Archive for the ‘Dreadful puns’ Category

img_4357Sometimes, as a parent, you reach a point where you kind of sort of maybe think you might just ever so slightly have gotten your shit together. Your kids are well and happy and they seem to like going to school and preschool, and they don’t have set their minds on owning something that is completely out of the question, like a Lego Hogwarts or an actual lynx.

That, of course, is when then the gods strike you down. That is when you all come down with a virus and the teacher sends home a bunch of exercise books and tells you to cover them with contact.

Contact. I don’t know if it’s called that the world over. I expect the Germans have a word for it that literally translates as ‘roll of judgement by which we can tell how much you care about your children’. (more…)

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hotcrosssonI’ve been so tired and befuddled this week that I have just realised that there are only four days left to threaten my kids that the Easter Bunny will take a flying leap past our house if they don’t stop that immediately. I don’t know how I could have been so remiss. And it’s been the perfect week for it because Garnet’s been sick since Friday – first vomiting and then coughing – and he has been about as easy to reason with as a chipmunk with rabies. Rabies and gastro and a cough.

This week he has been brought to howling tears by many and varied injustices. There was the fact that I would not go under the house to drag out the old double stroller to push him the half block to pick up May Blossom from school. Why the double stroller? Because he wanted to ride in it with his friend Charlie. Charlie who lives on the other side of the city? Yes. We never do school pickup with Charlie. Yes, that was understood. This was some sort of protest against never doing school pickups with Charlie. It was the filthy Maclaren stroller version of the empty chair representing the imprisoned writer that PEN International always have at events.

There was misery because he couldn’t find his green watch and H and I disagreed that an appropriate way to deal with a missing green watch is to bite your sister on the bum. (more…)

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First prize for The Pun With The Most Elaborate Set-up: H announced this morning that his watch is set to 'Green H mean time'.

We’re back from our holiday a bit early, because there were a number of issues in our lives that needed tending to. Things were outstanding. (Don’t you love that word? So much nicer than ‘overdue’.) Bills needed paying, friends needed seeing, physiotherapists needed consulting and H and I needed to acknowledge that two weeks alone on a farm with a toddler is one week too many.

Among the outstanding tasks is  May Blossom’s eighteen-month checkup. What Dr Who-style wormhole in time has allowed eighteen months to pass since her birth five minutes ago I do not know, but there you have it. (more…)

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My toddler thinks I am a massive hypocrite. I can’t convince her otherwise.

Last week I was grating a raw beetroot into a pot of soup (this soup, incidentally, which is so delicious I almost ate H’s portion before he got home — the beetroot is my addition, because it was lurking in the compost drawer of the fridge). May Blossom was sitting at the kitchen table eating her dinner.

When she saw me with blood red hands, dropping what looked for all the world like shreds of myself into the pot, firstly, and very sensibly, she freaked out. She burst into tears, wringing her hands and crying ‘Ow, Mummy. OW!’ I stopped at once and washed my hands, showed her that most of it was washing off and she calmed down. (more…)

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The place was gone to rack and ruin. Only the Lighthouse beam entered the rooms for a moment, sent its sudden stare over bed and wall in the darkness of winter, looked with equanimity at the thistle and the swallow, the rat and the straw. Nothing now withstood them; nothing said no to them. Let the wind blow; let the poppy seed itself and the carnation mate with the cabbage. Let the swallow build in the drawing-room, and the thistle thrust aside the tiles, and the butterfly sun itself on the faded chintz of the arm-chairs. Let the broken glass and the china lie out on the lawn and be tangled over with grass and wild berries. (more…)

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My grandparents in 1931. There is a slight chance that the love of a good coat can be inherited.

We are going to America in a month. This decision was made this morning when I discovered some outrageously good deals on airfares. Shoving aside the huge heap of obstacles (H has a job to go to! H’s father is very sick! May Blossom has finally started sleeping with both eyes closed! We are a bit skint! A one-year-old on a plane for 14 hours!), I walked up to Flight Centre and plonked down Captain Plastic, and that’s that. We’re going for 11 days to Denver to see my almost 102-year old grandmother. (more…)

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