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.
Friday, 30 January 2009
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.
Thursday, 15 January 2009
The zapping power of Mrs Bennet
Thursday, January 15 09
It was a sad day for Mrs Bennet. It marked the end of a very long baby era. Miss Kezia Bennet had finally – five months after her twin sister – started walking. She had mastered, what Mrs Bennet’s friends considered a brilliant impression of Charlie Chaplin minus his mustache. To add to this comical walk, Miss Bennet, rather partial to a certain Dora the Explorer umbrella, used it like Chaplin’s walking stick, waving it as she went, with a Cheshire Cat grin on her face. Mrs Bennet thought she resembled a penguin, her tiny feet fanning outwards as she carefully waddled her way around new territory.
Up until this point Mrs Bennet had therefore been spared the issue of two walking twins. But finally at 20 months, the real fun started. She unfortunately made the mistake of lifting the legs out of the supermarket trolley. Now free to roam along the wide aisles, the chubby legs were in their element. Being independent, they went in opposite directions, making it all the more impossible to catch them or shop.
Eventually Mrs Bennet scooped them up as best she could – and plonked them inside the trolley rather than in the seats as their little legs pedalled furiously.
Observing rebellion in the camp, a warm friendly lady, with funky white, purple and red hair and trendy glasses bounced up to her.
“Have you ever thought of using one of these?” she asked, holding up a zapper.
“Not really. I thought you had to be a store card holder,” she replied.
“Oh no anyone can use one. I think you'll find it really helpful and it means you don’t have to queue at the till,” announced the lady, who like Mrs Bennet, was clearly a fan of Jenny Joseph’s award-winning poem, Warning.
“Sounds good to me…and by the way I love your hair. I’ve decided to grow old disgracefully and have purple streaks too,” chuckled Mrs Bennet.
“Absolutely!” the kind zapper lady replied. Mrs Bennet liked this lady.
The zapping lesson didn’t start until the next morning as Mrs Bennet had abandoned all hope of buying the few items she needed. But now armed with this impressive gizmo, she was looking forward to shooting a few things.
Her trainer showed her how to zap the bar codes, check how much she was spending and more importantly how to remove objects if she found something better.
Zap, zap, zap went Mrs Bennet. Ooh, Ooh, Ooh went the Misses Twin Bennets, intrigued by Mummy’s new toy.
It was quite liberating. Mrs Bennet wished life could be this simple. She thought about her five daughters. If only she could go shopping for Darcys. Just imagine shelves full of future son-in-laws! How great that would be to zap a few, then eradicate them if she saw one who looked more suitable!
The Zapper lady checked her apprentice’s progress.
“I’m off for a tea break and wanted to see if you’re OK,” she said.
“I’m fine. This is great. I only wish I could use it on everything and everyone,” Mrs Bennet joked.
The minute her trainer disappeared, Mrs Bennet got into trouble. She’d zapped a pot of double cream by mistake but in trying to unzap the item, she managed to add one and then another, and then another, until according to her zapper, she had six pots in her trolley. By this time the Miss Twin Bennets were no longer enthralled by their mother’s toy, and started to object. Determined to master her zapper, Mrs Bennet tried zapping with the minus button. It worked.
“Hey this is easy when you know how!” declared a victorious Mrs Bennet, proceeding to the zapping counter, which of course had no queue. Queues and children didn’t get on.
“I can pay with cash can’t I?” she asked a lovely young girl, who shared Mrs Bennet’s sense of humour.
“You can pay with anything, apart from pounds of flesh,” she wittingly replied.
“I don’t really have any to spare anyway,” said Mrs Bennet, exhilarated by her first zapping experience.
To have a sizzling hot Mr Latte and to be introduced to her new friend Mr Zapper in one morning, was almost too much. She went back home to the Darcys in the Dirt – half wishing she could try out the zapper on them!
It was a sad day for Mrs Bennet. It marked the end of a very long baby era. Miss Kezia Bennet had finally – five months after her twin sister – started walking. She had mastered, what Mrs Bennet’s friends considered a brilliant impression of Charlie Chaplin minus his mustache. To add to this comical walk, Miss Bennet, rather partial to a certain Dora the Explorer umbrella, used it like Chaplin’s walking stick, waving it as she went, with a Cheshire Cat grin on her face. Mrs Bennet thought she resembled a penguin, her tiny feet fanning outwards as she carefully waddled her way around new territory.
Up until this point Mrs Bennet had therefore been spared the issue of two walking twins. But finally at 20 months, the real fun started. She unfortunately made the mistake of lifting the legs out of the supermarket trolley. Now free to roam along the wide aisles, the chubby legs were in their element. Being independent, they went in opposite directions, making it all the more impossible to catch them or shop.
Eventually Mrs Bennet scooped them up as best she could – and plonked them inside the trolley rather than in the seats as their little legs pedalled furiously.
Observing rebellion in the camp, a warm friendly lady, with funky white, purple and red hair and trendy glasses bounced up to her.
“Have you ever thought of using one of these?” she asked, holding up a zapper.
“Not really. I thought you had to be a store card holder,” she replied.
“Oh no anyone can use one. I think you'll find it really helpful and it means you don’t have to queue at the till,” announced the lady, who like Mrs Bennet, was clearly a fan of Jenny Joseph’s award-winning poem, Warning.
“Sounds good to me…and by the way I love your hair. I’ve decided to grow old disgracefully and have purple streaks too,” chuckled Mrs Bennet.
“Absolutely!” the kind zapper lady replied. Mrs Bennet liked this lady.
The zapping lesson didn’t start until the next morning as Mrs Bennet had abandoned all hope of buying the few items she needed. But now armed with this impressive gizmo, she was looking forward to shooting a few things.
Her trainer showed her how to zap the bar codes, check how much she was spending and more importantly how to remove objects if she found something better.
Zap, zap, zap went Mrs Bennet. Ooh, Ooh, Ooh went the Misses Twin Bennets, intrigued by Mummy’s new toy.
It was quite liberating. Mrs Bennet wished life could be this simple. She thought about her five daughters. If only she could go shopping for Darcys. Just imagine shelves full of future son-in-laws! How great that would be to zap a few, then eradicate them if she saw one who looked more suitable!
The Zapper lady checked her apprentice’s progress.
“I’m off for a tea break and wanted to see if you’re OK,” she said.
“I’m fine. This is great. I only wish I could use it on everything and everyone,” Mrs Bennet joked.
The minute her trainer disappeared, Mrs Bennet got into trouble. She’d zapped a pot of double cream by mistake but in trying to unzap the item, she managed to add one and then another, and then another, until according to her zapper, she had six pots in her trolley. By this time the Miss Twin Bennets were no longer enthralled by their mother’s toy, and started to object. Determined to master her zapper, Mrs Bennet tried zapping with the minus button. It worked.
“Hey this is easy when you know how!” declared a victorious Mrs Bennet, proceeding to the zapping counter, which of course had no queue. Queues and children didn’t get on.
“I can pay with cash can’t I?” she asked a lovely young girl, who shared Mrs Bennet’s sense of humour.
“You can pay with anything, apart from pounds of flesh,” she wittingly replied.
“I don’t really have any to spare anyway,” said Mrs Bennet, exhilarated by her first zapping experience.
To have a sizzling hot Mr Latte and to be introduced to her new friend Mr Zapper in one morning, was almost too much. She went back home to the Darcys in the Dirt – half wishing she could try out the zapper on them!
Wednesday, 14 January 2009
Outnumbered by Darcys
Wednesday, January 14 09
The Darcys in the Dirt were breeding. There were now seven of them working on the house and to say Mrs Bennet felt surrounded was an understatement. The sub-contractor Darcys were now on site, wiring up and putting sockets in place and asking Mrs Bennet questions she wasn’t sure she was getting correct. She didn’t have a manual to consult, only a man, who didn’t know the answers either, so together they muddled through.
It was one of those days, when the hormones were raging, the head was pounding and the belly was aching and all she wanted to do was curl up in a black room and sleep. But there were sub-Darcys in her bedroom and nowhere to go. The little twin-Bennets were asleep so she couldn’t escape either. Instead she shut herself in the lounge and eventually fell asleep on the sofa – ignoring the comings and goings of sub-Darcys running up and down the stairs and the banging and drilling all around her.
For the first time in her life she was outnumbered by men. She was now having a taste of what Mr Bennet’s mum must have gone through bringing up five boys. She must have given up asking them to take their shoes off and not leaving the toilet seat up. Mrs Bennet didn’t really mind having so many men around. It was almost reassuring, but she longed to have her house back. But then again, she would miss her original Darcys, who only this morning had yet again helped her de-ice the Scooby Doo van, which just didn’t want to de-ice. It took at least 20 minutes – 20 minutes she didn’t have – to see through the windscreen. The scraper was in Mr Bennet’s car and a credit card wasn’t so efficient – especially when it came to scraping the large windscreen inside.
“Girls when it comes to have children, take my advice, only have two children! You’re car won’t be so big!” she declared, feeling more stressed as every minute passed. In the end she resorted to ringing the school and apologising in advance that the Miss Bennets would be late – better that than driving a car which had no visibility.
The Darcys in the Dirt were her heroes that morning. Their reward - a box of biscuits. They could breed as much as they liked, drink her coffee as much as they liked – so long as they rescued her now and then.
The Darcys in the Dirt were breeding. There were now seven of them working on the house and to say Mrs Bennet felt surrounded was an understatement. The sub-contractor Darcys were now on site, wiring up and putting sockets in place and asking Mrs Bennet questions she wasn’t sure she was getting correct. She didn’t have a manual to consult, only a man, who didn’t know the answers either, so together they muddled through.
It was one of those days, when the hormones were raging, the head was pounding and the belly was aching and all she wanted to do was curl up in a black room and sleep. But there were sub-Darcys in her bedroom and nowhere to go. The little twin-Bennets were asleep so she couldn’t escape either. Instead she shut herself in the lounge and eventually fell asleep on the sofa – ignoring the comings and goings of sub-Darcys running up and down the stairs and the banging and drilling all around her.
For the first time in her life she was outnumbered by men. She was now having a taste of what Mr Bennet’s mum must have gone through bringing up five boys. She must have given up asking them to take their shoes off and not leaving the toilet seat up. Mrs Bennet didn’t really mind having so many men around. It was almost reassuring, but she longed to have her house back. But then again, she would miss her original Darcys, who only this morning had yet again helped her de-ice the Scooby Doo van, which just didn’t want to de-ice. It took at least 20 minutes – 20 minutes she didn’t have – to see through the windscreen. The scraper was in Mr Bennet’s car and a credit card wasn’t so efficient – especially when it came to scraping the large windscreen inside.
“Girls when it comes to have children, take my advice, only have two children! You’re car won’t be so big!” she declared, feeling more stressed as every minute passed. In the end she resorted to ringing the school and apologising in advance that the Miss Bennets would be late – better that than driving a car which had no visibility.
The Darcys in the Dirt were her heroes that morning. Their reward - a box of biscuits. They could breed as much as they liked, drink her coffee as much as they liked – so long as they rescued her now and then.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
