Mighty Proud To Be British In Tokyo. Cheers William and Kate!

She looked every inch a princess. `HRH She` being my mate Kate, that is. I was invited to the wedding but didn`t want to risk upstaging anyone. I was even thinking of just popping over for the day but was worried if the paparazzi got word, the mass media`s attention might be wrongly diverted.

Well...Okay....I might be stretching the truth a wee tad but I do know more about her than some of my friends, thanks to the media.

 Try and shoot  down this gingerbread girl with a heat seeker missile if you can but..... I reckon no country does pomp, pageantry or jubilee with as much panache as the British.

I remember being a lowly newspaper girl.....or should it be `lofty` compared to my current occupation as `general slave`......on July 29th 1981. It took me almost four hours to complete a run that normally took thirty minutes. I didn`t complain. My British `stiff upper lip` kept it resolve from street party to street party where I was plied with every kind of soft drink and grub ever known to half lings.The whole country was in party mode.

I`d like to feel that Princess Diana had something to do with changing Madame Weather`s mind and coaxing the sun out for the day. Kate looked luminescent in her gown. `Which Disney princess is that?` enquired Booby Slayer mesmerised by a real carriage with horsemen appearing on screen. "What`s he doing to her hands,?" wee one asked later on in the ceremony,to which I gave a brief explanation about when a Prince falls in love with a Princess, he gives her a special ring and marries her.

" What does `Give all my worldly goods` mean?" Batboy trilled up, his forehead creased in a frown.  " It means you share your things." I swiftly answered, eyes glued onto the screen. "What?" screeched Batboy,"Even your best Lego set?...Yuck! I am never going to marry anybody!"  Just as  Booby Slayer`s booming tenth count of digits on both hands neared breaking point, pitched against my considerable efforts in listening to wedding vows being exchanged, she suddenly piped up "Mummy. I need more fingers....."  and at my look of mystification, " ...for the rings...from all the princes...." As Batboy lugged his Lego sets up to his room....


I feel intoxicated by just watching the scenes from Britain. The crowds, thousands of people so close together, regardless of nationality, race or class, joined together in revelry celebrating a new generation within the Royal Family. I raise a glass to you all...wherever you may be....`May the best of your past be the worst of your future`.

The Saga Of The Neighbours Takes A Twist. Free Willy Lives Across The Path.

Here I am. Enjoying `Barnaby` on Mystery Channel when I hear  a crash from outside. Pulling a coat over my PJ's and crutches on either arm, I open the front door to see....


The Neighbour from the house opposite. Perched high up in a tree in his garden......sawing away at the branch of said tree.....So what you say. Ain`t a chap entitled to do a spot of gardening when he likes. Yes, so true but factor in a few points please. It`s raining.  It`s after 10pm. He is wearing only a pair of boxer shorts......boxer shorts with a very unimpressed willy hanging out the front......I don`t think he realises the risk of frostbite in a rather delicate area.

He waved "Good Evening! Just trimming the tree!" I waved back and said "Nice weather for it" and hobbled back indoors.

When in Rome do as the Romans do. I didn`t see a thing. Not even a willy.

The Invisible Something Or Other.

I wave a cheery "Good Morning!" to Madame Gomi ( Japanese for `rubbish`) Gestapo and turn to see next door neighbour staring intently at me. " There`s something different about you today!" she slides in between a yawn. " Have you lost the baby weight?" My baby is now the ripe old age of 3. I scan her face for a trace of that British trait I adore so much, sarcasm. The cupboard is bare. " No!" I reply pushing left crutch down to begin the Monroe cum Hunchback of Notre Dame hobble back to a warm, sugary cup of tea anxiously awaiting me on a tabletop. " Have you had your hair cut?" My gut reaction was to quickly round up the two greasy strands loitering over my right ear, back into the tatty scrunchy I`d herded my locks into earlier that morning. This was supposed to be an `out and in` job. Conversation wasn`t on the menu. Shaking her head,"I don`t know! Something is different about you today!" and strode off down the street, arms pumping air. `The something different about me` might have everything  to do with the big white cast adorning my right foot and crutch accessories I now wear, non too proudly, around either elbow.

I can`t say I am surprised. Arriving home with my baby girl three years ago, a couple of neighbours raced over and asked me whose baby it was. Ermmmmm....mine! "You were pregnant!" Well, unless you do it differently over here, yes I was. Nine months of it. Four quite visibly. Or maybe, to the background euphony of spades hitting churchyard dirt, I should have informed them that actually, foreigners lay eggs. Two minutes to push it out then a few months of making sure the spot lamp is set at the right temperature. Less chance of stretch marks but watch out your husband doesn`t mistake your bub`s egg for a common garden chicken one or tragedy will ensue.

My husband doesn`t notice stuff like I do. I am by nature a people watcher anyway but he seriously doesn`t seem to be aware of his surroundings on the same level. Walking down a street,late at night..oh many years ago with a female friend. This middle-aged man suddenly stopped in front of us.　Opened his briefcase to reveal an A3 colour photo of himself, taped to the inside of his briefcase. He was wearing only socks with those god awful suspender things. We stood, mouths agape as he deftly shut the case. Locked it. Bowed and uttered a sincere "Gomen nasai" (I am sorry for inconveniencing you!") and walked off into the crowds. Tens of people must have walked right past us with a clear view of his briefcase and it`s eye opening contents. My mate and I ended up going into yet another bar, hysterically giggling.

The Kitchen Crusader.

A dear friend of mine once remarked, as she deftly produced a tray of mouth watering muffins that "Cooking is a science. Follow the rules and success will be yours!" Well, I stunk at Science in high school and I double stink at cooking. So much so that Tokyo Gas has been known to cordon off the area around my house whenever I so much as rattle a baking tin. I`ve spent hours slaving in the kitchen, cookbook bound back in a torturous position, gleaming shiny utensils at the ready but the end result is nearly always the same. No matter how accurately I weigh out the ingredients, mix, blend, stir, whip, spoon, beat or scream at it, the end result  looks nothing like the picture in the cookbook. Okay, I hear you all say, trying desperately to be diplomatic and encouraging, the proof is in the eating. Uh, uh,I nod. But would you like to try something that looks suspiciously like a three day old turd from a terminally creature?

I have to give it to my kids. They`ve managed to find their niche and settle in comfortably with my culinary catastrophes. But there again, it probably just boils down to a simple case of survival. You have to eat to survive. There are only so many days you can go without food. What doesn`t kill you only makes you stronger, right?

Only the other day, strumming through one of my many cookbooks, I came across `Chunky Chocolate Chip Cookies`. `Chunky` and `chip` as in `chipped` are words that could be easily used to kindly describe my previous endeavours, so I took up the gauntlet.

I weighed and mixed everything to a `T`. I swear I could hear Delia cheering from the heavens above. Into the heated oven they popped. My little brown masterpieces soon to be thrown into scrumptious stardom. A mere fifteen later and the balance had once again shifted to inedible infamy.My little spoonfuls of chocolate heaven had merged into one giant cookie pie. Not to be daunted, I dug out a knife and uttered a few soothing expletives.

"Aren`t cookies round?" asked one of Batboy`s friends, eyeing up the plate on the table as if it were a giant cowpat. "Well!" I exclaimed sunnily," There are all different sizes and shapes of cakes and cookies in the world! These are my very own Volcano cookies. Der Der" I sing to a crowd of seven year old boys looking not at all convinced. "What`s that in the middle,Mummy?" asks Batboy, fingers poised. "What`s what?" I enquire, a touch of impatience colouring my previous optimism. "Oh, that`s part of a melted M & M," I quirk back," An orange M & M." I add with authority. Silence then, from another lad. "It looks like poo when bits of food come out with it!" and just as I was pondering why anyone would be studying their poo poo that closely, the room burst into laughter and wee hands grabbed handfuls of `Volcano cookies`.

I would like to point out that I am at a natural disadvantage with this whole cooking lark. I reckon it`s pure genetics....down my mother`s side. Most kids earn pocket money from doing weekly chores. As a child, me too, only the real dosh was to be earnt from my father`s bribes. My Mum is one smart lady but, putting it nicely, cooking wasn`t her forte at that time. Many an evening, we`d sit, my brother, sister, father and I. At the table. Some charred offering laid before us. Mum in the kitchen. My father used to have to go in and gently stop her from banging her brains out on the newly installed, latest hi tech cooking machine."Now listen,kids" he`d whisper during one of Mum`s head banging fits," Your Mum tried really hard so let`s try really hard to enjoy this," as my brother sawing away at something unrecognisable, successfully cut through, making contact with the plate, sending  a piece of something black zooming mere inches past his ear, "And if you make it look good,I`ll give you extra pocket money." This caught our attention. "How much?" sneered my wee sister. "An extra fifty pence" swung Dad. " Fifty measly pence for a theatrical performance that would leave Laurence Olivier standing?"I scoffed. "Okay...okay" Dad hushed," You lot drive a hard bargain. Seventy pence and that`s my final offer!" A show of wee hands high five over the table just as Mum made her appearance. "I am sorry,kids," she apologised, face creased up in culinary agony," I think I made a mess of tonight`s dinner." Only to be met with incredulous cries of "What?....This?...This food is gorgeous,Mum!....What are you going on about?"  I think we got off a lot lighter than Dad. Being kids, we were a lot more resilient. After a while, we perfected the IT DIP technique. In Trousers Dump In Toilet. 

I cling to hope. My Mum is a great cook these days. Maybe it`s a mellowing with age thing.

"What`s that on the floor?" shouts hubby pointing at one of my `Volcano Cookies lying redundantly on the kitchen floor," Has the cat gone and pooed? Look, he has! There`s a bit of undigested cat biscuit in there!"  I sigh and reach for a wine glass.

I think I Am A Sado Machoist.

Or maybe I fell over that precipice and down into the depths of insanity one sunny day without realising it.I love parties. I am determined that each season or milestone be celebrated. Notched up on life`s great wooden bedpost for prosperity. A good time was had by all on this day. Let the memory warm us later in the sunset of our lives as we rock in a wicker chair, the wind caressing our silver locks...or if bald, the lovely cactus jungles that older folk seem to spurt from nasal and aural orifices........ in some home, somewhere far.,far...... hopefully ... far forward in time from now.

"Is this what you class as `resting`?"scolds hubby in his finest ` I know best` tone.I am stood in the kitchen, on one foot, looking like a bloated flamingo. I deftly push the end of the crutch against the touch pad key on the microwave and it duly hums into action,. Microwave knows her place after toaster nearly took an early morning flying lesson, courtesy of one manic mummy. "Just wanted to put the nails on the witches` fingers before the halflings awake.!" I cheerfully explain. I stand back and admire my handiwork. Sixty sausages boiled, chiseled and topped with a carved tomato nail, ketchup glued to the end. Witches` fingers. I point at the plate and with pride enquire."So what do you think of that?" A moment`s silence filled with hubby`s head nodding up and down while he searches for the right words to describe the culinary work of art laid out before him. " Yeah....lovely.Kids love sausages!" Indignation inflates my chest, a timely air sac between hubby and I."Sausages?" I cry," Sausages...?"I hold one up, the tomato nail slides off onto my dressing gown. Sisters together in exasperated solidarity. "This is a...." Now I search for the apt wording," ....not just any old sausage....It is culinary craftsmanship at it`s......it`s pinnacle!" Laughing hubby,"Okay! They are amazing!" Hubby should thank his stars that I am not a high maintenance type of wife,I think smugly. Easily satisfied,am I.My grudges always have a statue of limitations.

Hubby."What`s that on your cheek?" I brush and find a seaweed cut out mouth. "Oh,thanks!" I hum" I wondered where that  mouth had got to." As I press it down onto a mini pizza surrounded by it`s clones. All grinning manically with mini tomato noses and olive eyeballs.  In a few hours, this house will be overrun with thirty small bodies. Each and everyone a little powerhouse of energy to be amused, entertained, fed, watered and  contended with. "You need to slow down," hubby yields his gem of advice,pointing a foot in the splint. 

It is just after five in the morning. I am stood, like a giant flamingo. Foot in a splint.Various plates crammed with the Halloween spirit. Decorations galore. Balloons awaiting with bated breath. At this point, every time at this point, I always stop, only for a second mind as I just don`t have the time to dawdle. I always stop and think `Why do I do this to myself?` Especially `Why do I do this to myself when I have a broken foot?`


I might have a stone called `Mossy` who I like to spend an evening with on the sofa, here and there, deep in debate on such weighty topics as `Why do rubber washing up gloves always make your hands stink?` I`ve even been known to stick plasters on my nipples in an attempt to wean small beings from the booby. None of these things would fit the criteria for being certified as `nutty`. Neither do I feel the need to compete with other mummies. I haven`t even got a hairstyle let alone a recognised parenting style. Neither do I desire to win the Alfalfa....or whatever it is....Mummy tiara.

I do it for my little ones. For the warm glow I see on their faces, on their friends` faces. Because each day really is a gem. Because life isn`t a dress rehearsal. I am determined to be happy. To enjoy life and seize it by it`s goolies.This is it. So, I will continue on this quest. I am sure my Witches` Fingers are going to be legendary. Sausages indeedy!

Going Crutchless...And I Ain`t Talking Knickers!

"Here is an explanation in English," Doctor pushes a handwritten note over to me.

`Lisfranc fracture-dislocation of second metatarsal with extensive periosteal reaction on either side of both third and fourth metatarsals`

"Okay?" enquires the rather dishy doctor specialist softly. I steal a glance at hubby who is reading the Japanese version and nodding in complete comprehension.

Not wanting to look like the only person in the room who hasn`t got a clue what is going on...even though I am...."Yes,Dr Dishy. That`s cleared it up for me!" I cheerfully lie despite my raging foot. I surreptitiously slide the paper into my coat pocket. Google later.

"We need to totally immobilise your foot in a splint. You must rest," stresses Dr Dishy and I wonder if he creases his eyebrows like that during sex. Oh...positive sign....maybe I am already healing if I am thinking about sex. "Come back next week and we`ll do another X-ray. If the bones haven`t aligned properly, we`ll have to operate and  put shunts in between the bones to help them heal properly....."

I felt the room lurch. Operation? No....no...no...no...I don`t do operations. I do parties, bbqs. I`ve even been known in my wilder days to do the odd striptease in public but operations....oh no no no. Not since that movie based on a true story about some girl waking up during the op and feeling the surgeons wiggling their hands around in her insides.

"Let`s get this splint on!" smiles Dr Dishy as a nurse efficiently strolls over pushing a tray with lots of white material on it. "Oh,...white?" I ask. "Yes," smirks back Dr Dishy doing that cute thing again with his eyebrows. "Is that the only colour available," I enquire. "Erm..." Dishy stammers. "It`s just that white isn`t really me, if you know what I mean?" I continue," It just doesn`t do anything for my skin tone.....and it`s going to get dirty so quickly!"

"Love..they only have white." hubby interjects, casting a smile around the room which instantly reactivates doctor and nurses back to their task. "Can I have a spare one,Dr?" which results in confused looks all round. "For when I have to wash one." I explain feeling exasperated that such simple logic has eluded all and sundry. "Oh no," startles Dr Dishy," Please do not remove this. It must be left intact. Do you understand?" Giving a little sniff, I nod to confirm.

Over at  the `Crutch Training Centre` I did my time. Diligently watched demonstration and then practised the  `those who have a fractured disloyal meta something with other meta somethings with allergic something or others` gait.

I waited with bated breath for my shiny new crutches to emerge. If they don`t have red or gold, black would be ideal. They`d go with anything and I have a pair of boots..or one boot in black fake snakeskin that would look awesome. Throw in my furry black Gap bag, should look pretty cool for someone in pain.Maybe I`ll splash out on a pair of big Garbo type sunglasses. That way, I can grimace away and no-one will notice. I`ll just look like some poor tragic figure. Battling her way through the pain and misery but with elegance.

The nurse handed me a pair of dreary grey, battered things which I promptly handed over to the old lady waiting patiently next to me. "There you go,dear!" To my horror,the nurse handed them back to me. Looking at hubby. "Oh no.You`ve got to be kidding me..." as hubby wheeled the chair over, I glared at the crutches hoping they`d bend in half under my steely gaze  " A white splint and now this....There`s only so much a girl can take,you know!" I whisper, almost in tears. Turning round to look at hubby quietly pushing us down the corridor. " You did ask them about a red or gold pair,  didn`t you ?"

Bending over hubby kisses my ear and says " Cup of tea,darling!"Oh well,.....I suppose I could shine them up with some ribbons or something...... 

Dem Bones, Dem Bones...Dem Broken Bones.

The Bat Twins went on a school field trip today. Getting up at six to prepare packed lunches is a delightful experience in itself. Getting up at six to prepare packed lunches with right foot, an overnight virtuoso in impersonating a lower limb with acute Elephantitus, was heavenly. Orgasmic even.

Hey!"calls hubby entering the room, waving the envelope I brought home from the clinic last night." What`s this?" I deftly toss pancakes onto the plates of my three little birds waiting impatiently with mouths agape. "Stuff from the clinic." I confirm. "What did the doctor say to you?"enquires hubby, guiding me gently to the sofa and displacing Fatso the Feline unceremoniously from his cushion throne. Clouds of hair rise in protest, mirroring Fatso`s mood. "Well..."I pondered while sustaining world peace at the kitchen table,"....he waffled on about something in  English..." Hubby looking down at a letter written by the doctor. "Did he mention something about meta.....metatarsals? Broken metatarsals?" I laughed."Yeah...I couldn't understand what he was going on about at first. But I reckoned he was chit chatting about music.Was into rock or something. I was a bit surprised. He doesn`t look the type. He didn`t seem impressed when I told him `Bon Jovi` rocked it for me actually!" With a great rolling of his eyes, "Love, you have broken and dislocated metatarsals in your foot. Broken bones!"

Poor right foot. I have let you down badly. Here was I cursing at you for your Prima Donna ways and the fault lies with me and my lack of medical Japanese lingo. Limb lost in translation. If there aren`t any flashing lights with sirens or electric shock pads involved, I tend to switch off until I can confer with hubby, on mutual linguistic ground on the diagnosis.

I remember, a few years back, going to a dentist  for a check up. I`d been having problems with one particular tooth . I understood most of  what the dentist, a lovely man, was saying until we arrived at the diagnosis. He tried so hard and patiently to explain but there I sat, bewilderment clouding my face. Off he rushed to a cupboard and enthusiastically brought a book over, fumbled through the pages then passed it to me proudly.

`Periodontal disease is a form of gum disease but more powerful and stronger.With no fast interruption, the tooth tissue rubs away and teeth drop out. (See Figure 1.1 and the Figure 1.2) The infectious people may sometime watch an `elongation` of the tooth due to gum withdrawal symptoms. The tooth look longer, but it is a hallucination to the viewer watching his mouth. Tooth expose itself more on daily way. Teeth look bad. Stingy breath is popular in such situations. Heart, liver, stomach may feel bad too. In severe case, teeth must be evacuated out of the aural area and reformed.`

Clutching my mouth and forgetting myself for a moment, I half  shout out in horror "Oh no!" upon which, Mr Dentist looking over my shoulder suddenly grabs the book and apologises. "Very sorry.Wrong page."      

Bum over Booby....

....down the stairs I tumbled. Bum bum over booby. The first night at a new job. Three minutes max and there I was causing kaos, concern and mayhem. Lying, spreadeagled at the bottom of the steps...head on the bottom step, legs four steps up, top positioned nicely to reveal a tum tum I would have been proud to bare a few years ago but now  resembling one of those tummies sported by a portly maidens you ogle in oil paintings in a gallery. Employer of a whole three minutes, shouting down if I was okay.

It has to be a record.

"What happened?" enquired Doc at the emergency clinic. "I fell down the stairs.",I answered in broken Japanese as it`s hard to compose a succinct sentence when your right foot is  the size of a football and throbbing harder than a speed junkie`s heart on a fix. Then felt the urge to add, just in case he assumed alcohol must be a factor at this time of night,...me being a mum and all."Work!"  He turned to me startled and half laughing asked," You job is falling down stairs?"

I laughed back. Logical conclusion perhaps as I only came to this very same clinic a few weeks ago and saw the very same doctor with my left foot swollen up like a football this time. Four years ago, I damaged my Achilles tendon. A nasty affair involving much gritting of teeth and profanity mouthed silently whenever the slightest weight was put down on that foot. It took me two hours to get to a nearby hospital  twenty minutes away, pushing the twins in the double stroller. By the time I got there, I swear I felt like one of those Red Indians depicted in the movies, who had ingested some magical herb and  transported onto on a higher plain with the pain. Doctor told me to not walk for a month,strapped up my foot,gave me a pair of crutches and sent me home.  There I was.......pushing the double stroller...one hop at a time on my crutches. On the way home, I paused at a set of traffic lights. My son , aged 2 at the time decided to test his strength and threw his sippy cup into some nearby bushes. Not yet used to balancing my weight with a badly injured foot, I fell over reaching for the cup and got the crutches tangled up in the foliage. Mobile phones hung out of a few waiting cars, clicking for prosperity the scene of one big foreign woman, upside down in a roadside bush shouting a few juicy words . Next day, the crutches were embarked on their quest to collect as much dust particles as possible and the no walking policy......Ho hum...


Unfortunately, not being able to follow the Doc`s orders  resulted in recurrent confrontations in the old Achilles tendon department. Only this very morning I remarked to hubby that my foot..the left one that is...was starting to feel better. Now here I am,in agony with the right one. Thank you,God for that at least.

"Why did you do this?" demanded hubby as I hobbled through the door stinking of `hospital`. "Well...," I paused for fake artistic impact," I thought as my left foot was finally getting better..rather than let life get a little tame, I`d just throw myself down a flight of stairs...for the sheer hell of it... and see what happens. In fact, my limbs were all doing `Rock,Scissors,Paper` to vie for that 15 minutes of `X-ray and  follow up doctor consultation` fame. The right foot won!" I shrug sarcastically which is totally lost on a disgusted hubby waving a cowering icepack.

He should be used to this by now. By `this` I mean `my life`. By `he`, I mean hubby.My family long ago resigned themselves to the fact that my life is full of weird, wonderful and sometimes incredibly vexing occurrences. My mum takes me on holiday to Greece....I end up in hospital,on a drip with severe sunburn on my face . The little girl in the hotel room next to ours actually ran off down the corridor screaming when she saw me. Another time, I leave hospital after recuperating from an illness.Only two hours later I dislocate my knee and end up back in hospital. The list goes on and on and on....

"Well,you certainly made a good first impression with your new employers," giggles hubby. Here to please...here to please. "What are you like!" he squeezes my knee. Well,I am like a girl with a huge swollen right foot just now.........

A Simple Misunderstanding.

I have three gorgeous kids..... who I don`t want to kill most of the time. Two of them are little Princesses. One a wee bit bigger than the other. The bigger Princess is graduating into the whole Barbie doll scene. A tad more sophisticated, I was informed haughtily  than the whole Disney Princess doll scene the smaller,chubbier Princess is currently lounging in. And lounge they do,my little Princess`s adopted `siblings`, Belle,Aurora,Ariel,Cinderella and Jasmine are to be found most nights on the sofa.Snuggled up to my hubby as he slurps his beer while watching the current season of `House`  in Japan. I did feel a tad threatened at first but they are all one man gals. Unlike that floozy Snow White who was shacked up with seven guys one time. Anyway....I digress....

During an episode of `House` one particular moment resulted in hubby, who was in the act of downing a particularly large gulp of beer, to burst into an abrupt  bout of boisterous hilarity, causing him to forcefully expel his mouth of all beer contents all over the sofa and his mini groupies. A calamitous situation indeed. Aurora looked as if she`d barfed all down herself, Belle`s mascara was starting to run, Jasmine looked like something from a wet T-shirt contest. I took off their tiny gowns and hand washed them,wiped the pert boobies with a bum wipe and brushed their hair back into place.

Wee Princess was not impressed the following morn. I explained that Daddy had accidentally `poured` beer on her little pals but their dresses had been taken off and were drying in a sunny breeze as we spoke.Babysitter arrives and off out I toddle.

A couple of hours later I return and whilst in the kitchen making the sitter a cuppa....what a nice employee I am...........I hear wee Princess sobbing her heart out. Concerned,I dropped teabag back into cup and into the next room to find ta concerned babysitter kneeling in front of my wee one.

Babysitter. "Who is Dolly

Wee Princess. "She`s my best friend!"....sniffle sniffle

Babysitter. "Where does she live?"

Wee Princess.  "Here. In Asagaya".

Babysitter. "What did your Daddy do again?"

Wee Princess. "Made her drink beer and took her dress off....." Breaks into huge sobs with tendrils of nasal mucus along for the sympathy.


I thank the heavens above that the lady concerned knows my husband and I otherwise only the Lordy knows where or what this could have led to......

It Came From Nowhere....

Transported across time by means yet unknown and of all the houses in the galaxy......"So nobody knows who is responsible for this?" I ask wondering why I am engaging in such a futile exercise.  Oh yes, I do know why.  It`s because it`s five am and while my body may have been unwillingly but successfully dragged out of bed, my brain merely mumbled "Five more minutes" and rolled over with a grunt. "Well, let`s blame it on Scotti from Star Trek then,shall we?" as I sigh and turn to look at the poo in the corner. I should be thankful for one saving grace at least, it`s a well rounded solid kind of poo. The kind you can depend upon to be picked up deftly in a tissue, without so much as a whimper, leaving very little residue behind. The other type....whose name shall not be spoken for fear of cursing myself, shrieks and wails like a banshee as it desperately seeks freedom through clenched fingers.....or that might be me screaming with distaste as another carpet goes to the dogs. My dastardly trio closed ranks even further as Batboy stared to the left, Batgirl eyes fixed to the right and Booby Slayer, lips pursed, one hand stuck down her nappy,eyes cast downward. "Well...until someone does the right thing and owns up to it, looks like today`s play date is off!" I threaten followed by a couple of seconds of ponderous silence then,like Pompeii Batgirl erupts with indignation. "It was Booby Slayer. I am a big girl now.I don`t do poo poos in the corner anymore,Mummy....and....." chased with Booby Slayer`s outburst. " He isn`t a poo poo. He`s my friend and his name is Piccachu!"  I slowly lower myself down onto Batboy`s bed,the sun lights up the room with her first salutary beams of the day, as the day`s first sibling hostility unfurls. "Piccachu is a cartoon person,you silly billy!"  The genesis of this particular altercation meanwhile sat completely indifferent to the impending maelstrom. "You a silly billy! He is Piccachu and he is my friend!"  I turn to look at Batboy having a giggle at his sisters.  "Fancy a cup of tea,Mum?"

The Talkaholic....

...nope,I ain`t waffling about myself, probably much to the mirth of my intimate friends and family. I adore and worship my kids.  I love everything about my son, Batboy, from  the lazy side grin he flashes when he thinks his Mummy is cool, as only a six year old still can,  to the way he deftly harvests nasal residue,rolls it into a ball and flicks it at offending mosquitoes.  All in under a couple of seconds flat. Yeah, I live for my kids but just recently, one inherited family trait has been driving me to distraction.  I can talk. It has been said that I like the sound of my own voice but I must direly dissent.  I merely feel that life is way too short to engage all of those fascinating folk out there in dissemination.  It`s not that I have a lot to say, just a lot to ask.  All that humanity, all those tapestries, works in progress to be contemplated, absorbed, hopefully to be gleaned  from.  So,...I feel it is my duty to foster an atmosphere where `chatter` is welcome.  However,I am  woebegone to say, I`ve found myself banging my much beleaguered loaf against something solid to alleviate the pressure I feel building.  Batboy never...ever shuts up.  Five am strikes with as much subtlety as an elephant who has spent the previous evening gulping down Vindaloos, letting loose directly onto your face.  Batboy slivers into my bed and opens up with a one sided homily on a certain train line in Tokyo, as I lie, half comatose with an indifferent BoobySlayer attached to one nip nip.  After a short interval, if no reaction is received from my side, prods and pokes in my nasal area are guaranteed.  Grudgingly, I arise and so the day continues, one enduring, constant dialogue from Batboy on trains and his life plans.  Like a Tonka Toy he rides over everyone and anyone.  I tried distraction. "Go and draw me a picture."  To which he returns later with a incredibly detailed diagram requiring yet more discussion and debate.  I`ve tried reasoning, telling and just plain losing it but...it appears to be a phase my gorgeous Batboy is going through.

What to do? I don`t want him to feel that his own mum is ignoring him or cannot be bothered to listen to all his dreams and aspirations.  It`s against all my nurturing instincts. What if I damage him in some way psychologically.  What if twenty years fromn now, he is found wandering the streets wearing only his mum`s old underwear, perfume and a Sobu Line train cap, wailing "My Mummy never listened to me!"?  But a toll　is being paid on this Mummy`s side too. My efforts to distract, a well worn Mummy tactic known throughout the world has taken on such requisite proportions that I fear it borders on the narcotic.  Only the other day, I heard myself call out in a much affected tone, "Oh look! A train." and this was at a poolside as an infant swirled past in a Thomas the Tank Engine float.  My husband launched into his usual,predictable opening,"Batboy has only been on this planet a mere six years.Try to be a little more patient."  To which I was...very...as I continued to slice the cheese up calmly.  It never ceases to amaze me how naive and totally uninformed the working partner`s comments can be about the stay at home partner`s situation.  Everything is about equations, if you do A then the end result is B, when anyone who has ever done time at home with kids knows, that at times, whatever you do, no matter how much you prepare, total anarchy can still prevail. You are working against forces that defy even nature and some battles just ain`t worth taking on.

"Oh,"wailed hubby upon my return from the office,"Batboy just wouldn`t shut up......I am  sorry.I totally understand now......."Then upon seeing me lovingly arranging the sheet around Batboy`s form."What are you doing? It`s too hot for covers?"  To which I promptly replied,"Oh,I am just looking for a second set of gills on his neck.He needs them to keep up a conversation that long without taking a breath!"  Hubby leans wearily into me and we have a good laugh.....