The News of the Shrews

Majestic, regardless of their accent

How incongruous does a safari park in kidderminster sound?  Believe me, it sounds even more wrong, when you add the brummy twang! And yet, and yet…for my first safari park experience, it was brummy brilliant.  Even the hat, who i thought far too young, got right into it, clapping and roaring at the animals.  Little man was over the moon, especially when a zebra literally nuzzled up to his window.  In fact, if we hand’t almost run out of petrol, i would’ve totally gone round again.  Luckily, considering the cost, we’ll have that opportunity, as you get a ‘free’ second entry with the first, so at some point when it’s less cold, we’ll venture there again.

Talking of brummy accents, have made a decision on the pronunciation of Shrewsbury.  Am going with ‘rhymes with shoes’.  Rhymes with ‘shows’ is just too black country for my liking.  Whether naively, or stupidly when we moved up here i only thought of Shropshire – a little known county, with no known accent.  It didn’t occur to me that we were in the West Midlands, and that that was dangerously close to Birmingham and the accent that i simply can’t take seriously (and would not wish upon a child of mine).  And yet, luckily, Shrewsbury seems to be an island unto itself when it comes to accents.  A few miles to the west and you’re into lovely lilting welsh, a few miles to the east and you start to get brummy.  Bridgnorth was definitely full of hideous nasally twangs, and even Telford has tell-tale tics.  It’s sheer luck that we’ve seemingly ended up in an oasis of normality, but the accent will definitely be affecting my decision on where we move to in the country proper (when such a time arises).  Westward-ho! (god i’m such a snob…but i can’t help it)

In other news...Baby-led-weaning going a bit too well...

Oh my word, i have been lax.  Not blogged since Toby’s stay over a fortnight ago.  I blame it completely on the welsh homegrown (thanks Julius), which was deceptively strong.  That and the unexpected arrival of Brady from Aus, necessitating a quick mental night out up in Londinium, wiping out another weekend with recovery – am certainly not the wee spritely thing i think i am anymore.  Anyway, back on the page now, and will keep it this way.

So, half term up here, and suddenly Thursday.  Sadly Adam’s Cantebury gig is on a different schedule and so rather than the full week of holiday, we only have a few days, and then he’s back again on the long commute.  Hey ho, it’s only for this term, so we’re almost half-way through, and then it’s just wait and see for the job in Sept, or not.

And so we had valentine’s day, a day that traditionally i don’t really commemorate, however this year i went all out; de-forested my legs and bought a card with a badge on.  Adam out-did himself however, sourcing veal and cooking me my favourite veal milanese.  Oh, it was worth the wait.  Not too sure whether it was the fact that i hadn’t had veal for such a long time, or that it was genuinely fabulous meat, but it was spectacular.  Not the ‘freedom foods’ veal that i’ve still yet to find in Shrewsbury, but from Ludlow Food Centre – a ginormous barn filled with produce from the Earl of Plymouth’s local farms (seemingly half of south shropshire – no wonder Advolly says Shropshire’s insular, there can only be a few, sillily named, land owners if what he owns is anything to go by…).

The kids are well.  Our little boy is growing up too fast now…not only does he have a proper haircut, but we also bought him some trendy trousers from Hennes, replete with comedy low crotch, and he just looks like a boy, not my baby anymore.  Though, he has had me following him round all day going “can i just pull up your trousers”, only to find upon pulling that they’re already pulled up as far as they can go, it’s just that they’re designed to look like they’re falling down.  I think.  Or else they’re just really badly designed and i’m giving them graces that they don’t have.  They are, after all, just a cheap pair of trousers.  Either way, he’s a boy with a really annoying mother.  Will make a note to myself to stop fussing (and maybe stick it on his back?  That way can prevent last minute embarrassing mother-clucking…maybe i can get a sweatshirt made up???  Hmmm, the worrying thing is that i actually think that that is really quite a good idea).  The hat meanwhile continues to not quite crawl.  Well, not quite crawl forwards.  Crawling, kind of, backwards.  Bum shuffling, vaguely crabbing.  Generally moving, just not very elegantly or classically.  That is perhaps to be expected of a baby who genuinely thinks that making a roaring sound is a form of communication.  Obvs she learnt it off of her brother, who spends about 60% of his time roaring in one manner or another.  But is probably not helped by me and Adam roaring at her, just to get her to roar back, which we obviously find adorable, thus reinforcing the idea with her that it is a legitimate conversational noise.  Hmm, some people teach their kids to read, others to play the violin, we’ve managed to teach ours the essential skill of pretending to be a dinosaur.

Oh wee man. No more baby curls...

So i was going to write a wonderful, cultural wee blog – telling all about my first Shrewsbury private view, and of our imminent involvement in the Belle Vue Arts Festival…however that’s been trumped by little man’s increasing use of swear words, which culminated this morning in the exclamation of “fucking boots!”, with exactly the right intonation , in frustration that his toast wasn’t immediately imminent.  If i’m honest he’s been upping the ante on swearing over the past few weeks.  I blame it on that bloomin’ Raymond Briggs.  And his dangerously subversive Father Christmas.  After watching that cartoon a few (thousand) times, he started “bloomin’ this” and “bloomin’ that”.  Which i simply ignored.  Last week though, bloomin turned into bloody.  Now where that came from i’ve no idea.  I duly ignored that too. However ‘fucking boots’ had us literally rolling around the floor.  He obviously thinks that it’s an expression in itself.  And it obviously came from one of us.  Not me though.  Whilst i might be known as work as the lady who calls a spade a fucking count, at home i am the epitome of the queen’s english.  Adam’s excuse was that whilst he did help to put wee man into his wellies this morning, that he was laughing (in frustration) whilst he did it, and that due to the perfectly angrily frustrated intonation that our angelic universe used, he couldn’t possibly have been copying Adam.  Hmmmm.

After the jollity of Friday night, the past few days have been somewhat fraught.  It began at 5am on Saturday morning, with our little universe waking up, unable to breathe properly, and making alarming wheezing sounds.  He was complaining of a cough and barking occasionally.  We calmed him down, and went back to sleep (ish…hangover was setting in).  He seemed fine on Saturday, but then Saturday night he had another attack.  This time though it seemed worse, and was really struggling to breathe.  We thought he might be having an asthma attack and called an ambulance.  I can not praise the paramedics highly enough.  They arrived barely 2 mins after we placed the call, and were brilliant with our panicked young man.  After giving him a nebuliser (to not much effect), he and Adam went to Shrews A&E, where they diagnosed him with croup and gave him some steroids which took effect almost immediately, and once his wee fever had subsided he was discharged.  Despite my fears, i think that the whole experience has not scarred him.  Quite the opposite perhaps, as he now expects Doctors to arrive in his room almost instantaneously should he need them, might struggle to get him to the actual doctors surgery since his home experience was so swift and seamless!

The terrifying thing about croup is that there is often no symptoms during the day (definitely our experience) and it’s caused by nothing more innocuous than the common cold virus – which the rest of us are all certainly suffering from.  Yesterday was spent essentially holding my breath.  He seemed fine, but then that was no indicator previously, but we stuffed him with calpol and laid him in cotton wool in front of the telly and a marathon of Disney.  That seemed to do the trick, and despite my fears he slept through last night and today developed a more normal cold, which i’m taking as a good sign (perversely).  Fingers crossed that’s the end of it, and the hat won’t go on and get it herself (she’s just had back to back common garden colds, poor lamb).

Here’s to a better week…

The view from the top...

Well, last night was a success.  I think.  Judging by the hideous hangovers that we have today, a good night was had over at one half of the mental asylum.  The other half does actually contain certifiable mentals (so we’ve now learnt), which makes my slightly insane babbling at them pre-xmas, and their snub of our xmas drinks a little more okay.  Advolly and Paul were lovely hosts, and although my first attempt at a pavlova was woefully lacking the requisite lashings of cream, we shall certainly be reciprocating their hospitality soon.  In fact have already got another social engagement from it – off to a private view on Thursday with Advolly (ooh, free champers…), and have agreed prices with Tilly for future babysitting – dear god, we could actually go out!  Perhaps we’ll ease ourselves in with a trip to the cinema…

Their house is currently being re-plastered, and so was not putting its best foot forward sadly.  Did obviously have a good nose round (under the guise of seeing what work they were having done), though both A and P were more than willing to show us, bless them.  Whilst it is a lovely house, both Adam and i came away thinking that in fact, we prefer the 60′s monstrosity that we’re in.  If only we had 7 bedrooms here…

Funiculars don't get steeper than this

So, after a quick call to Advolly to apologise for myself (just incase…had a realisation at 5am that somehow, for a short red-wine fuelled moment, i’d managed to convince myself that Paul was Tilly’s father, he’s not, and i know that full well, but then had a rather confused conversation…and shortly afterwards took myself home…not quite on a doing hat impressions scale, but…), anyway after the embarrassing call (where i rambled on for far too long…perhaps still a wee bit drunk), we set off for Bridgnorth, predominantly to ride the “steepest inland funicular in Britain”, but really to try and out-run our hangovers.

What i wasn’t expecting was for it to be quite such a beautiful town.  It’s two town’s really.  Posh at the top of the hill, and poor at the bottom (as you’d expect).  The funicular was put in to take over from the donkeys, who previously were ferrying all the lovely goods up to the gods, and as soon as we’d descended in it i wanted to be back at the top too.  We’ll definitely be going back there, if not for the views (which Charles I thought rightly were the best in all his kingdom), then for the food and shopping.  Not only were there lots of wonderful butchers, bakers, and tea rooms, but at the weekend there’s car boot sales galore.  What more could you ask for?

Meanwhile, wee man’s shiner is coming on a treat…

Despite the use of chocolate camouflage, the black eye's still somewhat obvious

So yesterday was a momentous day.  Our little universe’s first ever proper playmate – by that i mean a “stranger’s” child came to our house.  His friend Yousuf (and mum) came over after nursery and stayed for tea.  Twas a lovely afternoon, and a bit of an eye-opener (initially) as to how 3yr olds play, or more specifically, how wee man plays with his friends.  Alongside much laughter and screaming and running and excitement, there was also tears.  Most notably as C chased poor Yousuf into a corner, tearfully demanding that he agree to be his “best friend”.  Poor Yousuf, crying out “I said YES!” as our boy continued to harass him and not listen.  Bless.  I guess.  However, in the final furlong there was an accident with the Spinosaurus resulting in a fantastic shiner…since Yousuf had run into someone’s shoulder earlier in the day at nursery, the two of them rocked up to pre-school today looking like right little hooligans.  Perfectly matched i guess.

It was the spinosaurus what done it, honest guv

Yousuf’s mum is very sweet, quite young, and single, and we’ve a reciprocal date lined up for next week, so slowly, slowly am starting to see other people’s houses and get to know a few people.  On Friday we have much excitement as are invited over to our neighbours’ Advolly and Paul – with their daughter Tilly coming to babysit ours whilst we get drunk and eat food at theirs.  Perfect.  Looking v much forward to that as they live in half of the victorian mental asylum and am keen to have a good nose!!!  All go here i tell you…!

Well, Thurday’s yoga was somewhat disappointing.  Unless of course you like looking at septuagenarian genitals that is.  Sadly, mesmerising though they were, the hunt for the right yoga class continues.  Twas all very nice and chilled, and i will probably return, as it was very relaxing, but relaxing is only part of what i look for in a yoga class.  I like to be worked out and to feel physically challenged, and 6 positions in 2 hours does not really do it for me.

And Forest School?  Well, it was a miserable day here, and our wee man returned suitably covered from head to toe in mud and shattered, so i can only assume that it was good.  I say that, as trying to get any sense of what occurred out of him was like trying to get a surly teenager to talk about what they did at school.  The best sentence that i got from him all afternoon was “I’m angry now because I’m hungry and tea is not ready”…brilliant.

Right, off to bed early for me – little titfer has had a temperature all day, and whilst i’m desperately hoping that it’s just teething, am feeling now somewhat under the weather myself, probably due to the fact that i’ve essentially been lying down all day comforting her, which surprisingly isn’t as energising as it may seem.  Need to be on good form, as we’ve the Jackson’s turning up tomorrow and don’t imagine they’ll want to be cooking their own food…

So it’s all change here this week (well kind of…).  The hat is on the move!  In fact she’s kind of been on the move for the past few weeks, but i have been in Egypt (de Nile) about it as i really really wanted at least one of my children to crawl and since Cosmo bum shuffled til he was 18 months old, that goal lay with the youngest.  However, since she can now make her way, on carpet, across the sitting room floor, in a relatively quick time, i have to admit that she’s probably not going to crawl.  Having been perfectly happy to do ‘tummy time’ (up until about now) i had high hopes, but she’s realised that she can’t get anywhere on her tummy, but on her bum she can get practically any toy/paper/book (insert other totally inappropriate object here) that she damn well wants.  Ah well.  Maybe she’ll crawl later…no1 child can crawl now, but then he is 3.

Speaking of whom, still no movement on the loo (literally).  He has now installed his step (in theory supposed to be used to help him get onto said loo) in the pantry, so that he can inspect at closer range the toys that are awaiting him.  Not too sure that allowing that was such a good idea, as the novelty of having the actual toys appears to have worn off (and thereby the bribery power) and he’s now quite happy to imaginarily play with them.  Hmmm.  Ah well, it’ll happen i guess.  Just hope that it’s before he goes to school.  He’s got a big day on Friday, as it’s the first day of ‘Forest School’ – whereby the kids essentially have pre-school out in the woods.  Exploring, running round and just generally being at one with nature man.  Apparently it’s nothing to do with the hippy camps that we went on as kids (sadly), but i am utterly in love with the ethos.  This is what we moved to the country for – to give the kids a better quality of life.  Fingers crossed he likes it.  And doesn’t shit his pants.

And as for me, well my New Year’s resolutions are coming along modestly.  I rocked up to last Monday’s yoga class promising that i would attend faithfully every week and duly paid the discounted price, with the full intention of turning up every week.  Had to email her yesterday to explain that i would not in fact be turning up for the foreseeable future and could i possibly reimburse her the monies that i therefore owed.  Shame.  However, having searched high and low for anyone, almost anywhere, who may be able to teach some Ashtanga and therefore help me to be good, i think that i may have found a solution.  Though am somewhat dubious.  There’s a class 30 mins away on a Thursday evening (so far so good), taught by a guy who is into Tantric.  And here i become nervous.  On his website he says that he believes that yoga should be practised naked…hmmm….and a whole lot of other gumf.  Ashtanga is only one of many forms that he utilises, so it won’t be my ideal Mysore style class, but am willing to give it a go (WITH CLOTHES ON).  We shall see.

Who said January was boring?  It’s all go here.  Kind of.

So Adam’s got a new temporary extra job.  It’s practically his perfect gig – a lecturer teaching film (theory and practice) at a leading uni, one day a week on the Monday (his day off from college) – which has all come around ever so quickly through his brilliance and his old  professor’s continued admiration.  The downside is that it’s in Canterbury so he’s going to be commuting down on a Sunday and coming back late on Monday, which is harsh.  But potentially worth it, especially if it leads to something more…am trying not to get too excited about it.  Mainly this is manifesting itself in a bout of ‘justifiable’ lethargy vis a vis thinking about work, like i needed a further excuse…but hey, what’s the point in stressing until we know where we’re going to be based?  And that’s not going to be clear for a good few months.  Wehey!

There’s just no arguing with a 3 year old.  It doesn’t matter how many times i tell him, we read it, or he sees it.  He’s convinced that ‘Star Command’ is really ‘Starkled Man’.  We’re using a buzz, a dragon, a tiger, a playmobil gengis khan and a knight on a horse as pure bribery to get him to shit on the lav.  No polite way to put it really.  Having been to Toys’r'us (dear god, is there a worse place on earth? more dreary? more depressing? more reminiscent of the failures of modern day parenting?  Or is it just that it was such a verboten place when i was growing up that my childish dreams of the magnificence of the place pale somewhat when i step into essentially the merchandising arm of cbeebies and citv…i digress).  So, having been to Toys’r'us to buy the bribes – where i had to cajole him to choose gifts, as bless his cottons once he had the tiger in his sweaty palms he was satisfied – walking up and down the aisles with his innocent mind, unaware that he was standing just inches away from the characters that he plays at nursery (with his more TV literate friends…).  We now wait for the eureka moment when he finally plucks up the courage to plop, and he can finally get hold of his Starkled Man.  Please let it be soon…

Ooh, and the hat’s got her first tooth!  We’ve finally kicked her out of our room, and we’re all sleeping the better for it (well, until the next tooth…).