour. She felt guilty leaving her mum and dad with the new extended Bennet family of plasterers, electricians and the original Darcys in the Dirt - the builders - but not guilty enough to refuse such an invitation. Just to fly away was an adventure and the thought of spending time with Italian Mr Lattes and Cappuccinos was thrilling; that and having some mental space of her own. She knew Mr Bennet would leave her to her own devices most of the time, and as the hotel was in the middle of a built up industrial site, Giotto and Giovanni would be spared a visit from Mrs Bennet, who did so appreciate a bit of culture.
Bristol Airport was unbelievably quiet: no queuing, no buzzing of people whizzing off to various countries and no delays. It was nothing like her previous life of flying. Procedures had changed, and staff appeared a lot more serious. It brought out her mischievous side and she could see exactly why Mr Bean had pretended his hand was a gun when queuing up to get his holiday luggage checked in. What was it about airports and security staff which instantly made you feel guilty? Perhaps she looked it.
“That guard followed you with his eyes until you were out of sight,” observed Mr Bennet.
“I smiled at him, is that so wrong?!” Mrs Bennet questioned.
“And how come I set the alarms off and you walk through that radar arch and nothing! I’m not sure I liked being frisked by a woman,” she added.
The buckles on her boots and jeans belt had set the alarm off. Mrs Bennet was immediately accosted by a stern looking woman, asked to remove both items and hold her arms out in surrender position, while she endured being frisked. It was not a pleasant experience. It could have least been a dishy Italian. And anyway, her belt held her jeans up, and with that now removed, she felt the waist slipping down. What can you do but allow the humiliation to increase. With arms outstretched she watched helplessly as her black jeans started to slide downwards. Thankfully the frisking stopped in time for her to reclaim what dignity she had left. She made a mental note to strip before walking through the arch on her homeward journey. Sadly it prevented a dishy Italian getting his hands on her.
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
The placenta ate Mrs Bennet’s brain
Monday, January 26 09
After the birth of her first child, Mrs Bennet was convinced, having caught herself putting semi-skimmed milk in the washing machine instead of fabric conditioner, and trying to pay for her shopping with a library card, that the placenta had in fact eaten her brain.
Four more children later, her suspicions were realised. Having seen the size of the twin’s placenta, and the fact Mrs Bennet could no longer get her children’s names right let alone remember why she had gone up the stairs; she knew it had to be true.
And so it was in this state – with all her brain cells swallowed up – she was attempting to be a student, 23 years after she’d last written an essay or had faced the challenge of digesting so much information. It was a parenting group facilitator’s course, which if she survived, would enable her to lead parenting courses. Not that she had the answers – after all she was on this emotional roller coaster ride along with fellow mums and dads – it was just so she could encourage others, who like her were only seeking to do their best. She was no yummy mummy that’s for sure. She didn’t make her children’s birthday cakes and she didn’t look immaculate. Very often she left the house with a silvery trace of snail-trail snot on her shoulder, a Weetabix hand-print on her knee and a soggy patch on her backside, because she’d sat down on a wet-wipe snowball one of the twins had just made, after pulling the entire contents out of the packet. No, if anything she was a slummy mummy, who lived each moment at a time, invariably sank under the constant demands and occasionally came up for air. Which, incidentally wasn’t pleasant at the moment, because it was full of dust, thanks to the Darcys in the Dirt who were now inside the building.
Mrs Bennet observed her fellow students. They looked so together, so professional and so sure of what they were doing, she felt a bit of a fraud. This was her first day off from child-care since Miss Bennet numbers four and five had arrived. Would they notice if she fell asleep on the table in front of her, surrounded by a sea of delicious chocolate biscuits and her Mr Latte? And would they notice her quietly panicking at the thought of writing assignments and assessments? She drew herself up to her full height of five foot and told herself she could do this. It may well break the recurring and annoying dream she always had at this time of year that she hadn’t revised enough for her history “A” level. She usually woke up trying to work out which of Henry VIII’s wives hadn’t lost their heads.
Numbed, exhausted and completely brain dead after a long day, Mrs Bennet returned home trying to recall which learning theories were what, and flopped in the nearest chair. Miss Megan Bennet instantly presented her with a headless Polly Pocket doll.
“Mummy, look what’s happened to this one? She’s lost her head!” announced her daughter, amused.
“Well, I know how she feels! I just left mine behind at the course I was on. I don’t think I would have been any luckier if I had been one of Henry VIII’s wives!” Mrs Bennet declared.
Miss Megan Bennet looked a bit confused by her mother’s statement, but simply answered:
“Mummy, I am sure Daddy can go back and get it for you!”
Mrs Bennet appreciated her concern, but decided she’d leave it there until the next course session. Perhaps by then it might have recharged!
After the birth of her first child, Mrs Bennet was convinced, having caught herself putting semi-skimmed milk in the washing machine instead of fabric conditioner, and trying to pay for her shopping with a library card, that the placenta had in fact eaten her brain.
Four more children later, her suspicions were realised. Having seen the size of the twin’s placenta, and the fact Mrs Bennet could no longer get her children’s names right let alone remember why she had gone up the stairs; she knew it had to be true.
And so it was in this state – with all her brain cells swallowed up – she was attempting to be a student, 23 years after she’d last written an essay or had faced the challenge of digesting so much information. It was a parenting group facilitator’s course, which if she survived, would enable her to lead parenting courses. Not that she had the answers – after all she was on this emotional roller coaster ride along with fellow mums and dads – it was just so she could encourage others, who like her were only seeking to do their best. She was no yummy mummy that’s for sure. She didn’t make her children’s birthday cakes and she didn’t look immaculate. Very often she left the house with a silvery trace of snail-trail snot on her shoulder, a Weetabix hand-print on her knee and a soggy patch on her backside, because she’d sat down on a wet-wipe snowball one of the twins had just made, after pulling the entire contents out of the packet. No, if anything she was a slummy mummy, who lived each moment at a time, invariably sank under the constant demands and occasionally came up for air. Which, incidentally wasn’t pleasant at the moment, because it was full of dust, thanks to the Darcys in the Dirt who were now inside the building.
Mrs Bennet observed her fellow students. They looked so together, so professional and so sure of what they were doing, she felt a bit of a fraud. This was her first day off from child-care since Miss Bennet numbers four and five had arrived. Would they notice if she fell asleep on the table in front of her, surrounded by a sea of delicious chocolate biscuits and her Mr Latte? And would they notice her quietly panicking at the thought of writing assignments and assessments? She drew herself up to her full height of five foot and told herself she could do this. It may well break the recurring and annoying dream she always had at this time of year that she hadn’t revised enough for her history “A” level. She usually woke up trying to work out which of Henry VIII’s wives hadn’t lost their heads.
Numbed, exhausted and completely brain dead after a long day, Mrs Bennet returned home trying to recall which learning theories were what, and flopped in the nearest chair. Miss Megan Bennet instantly presented her with a headless Polly Pocket doll.
“Mummy, look what’s happened to this one? She’s lost her head!” announced her daughter, amused.
“Well, I know how she feels! I just left mine behind at the course I was on. I don’t think I would have been any luckier if I had been one of Henry VIII’s wives!” Mrs Bennet declared.
Miss Megan Bennet looked a bit confused by her mother’s statement, but simply answered:
“Mummy, I am sure Daddy can go back and get it for you!”
Mrs Bennet appreciated her concern, but decided she’d leave it there until the next course session. Perhaps by then it might have recharged!
Friday, 23 January 2009
Mrs Bennet’s Bust Fairy
Tuesday, January 20 09
The Tooth Fairy had a collection of milk teeth she kept hidden, but now and then she looked at the tiny molars and marvelled how they had once been part of a tiny mouth as well as debating how much money it had cost her. Mrs Bennet respected the Tooth Fairy. At least she remembered to visit – unlike the Bust Fairy. Mrs Bennet yanked at her broken top drawer and looked at her miserable array of bras with front, back and shoulder fasteners, of varying cup sizes and various shades of grey. None of them fitted now, apart from one and it provoked too many humiliating memories, Mrs Bennet refused to wear it. It represented her first and last bra fitting experience.
“I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Bennet, but you are only a 32 double A,” declared the matronly bra-fitter - who obviously took great delight in making young(ish) women feel good about themselves – loud enough for all vulnerable top-less ladies in adjoining cubicles, dreading their own fate, to hear.
Mrs Bennet didn’t know quite what to say. So what if she had moles rather than mountains? And why tell her in a tone she heard at school when a pupil hadn’t made the expected grade? To ensure Mrs Bennet felt really good, the army major bra-fitter, pointed her in the direction of the teenage bra rails, where the only bra in her size was a starter bra.
It should have been the finishing bra, because it finished her off. Never again would she let a bra fitter near her. She’d rather wear chicken fillets.
Two twin babies later, her bust had grown impressively to the largest it had ever been, but the babies had eaten them all up. Her cleavage now gone to Cleavage Heaven, she could however run again without the risk of black eyes.
So when a dear image consultant friend informed Mrs Bennet and her chums that a bra fitter would be coming along from a rather posh lingerie line, Mrs Bennet made her feelings felt.
“I won’t be coming. I do not like bra fitters, who consider I don’t have a bust to fit,” she informed her friend.
And that was that. Her companion to her left, whose bust and wit she wished she could buy at her favourite supermarket, joked:
“Didn’t the bust fairy come to your house then?”
“She did for a while, but obviously decided to take her precious commodities back!” moaned Mrs Bennet. “But I’ll give her one more chance!”
That night she shoved her pathetic bra collection under her pillow in hope. The next morning, the bras were gone, but a note was in its place.
“There are not enough busts to go round. I have five more sets to make for this household. That is more than enough for one Bust Fairy!”
The Tooth Fairy had a collection of milk teeth she kept hidden, but now and then she looked at the tiny molars and marvelled how they had once been part of a tiny mouth as well as debating how much money it had cost her. Mrs Bennet respected the Tooth Fairy. At least she remembered to visit – unlike the Bust Fairy. Mrs Bennet yanked at her broken top drawer and looked at her miserable array of bras with front, back and shoulder fasteners, of varying cup sizes and various shades of grey. None of them fitted now, apart from one and it provoked too many humiliating memories, Mrs Bennet refused to wear it. It represented her first and last bra fitting experience.
“I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Bennet, but you are only a 32 double A,” declared the matronly bra-fitter - who obviously took great delight in making young(ish) women feel good about themselves – loud enough for all vulnerable top-less ladies in adjoining cubicles, dreading their own fate, to hear.
Mrs Bennet didn’t know quite what to say. So what if she had moles rather than mountains? And why tell her in a tone she heard at school when a pupil hadn’t made the expected grade? To ensure Mrs Bennet felt really good, the army major bra-fitter, pointed her in the direction of the teenage bra rails, where the only bra in her size was a starter bra.
It should have been the finishing bra, because it finished her off. Never again would she let a bra fitter near her. She’d rather wear chicken fillets.
Two twin babies later, her bust had grown impressively to the largest it had ever been, but the babies had eaten them all up. Her cleavage now gone to Cleavage Heaven, she could however run again without the risk of black eyes.
So when a dear image consultant friend informed Mrs Bennet and her chums that a bra fitter would be coming along from a rather posh lingerie line, Mrs Bennet made her feelings felt.
“I won’t be coming. I do not like bra fitters, who consider I don’t have a bust to fit,” she informed her friend.
And that was that. Her companion to her left, whose bust and wit she wished she could buy at her favourite supermarket, joked:
“Didn’t the bust fairy come to your house then?”
“She did for a while, but obviously decided to take her precious commodities back!” moaned Mrs Bennet. “But I’ll give her one more chance!”
That night she shoved her pathetic bra collection under her pillow in hope. The next morning, the bras were gone, but a note was in its place.
“There are not enough busts to go round. I have five more sets to make for this household. That is more than enough for one Bust Fairy!”
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.
Saturday, 17 January 2009
Naked babies in the dark
Saturday, January 17 09
Bath time was an endurance test for Mr and Mrs Bennet. It required both of them to wash Miss Rosie Bennet who quite literally screamed the house down if a sponge or jug came anywhere near her. In fact mention the word wash, she’d howl and try to climb out of the bath, pleading with her big blue eyes: “Somebody please rescue me!” Her smaller twin sat like an anaemic frog on her lily pad – a sponge bathmat - and carried on bobbing the heads of her duck pals, ignoring the distressed pleas and waves created by her unhappy water companion.
This evening Mrs Bennet was embracing the calm before the storm. The bath babes, with their adorable matching round tummies were enjoying a splash. Shampoo, sponges and anything to do with washing were out of sight. Mrs Bennet was sitting on the toilet seat, quietly reading an escape novel. Keeping one eye on the children, she noticed Miss Rosie was sitting on something. Unfortunately it wasn’t a plastic duck. The bubbles in the water confirmed her worst suspicions. It was too late; an explosive deposit meant a swift scooping up of babies and offending objects. It was time for evacuation. Leaving the naked babies to roam around upstairs, she risked not putting nappies on them, while emptying the bath in order to carry out a swift clear-up operation. Happily entertained by their eldest sister, the twins bounced on Miss Megan Bennet’s bed as fresh water filled the bath tub. But as Mrs Bennet bent over to turn off the water, the house plunged into darkness, causing an instant double cry of panic from the tiny Miss Bennets. Fumbling around, Mrs Bennet managed to find two naked children, who instantly clung to her, digging their chubby fingers into her arms and wrapping their legs tightly round her middle.
“I’m here girls, it’s alright, it’s alright – just don’t you dare wee all over me!” she told them.
Mr Bennet, outside the house at the time, re-entered to an orchestra of cries. The two smallest girls refused to be consoled, despite reassurances from Miss Naomi Bennet and their mother, while Miss Emily and Miss Megan Bennet simultaneously whined that the programme they’d been watching had disappeared.
Mrs Bennet, pined to the spot by crying limpets, couldn’t move. So her Darcy did his best to rescue damsels in distress by lighting candles and winding up torches. Scared of the flickering lights and unsure what was going on, the twin Bennets cried all the more. Their volume control turned up a notch as their source of comfort began searching for bottom protectors to prevent certain spillages. Dressing a frightened baby in candlelight was not an easy task – neither was picking up hundreds of Polly Pocket clothes, shoes and accessories, which covered the lounge floor.
Without Mr Latte and Mr Google, Mrs Bennet felt a little lost. Having not had any tea, she took comfort in a bowl of olives, a chunk of bread and her favourite Jarlsberg cheese. But then she remembered olives weren’t such a good idea. Her mother was convinced that’s why she had so many children. Power cuts resulting in no light and no heat, often led to a baby boom nine months later. In her case, it didn’t bare thinking about! She went to bed with a bar of chocolate instead.
Bath time was an endurance test for Mr and Mrs Bennet. It required both of them to wash Miss Rosie Bennet who quite literally screamed the house down if a sponge or jug came anywhere near her. In fact mention the word wash, she’d howl and try to climb out of the bath, pleading with her big blue eyes: “Somebody please rescue me!” Her smaller twin sat like an anaemic frog on her lily pad – a sponge bathmat - and carried on bobbing the heads of her duck pals, ignoring the distressed pleas and waves created by her unhappy water companion.
This evening Mrs Bennet was embracing the calm before the storm. The bath babes, with their adorable matching round tummies were enjoying a splash. Shampoo, sponges and anything to do with washing were out of sight. Mrs Bennet was sitting on the toilet seat, quietly reading an escape novel. Keeping one eye on the children, she noticed Miss Rosie was sitting on something. Unfortunately it wasn’t a plastic duck. The bubbles in the water confirmed her worst suspicions. It was too late; an explosive deposit meant a swift scooping up of babies and offending objects. It was time for evacuation. Leaving the naked babies to roam around upstairs, she risked not putting nappies on them, while emptying the bath in order to carry out a swift clear-up operation. Happily entertained by their eldest sister, the twins bounced on Miss Megan Bennet’s bed as fresh water filled the bath tub. But as Mrs Bennet bent over to turn off the water, the house plunged into darkness, causing an instant double cry of panic from the tiny Miss Bennets. Fumbling around, Mrs Bennet managed to find two naked children, who instantly clung to her, digging their chubby fingers into her arms and wrapping their legs tightly round her middle.
“I’m here girls, it’s alright, it’s alright – just don’t you dare wee all over me!” she told them.
Mr Bennet, outside the house at the time, re-entered to an orchestra of cries. The two smallest girls refused to be consoled, despite reassurances from Miss Naomi Bennet and their mother, while Miss Emily and Miss Megan Bennet simultaneously whined that the programme they’d been watching had disappeared.
Mrs Bennet, pined to the spot by crying limpets, couldn’t move. So her Darcy did his best to rescue damsels in distress by lighting candles and winding up torches. Scared of the flickering lights and unsure what was going on, the twin Bennets cried all the more. Their volume control turned up a notch as their source of comfort began searching for bottom protectors to prevent certain spillages. Dressing a frightened baby in candlelight was not an easy task – neither was picking up hundreds of Polly Pocket clothes, shoes and accessories, which covered the lounge floor.
Without Mr Latte and Mr Google, Mrs Bennet felt a little lost. Having not had any tea, she took comfort in a bowl of olives, a chunk of bread and her favourite Jarlsberg cheese. But then she remembered olives weren’t such a good idea. Her mother was convinced that’s why she had so many children. Power cuts resulting in no light and no heat, often led to a baby boom nine months later. In her case, it didn’t bare thinking about! She went to bed with a bar of chocolate instead.
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