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Archive for the ‘Cleaning’ Category

Garnet, who has a lot of dandelion picking to do to get back in my good books.

Garnet, who has a lot of dandelion picking to do to get back in my good books.

There is a new rule in the House of Gusto: no one is allowed to eat or drink within 10 metres of our car. There is a very good, very expensive and extremely revolting reason for this.

Two weeks ago we bought Garnet a new sippy cup. One week ago we went away for the long weekend and when it was time to come home, we thought we would outwit our children and wait until bedtime before leaving the farm to drive home. This would, we theorised, mean that we could feed them dinner, bathe them and put them in their pjs, strap them into the car, hand Garnet his bedtime milk in his new cup, then get on the road and they would fall asleep. When they were sleeping we could listen to a few episodes of Serial, which is a bit too murder-based to comfortably listen to with the kids awake. Once home, we would transfer their deeply sleeping little selves into their beds, tuck them in warmly, and retreat to watch a hundred episodes of Suits on Netflix.

Things did not go exactly to plan. Garnet stayed up the whole way home, so we listened to the Shawn the Sheep Christmas Remix. I was having murder-based roasting fantasies about that wretched beast after ten minutes. May Blossom obediently fell asleep five minutes into the journey, but woke with a start half an hour before home. ‘Shhh, back to sleep,’ we soothed her, hopefully. ‘No,’ she said. ‘If I fall asleep you’ll carry me upstairs and put me to bed and I’ll miss out on having my books read. I’m staying awake.’ Fuck. Foiled. (more…)

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May Blossom playing ‘Caesarean Sections’ with her play-doh.

Earlier this evening I was in the bath, eating a piece of toast with peanut butter and a melted Freddo frog on it. That is quite a snack, my friends, and it raises your blood sugar to the exact level that gives you crazy ideas.

My idea was this: Apparently there is a thing that exists in blogdom called NaBloPoMo, which stands for National Blog Post Month. As you might guess, it is a month in which bloggers who commit to NaBloPoMo write on their blogs every single day. This year, NaBloPoMo started on the first of November. Because I am slow and lumbering like a great big elephant, I only stumbled across this fact just now. Furthermore, I am led to believe my What To Expect When You Are Expecting iPhone app that November 1 is in the past. According to various sources, it is now November 12, so I’m declaring today the official beginning of my very own BloUntTheBabIsBo (Blog Until The Baby Is Born). Pretty catchy, if I do say so myself. (more…)

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Are things getting you down? Is your shared backyard full of dead plants, in a metaphorical or real sense? Mine is. Here are three things that make me laugh when I think of them, no matter how awful I’m feeling.

1. When she walks down steps, May Blossom has taken to sometimes refusing the proffered hand of her father or me and instead holds her own hand. Independent much? Lacking understanding of the concept of the stabilising force an adult hand can offer? Very, very funny to watch? All of these things.

2. When she wants to warn anyone of anything — that the heater is on; that there is a flight of steps approaching; that the cat is nearing dinner time and could remove the next digit or limb that gets waved near her — May Blossom says ‘Careful, mate’ in the most splendid approximation of H’s voice. (more…)

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Better a terrible photo than none at all, that’s what I always say. I couldn’t put my spoon down long enough to take a photo with two hands. That’s all you need to know about this meal.

I know, it’s a big call declaring a Lunch of The Week on Monday, but I’m feeling quietly confident that this will be the one to beat. It’s not a good-looking lunch, but it has hidden depths of deliciousness and you will find yourself a bit in love with it. It is the Stephen Fry of lunch.

This morning May Blossom and I donned aprons and scrubbed out the inside of the oven, which was, to paraphrase Neil from The Young Ones after he sticks his head in their oven to gas himself, dirtier than ovens at the bottom of swamps. It was a thoroughly dispiriting job, and one not made any easier by my insistence on using only bicarbonate of soda and vinegar (and child labour). With every scrub my brain screamed ‘Go buy a can of Mr Muscle, hippie!’, like Rik would have if they had ever actually gotten round to cleaning the oven on the show. (more…)

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Booze Management is an ongoing situation in this apartment. Mostly it involves H ordering bottles of wine by the dozen and beer by the case and me shoehorning them into any space we can find. Then we invite my relatives over and pour it down their necks. And repeat.

This week I moved all our wine from the hall cupboard into wine racks on top of the spare room wardrobe, relocating the spirits to the cupboard above the fridge, and in doing so I realised that for a household of non vodka drinkers, we have rather a lot of vodka. Not good vodka, either. Cheap, nasty vodka. One bottle was only a quarter full, so I poured it down the sink. I did it dramatically, like an alcoholic in a telemovie. (more…)

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I am a hoarder. I come from hoarders, I married a hoarder and together we have bred a tiny hoarder.

Over the years, H and I have accumulated a lot of stuff. We live in an area that provides council collection of unwanted goods every fortnight, so every fortnight there is both an opportunity to purge our household of broken or unwanted goods, but also the chance to re-home our neighbours’ crap, which we do frequently. Some of my favourite possessions came from a place we like to call Cider Road. (more…)

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Is there something in your house that is vile and shameful? Something you and all who dwell with you close your eyes to and ignore, but you can’t really ignore it because the more you try the more it becomes the only thing you can see? Something you pretend is brown grout, when deep down you know that as ugly and dated as your nineteen-forties bathroom is, even back then no-one used brown grout. Something that deep down you know is mould? (more…)

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