A beautiful sunny evening at the beginning of an bank holiday weekend and I am sitting in alone in my lounge whilst my husband gallavants on a roof terrace of a pub in London. Jealous? Much? Actually, no. I'm revelling in the company of a bottle of pink Lanson and a Corrie/Stenders sarnie.
Stu is due back at lunchtime tomorrow. He is therefore able to have a pretty large night out and is staying in the darkest depths of South-East London with his bezzie. I'm happier with him staying away so that I can lock the door and not worry about being woken up by a snoring/farting/stumbling intruder in the early hours.
I used to be a lot less chilled about Stu's nights out. It's funny, but when I was thinner and younger with no baby scars and I serviced my man on a near-daily basis, I was a lot more paranoid about what he was going to get up to when I wasn't with him. Maybe our seven-year marriage has produced less of an itch and more of a security blanket? There is the school of thought that says why would you have a burger out when you can have a steak at home... I'm sure that the way men are made they would take both if they thought they could get away with it! I reckon Stuart would be more excited about the idea of an ACTUAL burger followed by an ACTUAL steak on the side than the analogy however. I think at 36 I've just realised that worrying about these things unnecessarily won't actually change the likelihood of them happening!
Even the thought of a solo Saturday morning doesn't fill me with dread anymore. Zak will creep downstairs, (he knows how to keep on the best side of his mother), and amuse himself on the IPad, and Seb stays in bed till you go and get him, so my day shouldn't get going until 8 or 9. The days of 5.30am on a Saturday morning staring through tear-filled bleary eyes at the playroom wall with a baby and a toddler are luckily a far-distant memory. I'm sorry if I sound irritatingly smug. Actually, I'm not sorry; I did my time.
There is also the beautiful concept of a Super-King size bed for one. It's funny how I sleep quite happily and neatly on my side of the bed the majority of the time but the moment I'm given the whole caboodle I spread and cover the entire thing like an enormous snoring starfish. Happy days.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder in my marriage. I will welcome my (slightly stinking) hubby back with open arms tomorrow and revel in his witty and scintillating tales of his misdemeanours for a good half an hour, before I vanish off to the beauticians for the rest of the afternoon, leaving him with his hangover and his boys. Well, I'm sure he will have missed them.
Friday, 3 May 2013
Sunday, 21 April 2013
Raising Little Martians
I've always been slightly obsessive about raising nice children. I'm currently wondering if I have overdone it somewhat. Take this morning, for instance, Zak started a new swimming lesson and in one of the widths he was slightly ahead of the boy next to him. The boy next to him grabbed Zak's float and tried to pull him under the water. Little shite. Zak didn't say or do anything but moved himself to a different position so that the next time they did a width that boy was nowhere near him. This is exactly what I would've told him to do if he could hear me and I told him afterwards that I was very proud of him. Why then, when it was happening, did quite a large part of me want Zak to shove the Little Shite's head under the water and hold it there for a while?
The boys know that being kind to other children is of paramount importance to Mummy. I can't stand mean kids but part of me feels like I'm putting them on the back foot in their day-to-day lives. Kids aren't kind as a rule. Boys of all ages seem to live in a perpetual state of competition. At this age it tends to be who is the fastest/strongest/cleverest. In ten years time it will be who's the best looking/best at pulling the ladies/has the biggest willy. As grown men the biggest willy race seems to merge into who has the biggest car and for many the competition seems to be all about who has the most money.
Zak does walk away from trouble and is always keen to report back to me that he has done that and tried his best to be kind. All well and good but does this mean I'm raising a child who is going to come a cropper in a few years when someone repays his 'kindness' with a slap? I think my husband secretly thinks so. Stu seems to have a different view on childhood to me having grown up in a different atmosphere and also as a male. When I suggested we might enroll Zak in a local Beavers group Stu pissed himself laughing and said he used to throw things at cubs when he was a lad!
I remember when I was pregnant with Zak one of my colleagues saying to me that if my baby looked like Stu and had my attitude nobody was ever going to mess with him. Luckily Zak seems to be going the way of a brick shithouse so I don't think he will ever be a real victim.
I think Sebi may be the one to watch. Although it doesn't look as if he will be as big as Zak, he has perfected his mother's fuck-off-and-die stare beautifully at the tender age of three. I think Zak may have his work cut out as they grow up bailing his little brother out of all the trouble he will get himself into. Probably quite a similar experience to Stuart being married to me really.
The boys know that being kind to other children is of paramount importance to Mummy. I can't stand mean kids but part of me feels like I'm putting them on the back foot in their day-to-day lives. Kids aren't kind as a rule. Boys of all ages seem to live in a perpetual state of competition. At this age it tends to be who is the fastest/strongest/cleverest. In ten years time it will be who's the best looking/best at pulling the ladies/has the biggest willy. As grown men the biggest willy race seems to merge into who has the biggest car and for many the competition seems to be all about who has the most money.
Zak does walk away from trouble and is always keen to report back to me that he has done that and tried his best to be kind. All well and good but does this mean I'm raising a child who is going to come a cropper in a few years when someone repays his 'kindness' with a slap? I think my husband secretly thinks so. Stu seems to have a different view on childhood to me having grown up in a different atmosphere and also as a male. When I suggested we might enroll Zak in a local Beavers group Stu pissed himself laughing and said he used to throw things at cubs when he was a lad!
I remember when I was pregnant with Zak one of my colleagues saying to me that if my baby looked like Stu and had my attitude nobody was ever going to mess with him. Luckily Zak seems to be going the way of a brick shithouse so I don't think he will ever be a real victim.
I think Sebi may be the one to watch. Although it doesn't look as if he will be as big as Zak, he has perfected his mother's fuck-off-and-die stare beautifully at the tender age of three. I think Zak may have his work cut out as they grow up bailing his little brother out of all the trouble he will get himself into. Probably quite a similar experience to Stuart being married to me really.
Thursday, 11 April 2013
Tied onto the Wagon
How the mighty have fallen. All my showing-off birthday shenanigans last week on top of not-properly-treated cystitis led to a little bit of an internal crisis for me last weekend. Now I can nearly laugh at myself doing rigorous pilates accompanied by a glass of champagne on Saturday night, thinking I had put my back out dancing on the table the night before, when actually my kidneys were being ravaged by e-coli. Oops.
So, I find myself five days later on the second course of kick-arse antibiotics with the potential promise of another week's worth landing on me on Monday. I think today I must finally be starting to feel a bit better as I have started pondering the absence of alcohol in my life. I haven't had a drink for 5 days. Five days. I'm not lying to you when I say that the last time I reckon that happened was 1993. I always drink, I love drinking, I drink too much and I'm not quite sure what to do now that I'm not drinking.
On the positive side of things I've decided that this definitely proves I'm not an alcoholic. I reckon the 'proper' alcoholics would have drunk anyway over the last few days. It really hasn't even crossed my mind until today. Cross my mind it has now however with the promise of a sober weekend ahead and a definite four days before I can drink again; possibly eleven.
Stu's out tonight, lucky bastard. Although, it's probably best as I'm a miserable MF at the moment. I welled up when he was telling me about the Mexican restaurant he's going to pre-gig and the Margaritas he was going to drink. Tact isn't his strongest point but still I think me crying over missed cocktails on a night out I wasn't even ever going on when I don't even drink Margaritas shows that I've got some issues.
I've just been interrogating Sam over a glass of water, (oh yes, no tea or coffee for me either), about what you are meant to do to entertain yourself when you don't drink. She claims only to drink once a week, (can't say I've ever noticed, I'm obviously always too pissed), but has definitely cut down while she has a broken arm so that she doesn't break the other one. Cinema or Bingo was all we could come up with, neither of which set me on fire with enthusiasm.
"I drink to make other people more interesting." - Ernest Hemingway. Possibly, I agree with him. I also tend to surround myself with fellow-boozers. I can only think of two people I know that are tee-total and they tend to bore the arse off me, (don't worry, they aren't blog readers.) Maybe that's just coincidence? I think drink makes a lot of things more interesting; certainly it makes sitting in on your own and watching tele less tedious...
Samantha, (sorry love), also suggested that if being off the booze was distressing me so much then that obviously showed I had an issue with it and that I should maybe look at that. I beg to differ. I'm proving it. I'm living the miserable sober life as a temporary emergency measure but the evening I'm properly better I have a date with a beautiful bottle of pink Lanson and a straw. See, if I was a proper alkie I wouldn't wait until the evening.
So, I find myself five days later on the second course of kick-arse antibiotics with the potential promise of another week's worth landing on me on Monday. I think today I must finally be starting to feel a bit better as I have started pondering the absence of alcohol in my life. I haven't had a drink for 5 days. Five days. I'm not lying to you when I say that the last time I reckon that happened was 1993. I always drink, I love drinking, I drink too much and I'm not quite sure what to do now that I'm not drinking.
On the positive side of things I've decided that this definitely proves I'm not an alcoholic. I reckon the 'proper' alcoholics would have drunk anyway over the last few days. It really hasn't even crossed my mind until today. Cross my mind it has now however with the promise of a sober weekend ahead and a definite four days before I can drink again; possibly eleven.
Stu's out tonight, lucky bastard. Although, it's probably best as I'm a miserable MF at the moment. I welled up when he was telling me about the Mexican restaurant he's going to pre-gig and the Margaritas he was going to drink. Tact isn't his strongest point but still I think me crying over missed cocktails on a night out I wasn't even ever going on when I don't even drink Margaritas shows that I've got some issues.
I've just been interrogating Sam over a glass of water, (oh yes, no tea or coffee for me either), about what you are meant to do to entertain yourself when you don't drink. She claims only to drink once a week, (can't say I've ever noticed, I'm obviously always too pissed), but has definitely cut down while she has a broken arm so that she doesn't break the other one. Cinema or Bingo was all we could come up with, neither of which set me on fire with enthusiasm.
"I drink to make other people more interesting." - Ernest Hemingway. Possibly, I agree with him. I also tend to surround myself with fellow-boozers. I can only think of two people I know that are tee-total and they tend to bore the arse off me, (don't worry, they aren't blog readers.) Maybe that's just coincidence? I think drink makes a lot of things more interesting; certainly it makes sitting in on your own and watching tele less tedious...
Samantha, (sorry love), also suggested that if being off the booze was distressing me so much then that obviously showed I had an issue with it and that I should maybe look at that. I beg to differ. I'm proving it. I'm living the miserable sober life as a temporary emergency measure but the evening I'm properly better I have a date with a beautiful bottle of pink Lanson and a straw. See, if I was a proper alkie I wouldn't wait until the evening.
Saturday, 6 April 2013
Birthday Bubbles and Bodily Bits.
It was my birthday party last night. Needless to say I'm teetering on the edge of impending death today having drunk my body weight in champagne and not crawled into my pit until 3am. I've decided at 36 (!) I'm getting too bloody old for these shenanigans.
The party was in my kitchen, birds only. I had the time of my life. It started off oh so civilised with champagne, polite introductions and Waitrose canapés. Within an hour however I was showing off the new underwear bought by my husband, trousers round my ankles whilst I paraded on my kitchen top. I'm not shy, never have been, but as referred to in a previous blog post I thought the days had gone of me getting my bits out to all and sundry. Apparently not. I obviously just need more of a concrete reason these days.
A very old friend turned up as a semi-surprise from Hastings. That's an impressive journey in one night. She handed me a wrapped gift and I immediately asked "is it porn?" Randomly, it was. The next half an hour was spent very happily with me getting my kit off (again) and recreating the pose on the front of the DVD. Haven't watched the film but from the title and the pictures I'm pretty sure it focuses on gentlemen with an impressively sized particular area of their anatomy.
I love it when you are looking around a party and seeing people getting to know each other and thinking why isn't anyone very drunk yet? Ten minutes later and people that were perfect strangers a couple of hours ago suddenly have their arms round each other and sharing their life histories.
We were dancing on the chairs and the tables to a classy combination of Rick Astley, Bros, Madonna and Kylie. Apparently Agadoo was a step too far however and I was told it should be relegated to a playlist for the boys' birthdays instead.
My dear husband arrived into what he described as a 'war zone' about 12.45am. I could be wrong but I doubt he has ever had so many drunken women draped all over him at the same time. He said he was just hit by a wall of noise. Everyone had been congratulating me all night on how clever I was getting my kids to sleep so early and to sleep through the party. Stu obviously noticed when he arrived home that actually Zak was shouting at us to be quiet. Oops. Mother of the year.
My best mate Shelley and I walked each other home with a plastic glass of instant Pinot at 2.30am reminding each other how fucking fabulous and hilarious we were. Having had a baby eight weeks ago I was seriously impressed with her staying power. I bet she is having a just lovely time today however...
Another year older, none the wiser, slightly more pickled, cheerfully hanging.
The party was in my kitchen, birds only. I had the time of my life. It started off oh so civilised with champagne, polite introductions and Waitrose canapés. Within an hour however I was showing off the new underwear bought by my husband, trousers round my ankles whilst I paraded on my kitchen top. I'm not shy, never have been, but as referred to in a previous blog post I thought the days had gone of me getting my bits out to all and sundry. Apparently not. I obviously just need more of a concrete reason these days.
A very old friend turned up as a semi-surprise from Hastings. That's an impressive journey in one night. She handed me a wrapped gift and I immediately asked "is it porn?" Randomly, it was. The next half an hour was spent very happily with me getting my kit off (again) and recreating the pose on the front of the DVD. Haven't watched the film but from the title and the pictures I'm pretty sure it focuses on gentlemen with an impressively sized particular area of their anatomy.
I love it when you are looking around a party and seeing people getting to know each other and thinking why isn't anyone very drunk yet? Ten minutes later and people that were perfect strangers a couple of hours ago suddenly have their arms round each other and sharing their life histories.
We were dancing on the chairs and the tables to a classy combination of Rick Astley, Bros, Madonna and Kylie. Apparently Agadoo was a step too far however and I was told it should be relegated to a playlist for the boys' birthdays instead.
My dear husband arrived into what he described as a 'war zone' about 12.45am. I could be wrong but I doubt he has ever had so many drunken women draped all over him at the same time. He said he was just hit by a wall of noise. Everyone had been congratulating me all night on how clever I was getting my kids to sleep so early and to sleep through the party. Stu obviously noticed when he arrived home that actually Zak was shouting at us to be quiet. Oops. Mother of the year.
My best mate Shelley and I walked each other home with a plastic glass of instant Pinot at 2.30am reminding each other how fucking fabulous and hilarious we were. Having had a baby eight weeks ago I was seriously impressed with her staying power. I bet she is having a just lovely time today however...
Another year older, none the wiser, slightly more pickled, cheerfully hanging.
Saturday, 30 March 2013
Growing Old Begrudgingly
I've spent a very pleasant couple of hours in the beauty salon this afternoon. The delightful young beauty therapist, (who for the sake of her street cred should remain nameless, let's just refer to her as DYBT), pampered me beautifully and I exited a different woman, well, sort of. For an 18 year old she confidently managed my brazilian wax in a blasé fashion as if it was completely normal to be ripping the hair off the holiest of holies from a woman that was teaching you drama when you were 11. Poor girl. I bet that wasn't what came up as a possibility when she had her career interviews at school.
DYBT and I spent a lot of time together today. We had a run through our respective weekends. Hers promised to be a hell of a lot more exciting than mine although she made a good show of making them sound on a par. Whilst chatting, I realised that with her being 18 and me turning 36 on Thursday, I was a few days off being double her age! Shocking! Me thinking we were on the same page and chatting amiably about nights out in Watford, (ok, ok, the clubs are the same even if the names have changed five times since I last went), was like a 72 year old thinking they were akin to me. Actually, that's exactly what my Dad does and he's 72. I'm such a chip off the old block it's terrifying.
The moment of realisation came when I was asking DYBT about the sort of music would be in the club she was going to tomorrow. She said doubtfully; well, it's a house night? The question mark at the end of the sentence was definitely more pronounced than that. I know house music. I'm not that old, surely? I may not listen to it but I reckon in a line-up of music types I would have a definite shot at getting 'house' right. Maybe it's changed since my day however. Maybe I wouldn't have a fucking clue.
DYBT and I agreed on a lovely shade of sparkly gold for my nails that I'm really rather pleased with heading into my celebration week (wedding anniversary and a birthday occurring people - my poor husband). I wondered out loud how many more years I could get away with glittery fingers. My DYBT obviously told me I could wear glitter for as long as I liked, (she got a big tip). We then got into a discussion about how long we reckoned people had fanny waxes for. We came to the conclusion that it would probably be for as long as they were 'active', if you get my drift.... I certainly can't imagine that in double my birthday years I'll still be bothered. Who knows though.
So my BFF Shelley and I have decided that at 36 we might have to stop being in our early thirties at last. Shame. We eeked it out for a while. Her birthday is the 21st April and year in year out for those 17 bloody days in April I don't hear the end of quite how old I am. I seem to remember one year I may have been texted about it on practically a daily basis. Perhaps I do her a disservice.
I was hurtling to the supermarket at 9am this morning to buy emergency Easter Eggs. (It remains a generic supermarket as I am ashamed to say I darkened the doors of the nearest one to me instead of travelling across town to the more one with the more palatable clientele.) I found myself involuntarily turning my nose up at a couple of mini-skirted staggerers obviously on their way home from a cracking night out. What a short memory I have. It wasn't THAT long ago, surely.
If DYBT was expecting any pearls of wisdom from her aged-ex-teacher-mature-client today she would've been sorely disappointed. I looked her straight in the eye and told her to get shit-faced as much as possible, as often as possible, because in ten years time she wouldn't be able to do it any more and get away with it.
DYBT and I spent a lot of time together today. We had a run through our respective weekends. Hers promised to be a hell of a lot more exciting than mine although she made a good show of making them sound on a par. Whilst chatting, I realised that with her being 18 and me turning 36 on Thursday, I was a few days off being double her age! Shocking! Me thinking we were on the same page and chatting amiably about nights out in Watford, (ok, ok, the clubs are the same even if the names have changed five times since I last went), was like a 72 year old thinking they were akin to me. Actually, that's exactly what my Dad does and he's 72. I'm such a chip off the old block it's terrifying.
The moment of realisation came when I was asking DYBT about the sort of music would be in the club she was going to tomorrow. She said doubtfully; well, it's a house night? The question mark at the end of the sentence was definitely more pronounced than that. I know house music. I'm not that old, surely? I may not listen to it but I reckon in a line-up of music types I would have a definite shot at getting 'house' right. Maybe it's changed since my day however. Maybe I wouldn't have a fucking clue.
DYBT and I agreed on a lovely shade of sparkly gold for my nails that I'm really rather pleased with heading into my celebration week (wedding anniversary and a birthday occurring people - my poor husband). I wondered out loud how many more years I could get away with glittery fingers. My DYBT obviously told me I could wear glitter for as long as I liked, (she got a big tip). We then got into a discussion about how long we reckoned people had fanny waxes for. We came to the conclusion that it would probably be for as long as they were 'active', if you get my drift.... I certainly can't imagine that in double my birthday years I'll still be bothered. Who knows though.
So my BFF Shelley and I have decided that at 36 we might have to stop being in our early thirties at last. Shame. We eeked it out for a while. Her birthday is the 21st April and year in year out for those 17 bloody days in April I don't hear the end of quite how old I am. I seem to remember one year I may have been texted about it on practically a daily basis. Perhaps I do her a disservice.
I was hurtling to the supermarket at 9am this morning to buy emergency Easter Eggs. (It remains a generic supermarket as I am ashamed to say I darkened the doors of the nearest one to me instead of travelling across town to the more one with the more palatable clientele.) I found myself involuntarily turning my nose up at a couple of mini-skirted staggerers obviously on their way home from a cracking night out. What a short memory I have. It wasn't THAT long ago, surely.
If DYBT was expecting any pearls of wisdom from her aged-ex-teacher-mature-client today she would've been sorely disappointed. I looked her straight in the eye and told her to get shit-faced as much as possible, as often as possible, because in ten years time she wouldn't be able to do it any more and get away with it.
Monday, 25 March 2013
Pooing in my Professional Pants
You will be pleased to hear that isn't a post about one of my offspring losing bowel control (unusually) but instead it is me pooing my pants about tomorrow.
This is a self-indulgent cathartic post from myself as I'm not sure how much of what I do as my second job I can talk about in a public forum. I'm in the MI5 don't you know. Shit, there goes that job. Anyway, bear with me, or don't, I don't really mind, as I said this is purely for my benefit today.
Tomorrow morning I'm toddling off to do my job and I'm being observed doing that aforementioned job by the Queen of this particular academic kingdom. I would be less nervous if the Queen of England was observing me tomorrow as she wouldn't have a clue what she was talking about. My career Queen not only knows what she is talking about, she hasn't just read the book on it, she wrote the bloody book. Ugh.
It is the equivalent to a Ferrari and a Skoda, (sorry to any skoda drivers but the stereotype sticks no matter how much re-vamped marketing they undertake), taking a trip around a race track together. The Ferrari would very kindly show the Skoda the best way to navigate the track but at the end of the day the Ferrari is still a Ferrari and the Skoda is still a Skoda.
The problem with this particular Skoda is that it has ideas above its station and it doesn't want to stay a Skoda forever. It could probably do the name of Skoda proud tomorrow but it would rather come out of the day being seen as a Golf or even an Audi. Are you with me? No, oh well, never mind. This isn't about you.
I am as prepared as I possibly could be. I don't suffer from nerves particularly badly but I have never been so nervous about anything in my entire life. Think of me tomorrow morning and send a prayer up in you happen to be that way inclined. Thanks.
For now, I'm going to check I have the correct paperwork for the millionth time, take some precautionary Immodium (better to be safe than sorry) and spend a good few darkened hours staring at my bedroom ceiling tonight.
Thanks for listening.
Friday, 22 March 2013
Feeding Time at the Pub
We spontaneously went out for dinner tonight, the four of us. I had a nice time, I'm glad we went; there is no cooking or washing up for me to do this Friday night; great. However, meals out with my kids never quite live up to the rose-coloured vision that I anticipate before we go.
They aren't bad. They are just little boys that don't quite understand the art of polite conversation over drinks while you wait for your food to arrive. Friends with older kids do assure me that it does become more pleasant and less frenetic an event, the older they get, and I believe them. Two years ago when we went out for dinner en famille (why the hell did we bother? what were we thinking?) it was essential that we carried enough raisins to feed them slowly to Sebi between the time he got in his high chair and the time his food arrived. Of course, he didn't then eat his poxy food as he was stuffed full with 385 raisins (yes, I counted).
We don't believe in ipads or dvd players over dinner. We have done that once, when we were out for dinner with other children who were watching them and it was the most blissful family meal we have had. We were able to chat and relax and have more wine. I do hope however that our anti-gadget meals will eventually pay dividends when the boys are older.....
Back to tonight. Zak got the waiter and waitress immediately on side by ordering his own dinner and drink with impeccable manners. Unfortunately, his little brother as a captive audience was too much of a temptation and I don't think the waitress thought he was quite as cute when he said "Bottom!" at the top of his voice.
Sebi tried to order "Champagne, like Mummy" and shot the waiter one of his best killer-death stares when he dared to suggest that apple juice might be slightly more suitable.
Two glasses of champagne in, I held my lovely husband's hand over the table and reminded him that it was so nice that our terrible-twosome got on so beautifully and had such a good time together as some siblings just fight all the time. In the two seconds during which we were pondering this, Sebi went face-down into his pizza and Zak tried to set his raisin packet on fire with the table candle.
So, two hours later and we are £95 worse off but with nice full bellies. My husband thinks three glasses of fizz was excessive during a kids' tea-time meal. I think it was absolutely necessary to achieve Nice-Mummy.
The proof of the pudding was when I popped to say hello to a couple of old work colleagues of mine that I saw sitting over the other side of the pub. "Oh yes, we saw you when we came in", they said, "and we decided to leave you to it". My beautiful children have turned us into restaurant-pariahs. Thank God we don't tend to bump into people we know when we are on aeroplanes....
They aren't bad. They are just little boys that don't quite understand the art of polite conversation over drinks while you wait for your food to arrive. Friends with older kids do assure me that it does become more pleasant and less frenetic an event, the older they get, and I believe them. Two years ago when we went out for dinner en famille (why the hell did we bother? what were we thinking?) it was essential that we carried enough raisins to feed them slowly to Sebi between the time he got in his high chair and the time his food arrived. Of course, he didn't then eat his poxy food as he was stuffed full with 385 raisins (yes, I counted).
We don't believe in ipads or dvd players over dinner. We have done that once, when we were out for dinner with other children who were watching them and it was the most blissful family meal we have had. We were able to chat and relax and have more wine. I do hope however that our anti-gadget meals will eventually pay dividends when the boys are older.....
Back to tonight. Zak got the waiter and waitress immediately on side by ordering his own dinner and drink with impeccable manners. Unfortunately, his little brother as a captive audience was too much of a temptation and I don't think the waitress thought he was quite as cute when he said "Bottom!" at the top of his voice.
Sebi tried to order "Champagne, like Mummy" and shot the waiter one of his best killer-death stares when he dared to suggest that apple juice might be slightly more suitable.
Two glasses of champagne in, I held my lovely husband's hand over the table and reminded him that it was so nice that our terrible-twosome got on so beautifully and had such a good time together as some siblings just fight all the time. In the two seconds during which we were pondering this, Sebi went face-down into his pizza and Zak tried to set his raisin packet on fire with the table candle.
So, two hours later and we are £95 worse off but with nice full bellies. My husband thinks three glasses of fizz was excessive during a kids' tea-time meal. I think it was absolutely necessary to achieve Nice-Mummy.
The proof of the pudding was when I popped to say hello to a couple of old work colleagues of mine that I saw sitting over the other side of the pub. "Oh yes, we saw you when we came in", they said, "and we decided to leave you to it". My beautiful children have turned us into restaurant-pariahs. Thank God we don't tend to bump into people we know when we are on aeroplanes....
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