SONS AND LOVERS

I thought I would  post a quick rant.

I have just read that the little boy, Alfie aged 13, and is embroiled in a paternity suite, has been offered loads of cash to open the DNA results live.  I also learn that EIGHT other boys have come forward saying they too could have been the father.  I suppose they are all trying to jump on the cash bangwagon.  What about the mum, Chantelle?  Shows her up in a pretty light doesn’t it?  Has anyone thought about the poor baby in all this?  Obviously cash is more important.  I find this story startlingly appalling – the mind boggles at how this could have happened (not, don’t explain), how the parents (the so-called grown-ups) could cash in on such a terrible story and how the Press will do anything for sensational journalism.

Typing this hasn’t calmed me down – perhaps a swift email to the Times is in order.

SLUMDOG

Well – I eventually got to see Slumdog Millionaire at the cinema last night.  I am probably the last person on the planet not to have seen it already.  Loved it and adored the music.  Think the volume might have been too high though as my ears were ringing as I came out of the cinema.  Have I become even deafer?  I’m sure the hearing in my left ear is on a downward turn …

The New Husband and myself decided to see Slumdog about a week ago – this was a major minor decision.  We have never been to the cinema together for some reason, so off we trotted ready to sit in the back of the cinema and hold hands – aahhh, how sweet!  Don’t think I’m going to hold your stubby, clammy paws, He said. My paws are neither stubby nor clammy.   On the way to the cinema we thought we would just stop off for a quick snack at a very nice Moroccan restaurant; when we eventually finished supper, there was absolutely no reason to go to the cinema – or we could have sat in a bar glugging Belgian beer for an hour or so waiting for the next séance.  Home we come.  Two days later we repeat the experience BUT have food at home beforehand.  However, I have a disorganised Husband who is totally unaware of time.  Yup – we arrive at the cinema and the film has already started.  Starting to get a little cross about this non-event, I sweetly suggest we see something else.  Revolutionary Road it was with Kate Winslet et di Caprio.  Yuk, shades of Titanic.

Excellent.  Noir.  Value for money film.  Enjoyed it enormously.  One problem – we were a little late and the cinema was full – so we sat nine rows away from each other!  So the New Husband didn’t have to hold my stubby, sweaty paw!

DUE TO POPULAR DEMAND…

A few many of you have asked how New Husband thought of calling my One and Only and Very Precious Son by his ‘nom de plume’ The Rock Thrower.  So pour yourselves a large glass of wine/whisky/mug of cocoa (delete where appropriate) and I will bore you rigid with the story.

(The scene is set in V……, Switzerland, a once posh ski resort high in the Alpes – now full of lager-louts vomiting on the dance floors of night clubs and obscenely rich Russians doing likewise)

The Dragon, her Daughter, la Fée Verte and Son, the Rock Thrower have taken up residency there – la FéeVerte was partying working, the Rock Thrower was trying to fit in a bit of education when he wasn’t on the slopes and the Doting Mother was working, cooking, cleaning and generally making sure that all the ski shops stayed in business so that the Belovèd Offspring could look Beautiful, Modern and Terribly Sporty on the ski slopes.  Do you have any idea how often the fashion changes for skis, gloves, goggles, ski clothes etc. per year?  Bloody often – believe me.

A couple of summers ago, when the lager louts were partying wherever they party in the summer and the clientèle becomes more genteel, Rock Thrower was lurking in the village with a few chums one evening.  They were all looking at the sky, taking bets as to when the first snow would fall and just generally hanging around as you do at that wonderful terrible age of 15/16.  Lurkers corner happened to be a patch of grass with some fairly largish smallish stones put round the edges and the lurkers decided that they would play pétanque with the stones – as one does.  This little game amused them for some time until a twitching curtain called the Municipal Police.  Not having to deal with the winter lager-louts, a patrol was despatched forthwith, arriving at the scene of the crime just as Rock Thrower had a rock in his hand and was in deep concentration on his ’shot’.

The others scampered instanteously, followed by Rock Thrower holding his rock.  Now this is where The One and Only is not as bright as the Doting Mother would like to think … the others dispersed through the village, cutting through gardens and little footpaths … my Darling Child heads straight up the unforgiving 180° Main Street, hotly pursued by the police car.  Guess who didn’t get away?

I know nothing of this until the following day when I get a call from the Police Municipal asking me if I am the Mother of the Lout Wot Got Caught.  I am then invited to visit the Police Station with The Scolded Son and am asked to pay the CHF200 fine, otherwise he will be locked up and the key will be chucked down a mountain.  The fine was paid, a written warning was produced (which the little — wanted to frame) and we were let loose.  He spend the rest of the summer paying off the fine instead of buying stuff for his mountain bike.

So there we are – Rock Thrower he has become – but his brush with the Strong Arm of the Law made its mark and touch wood …

TYRES

Time to fit snow tyres onto the shopping trolley – it started to snow here in Brussels at about 6 a.m. today.  Good.  The pocket handkerchief garden looks much better covered in snow at this time of the year.  Great Plans are afoot to give it a make-over this spring – the New Husband will give orders directions while I break my back doing the physical stuff.  He did wave a fork in its direction a couple of days ago and seemed surprised the ground was frozen solid.

Back to the shopping trolley.  This unattractive article much maligned by Rock Thrower and New Husband, is my bit towards Saving the Planet and avoiding slipped discs.  The local supermarché is about 300 metres from the house.  Too close to warrant using the Large Brussels Tractor (yes, we do possess one and no, we cannot sell it at the present time …) but too far to lug home major stuff, I invested in a trolley last year.  When Rock Thrower is up here from Toulouse, he refuses to come to the supermarket when I wheel it out and the New Husband peers out of his office and says ‘Off shopping Granny?’.  ‘Yes, I bloody well am to put food in the fridge which is the only piece of equipment you recognise in the kitchen‘.  The New Husband also has a theory that the wheels are bunged up with dog poo – yes, I deliberately pull the trolley through all the poo toing and froing from the supermarché – adds fun to my day …

As most of England has stopped to watch the snow falling, I thought that today would be a good time to post links to sites that I read regularly – I haven’t yet worked out how to post them down the side of my blog as I should really be working, so I am posting them here and will then drop a note to those I mention.

www.francesalut.com

http://wwwtheothersideofparis.blogspot.com

http://thepriceoflove.net

http://redwhiteandbleu.blogspot.com

http://lostandfoundinfrance.blogspot.com

http://www.sarahhague.blogspot.com

http://www.wifeinthenorth.com

As you stare out of the window at the snow, go and look at these sites – there are some great writers out there.  Hope the links work, otherwise if you don’t know the sites, you will have to cut and paste.

CONFUSED

Starting off this blog yesterday I confused Typepad and WordPress … I set up the blog on Typepad but have since discovered I wanted WordPress (which is free!).

I really wasn’t made for this stuff – I am just so dumb.  However, now that it is up and vaguely running, I shall soon plug other bloggers sites, so that you can see how I waste my day (not because of the content but because I spend too much time there!) and so that you can find other sites – there are just so many of them!  And of course, get my stats up and running (snigger, snigger).

INTRODUCTION

The Cast

The Dragon
This is me, named by The New Husband (see below)

The New Husband
Should I have married a man who calls me The Dragon? Well, I did …

La Fée Verte (The Green Fairy)
My daughter of 26 who comes from Another Planet

Rock Thrower
My son of nearly 18, going on 40, who speaks in text messaging that only his doting mother understands

Bébé Fée Verte
TwoAndAHalf

Angus
My wee black Scottish terrier, very smelly, and the only one here known by his real name although the Rock Thrower did at times call him Roger the Kangaroo … by the way, he is 4.

The Rest of Them
A jolly collection including the Mother Who is Very Good for Her Age, the Wicked Stepmother, reals, steps, halves, in-laws – you name it, I have the Most Decomposed Family on the Planet.

Apart from Angus who adopted me before I met the New Husband, most of the characters you will meet have been named by him. For some reason which I have yet to discover, the New Husband can remember people by their nick-names but not by their real names. He probably has a deep psycological problem and I shouldn’t have married him but on the 13th December 2008 I did promise to look after him in his twilight years, as his hearing and eyesight start to fail and I find his iTouch in the deepfreeze. But, maybe it will be a race to discover who can go downhill the quickest – the less batty of the two will look after the other half. I will definitely die of hunger if nothing else as the New Husband has squirmed his way out of avoided cooking for the last 62 years – apart from the ‘fridge he has yet to discover we have a dishwasher, a sink, an oven and various mod cons in the house.
The scene is set and the other cast members will appear in due course.
And me?
Known so kindly as The Dragon or Dull from Guildford, I am fiftyfivesomething, I now live in Brussels (no, we do not work for the Commission or any other European thing), am discovering that living in a city has its advantages and thoroughly enjoying being married again. Tall, desperately thin, fairly well educated, a smoker (vade retro) and with a mop of thick and shaggy grey hair, I wonder at times why the New Husband wanted to get involved with someone as neurotic as me – but on the other hand, why did I get involved with someone who is taller than me, is almost twice my weight, is worried about the bald patch, has had a far better education, doesn’t smoke and has had a quintuple bypass. A couple of desperate, sad buggers!

Right – all that stuff is out of the way, so I can start to blog.

COUCH POTATO

The New Husband is out tonight – babysitting his Number 3 Child while his Ex Wife Number 2 is off doing something terribly boring at Number 3’s school – probably one of those awful PTA meetings that I used to loathe.  If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em … after a couple of years scrunched up on chairs designed for gnomey children at meetings that went on for EVER, I became Boss Parent at the school and started my reign of terror by informing everyone that the meeting would last one hour only, three minutes maximum for inane questions regarding mid-morning snacks, and that they only had a year to put up with the regime.

Instant success and applause – everyone thought the same but never dared say anything in case their child was punished for having a Bossy Mummy.

Thank God, those days are over as the adored Rock Thrower is away at school in Toulouse while his Distraught Mother lives 1200 km away in the ‘plat pays’ of Jacques Brel.

An angry Rock Thrower rang this morning and in his SMS language informed me there were no trains from Carcassonne to Toulouse due to the storms that have hit that part of the world this last weekend and ordering me to ring the school to inform them.

Dutiful Mother rang school and then went onto the SNCF site to find out what was happening, would there be any trains and if so, at what time … am I the ONLY person on the face of the Earth that spends two hours on their bloody site trying to book tickets or get information and ends up with a stupid bloody message saying that the site is about to crash due to demand and to try later?  Eventually found a train, rang the Rock Thrower, and have heard nothing either from him or the school, so assume he is safely back eating the terrible canteen food and will soon be tucked up in his lumpy mattress bed.

So Angus and I have a lovely evening ahead of us, eating fattening food and slumped on the sofa watching silly programmes – actually Angus doesn’t watch TV unless a dog happens to bark on the screen so I do the watching and eating and he slumps!