Always schedule a toilet stop

Don't underestimate your daughter.  Or misunderestimate her, as George W Bush would say. 

First child and I visited a top uni yesterday.  We know it's a top uni because a young lady spent quite a lot of time telling us that it was a top uni in the pre-tour presentation.  This tour mostly involved running around a huge city centre campus having massive, ugly buildings pointed out to us by a student in a special t shirt.  We couldn't go in any of the buildings properly, although we did hover in the entrance of the library for a few seconds.  Mostly we got soaking wet and tired.
"This is the humanities building,' he shouted, as we ran past a Stalin-esque bunker with tiny slitty windows.
"This is where so and so did a so and so experiment and won the so and so prize," he shouted, pointing at a glass and concrete structure.  We all grunted and nodded politely as we jogged after him.
The campus had a massive, busy road running through it which absolutely terrified me.
"You can't go here," I told first child.  "I will picture you being mown down by one of these huge buses every day."
Our guide at least took us back and forth via the pedestrian crossings.  Another guide was seen darting through the traffic, pursued by a crowd of panic-stricken youngsters and their distressed parents.
I rate the tour very low because at no point was I offered a toilet break.  These things are important.  First child thinks that people should be able to go an hour without a toilet break.  I think that male students lack the ability to empathise about bladder need.

The best thing about the day was spending time with first child, and the highlight of the day was when I dared her to ask a workman at Stafford Station if she could try on his hard hat.  I offered her a financial incentive, of course.  (We were a bit desperate for entertainment at this point; there isn't much to do when changing trains at Stafford except dare your daughter to do increasingly outrageous things.)  I offered her £5 to tell the workman that she liked his beard, but she wasn't going for that.  However £10 was sufficient incentive for her to ask him to loan her his hat.  Now I know that she can be bought.  I'm not proud.  I expected better behaviour from her really.  I blame the parents.

The sofa is mine

We adopted Bertie last October from The Dogs' Trust in Evesham.  He's been an interesting addition to the family.  He's complex, has issues, but is a great thinker.  Some thoughts and observations on the Bertie philosophy of life may feature on this blog.

 

A comfortable place

I come down to find Bertie stretched out on the kitchen sofa.  He opens a bleary eye and wags politely at me.  Bonnie, the good dog, is sitting up in her bed looking pointedly at him.  Then she turns to me.

“Are you really going to let him get away with that?” she asks.

I stand next to Bertie.

“Down,” I say, firmly, gesturing at the floor.

He rolls of the sofa slowly, stretches and noses my hand.

The next morning they are both on the sofa. 

“He made me do it,” says Bonnie.

First walk

First thing in the morning.  Too early to be awake.  I put my shoes on and get Bertie’s harness.  He starts to gambol and frolic in a manner which must be damaging to his stumpy legs.  Bonnie winds around my legs like a cat as I find the leads.

‘Think alpha,’ I tell myself.  ‘Calm and authoritative.’

Getting out the door in a cat’s cradle of leads, shoulder bag, keys etc is a challenge, but we do it.  It is soon evident that Bertie has no idea of lead protocol.  He meanders back and forth in front of me; stops suddenly to investigate smells, wees on everything, tangles with Bonnie who sits down suddenly.  I shorten his lead and we stagger and stumble round the corner to the little park.  My ambitions have been modest regarding our destination.  I lengthen Bertie’s lead and let Bonnie off and she goes to furthest corner to poo.  Bertie and I spend a while looking for it in the fallen leaves but it’s too well camouflaged.  I turn round to see her in the opposite corner, pooing again. 

“C’mon, Bertie,” I yell and we charge across the park to make sure we can locate this little pile while she’s still on the job.  He’s game and breaks into a wobbly canter at one point.  Then I feel terrible because he has to stop and cough. 

Picking up Bonnie’s poo is a challenge as Bertie wraps the lead round my legs and I think I might fall.  I have to put the full poo bag down and unravel myself.  Bertie gets his foot caught in the poo bag and drags it off, then gets scared of the thing wrapped around his leg and starts jumping around.  Poo exits bag.  I calm him down and start again, with a fresh bag.  Bonnie seems to think that this is all quite hilarious.  She runs to and fro, a bit smug as she’s the good dog who is allowed off the lead.  When she passes Bertie tries to break into a run, to join her.

“No chance, mate,” I tell him.  Not after his escape attempt yesterday.  We’d just collected him from Dogs’ Trust and we’d been home about two minutes when he made a break for freedom.  This is how it happened: since he was drinking water from the plant pot drip trays I nipped into the house to get him the water bowl.  Two seconds later he’d gone and the garden gate swung open.  OK, the catch is a bit wobbly, but it still needs a handle turning.  I dropped the water bowl on my feet and charged out the gate and down the side of the house.  There he was, trotting towards Bilton Road, in his smart , yellow Dogs’ Trust harness.

I resisted the urge to yell, and put on my most appealing doggy voice.  He turned, considered me and ambled back, stopping to say hello to my neighbour who was finding it all very amusing.  I barricaded the back gate with wheelie bins, wondering how my postman was going to deliver my parcels now.

So now there’s no chance of me letting him off his lead.  Maybe that’s how he strayed in Birmingham.  Maybe he learned to open the garden gate and just wandered off.  With no collar or chip, and no one looking for him, he didn’t stand a chance.

We circle the small park five times and I think he’s getting the hang of the lead.  His innate good nature will help with training, I think.  I’m sure he’s a bit better on the way back.

At home he rushes around the kitchen, then suddenly tires.  He gets into Bonnie’s bed.  She approaches and a growl rumbles in his throat.  I find their kong toys (Bonnie’s hidden both in the garden) and fill them with disgusting liver past and a chew.  I encourage Bertie back to his own bed with it and Bonnie reclaims hers.  But as soon as I start typing on the computer Bonnie comes to lie on my feet and Bertie quickly sneaks back into her bed.  Oh well, I suppose they’ll work it out. 



 

Embarrassing mothers

According to second daughter I engage in a wide range of embarrassing activities.  These include:  singing in the street, (especially hymns); dancing (only to be done alone, in my bedroom, with the lights off); talking to, or showing an interest in her friends; correcting people's grammar; inviting people to tea and expecting them to be able to use a knife in their right hand; gardening; singing Bertie's song to him; pulling faces at her during eye tests; sewing; knitting; painting garden furniture; D.I.Y generally; introducing people to the chickens ....the list goes on and on and on.

This morning I went through the list and gleaned that, when her friends are visiting, the only acceptable activities for me are to: be in another room; watch TV; use the computer; sleep.   These activities are considered 'normal' and are what other people's mothers do all the time, apparently.

So I'm here in the living room.  The TV is on although I'm not watching it.  I am not asleep and there is little chance of that with the shrieking and crashing coming from the 9 x 12 year olds in the kitchen.  I'm on the computer writing a blog about daughter number 2.  Will this turn out to be the most embarrassing thing of all?

Stop pulling faces!  Just be normal!

Dreams .....tricky so and sos

Sometimes I forget to switch my alarm off and, because I go to bed in the wee small hours at the weekend I'm right in the middle of crazy weird dream sleep (not sure if that's the scientific term) when the radio wakes me.  I always try to catch the dream before it slips away.  This weekend I had a dream message from a very old friend with whom I may or may not have fallen out.  'You kept e-mailing me, all the time,' I accused him in my dream.  'You shouldn't ever have replied,' he replied.  'It put me under pressure.'  Now I think there must be a short story in there somewhere. 

I was thinking about dreams in the bible.  People in the bible have lovely, clear dreams.  I mean, no one has a dream like this:

God spoke to Eddi in a vision.  "Leave your town and go to Coventry.  Save the people there from their sin.  Then, when your legs turn into two ripe bananas, you must sing 'Dancing Queen' with President Obama."

I suppose that's why they took their dreams so seriously in the bible.  No one ever had to sing 'Dancing Queen' with President Obama.

These carrots grew in one of my pots.  I forgot what I had planted and thought they were just rather boring flowers.  But when I pulled them up they were a couple of very interesting carrots.  What an exciting day that was!  I think the guy on the right definitely has luurv on his mind.  But the lady carrot just wants to sleep.

If you take my private parts I'll eat your table

"The thing is," Bertie told me, this morning.  "The thing is that there are eight of you girls for me to look after here.  And you've taken my wedding tackle.  How can I be alpha without my wedding tackle?"
I explained to him that he didn't need his wedding tackle anymore.  And it wasn't me that had taken it - it was the lovely people at Dogs' Trust.  They suspected that, given his life roaming the backstreets of Brum, he may already have done his bit to populate the area with funny little mongrels with huge heads and long bodies.  Furthermore, there were a number of candidates for the role of Alpha here.  Notably Delia, who keeps everyone in order. 
Bertie made sad ears so I gave him an egg to take his mind off his missing bits.

Interestingly, Spanish men call their tender parts 'huevos' - eggs.  This conjures up a picture of something fragile, precious and delicate.  In the UK they're 'balls,' to be handled, kicked, played with and shared.  I'm sure there's something profound about national character that I should draw from this...

So did Bertie eat the coffee table to vent his feelings about his missing parts?  Or was it to get at the Kong stuffed with liver paste that had wedged itself underneath?  He might tell me one day.

The red wine box

The red wine box is a wonderful invention.  I've just written about one in a short story.  Here's an extract:

Doreen liked wine boxes; they lasted longer and there weren’t all those noisy, wobbly, reproachful empty bottles that seemed to pile up everywhere these days.  The only problem was getting the damn things open.  There was a little tap and you had to twist something off and push something through a hole and .... well, it was all just a bit too complicated.  After a brief struggle with a new box she grabbed a knife from the block and stabbed it.  Red wine burst upwards and she tilted the box to let it run into her glass.  Nice to use a proper crystal glass.   She drifted into the hallway, leaning her shoulder against the wall for a bit of stability.  The noise from upstairs was louder here.  Crashing, screaming and Jess’s noise. 

from The Guide to Modern Teenagers.  copyright Eddi Goodwin 2013

My daughters are quite offended by this story, which was inspired by the hormone rich miasma, strange noises, furniture throwing etc etc that parents of teenage girls live with.  But really it's a pop at the parents who pretend things are normal when they really are NOT!  I'm going to send this story off soon.

Another short story, Hamish, has been accepted and will be published on 21 June.  Am I excited?  Of course I am!  It is the first piece of writing which I've sent out into the world and it was accepted by the one place I sent it.  It's about a woman who encounters someone a bit different in a hospital.  I know what you're thinking....that hospitals are full of strange people behaving oddly.  But this one is something else.  Like all of my writing, it was inspired by real events. 

I haven't got a clue how this blog thing works.  It's a miracle that I've got this far.  I'd like to upload some pictures but I can't see the button.  Oh...I think I've found it.

Intermission.....

I did find it but there wasn't a picture of a red wine box on the search thing on the blog, and failing.  Nor was there a picture of a scottish man, nor even a man.  You'd think they'd have a picture of a man.

However, there is a rather lovely turtle. 

Right, I shall post this and see what happens.