The Birthday Bash

It's the week before the event. The week where I have to run around like a headless chicken, although being vegetarian I'm not entirely comfortable with that image, so let say, run around like a blindfolded chicken, but not in a cruel way, it's the type of chicken who loves being blindfolded and whose favorite game ever is pin the tail on the donkey. It's the week leading up to my son's birthday, and I know just how those guys who are organising the Olympics will feel a week before the opening.

So much to do. I need a Thomas Tank cake, no not that one, a chunk of it's nose is missing...no, not that one it expires before the party...what do you mean I have to come in every day to see if any new Thomas cakes have arrived with a later expiry date, specifically early morning because they sell out immediately? Ok, let's call Partyrama. "Yes, hello it's me again, the same lady who has already called twice to change the order, well I forgot it was Easter, am I gonna get these decorations in time? No? Yes I'll pay extra for next day courier."

Ok, now down to my local photography shop to get the rude Indian photography man to print some photos which I will be using to make Ky's birthday card and some personalised decorations (I know, I know, I just can't help myself). I was quite disappointed actually, the rude Indian man in the photography shop wasn't really very rude today. I'm not a big fan of rudeness in general, but a few select people in this world, seem to have this knack of being likable rude. I last saw him at Christmas, when I went to get some photo's of Ky printed to use for Xmas cards to send out. He took one look at the image and said, with the most disgusted look on his face (and don't forget the Indian accent) "What is this? What is THIS? What is this yellow face?" "Um, I suppose the flash was a little bright...I hadn't really noticed...but now..you...say it....oh it's just for fun, to send out to family as Christmas cards." "That is what I'm saying, you sending out yellow face to family, what is that?" "I don't think they'll notice...." "You don't think so! This bright yellow face for Christmas! Ok! If that's what you wanting." Raises his eyebrows and repeatedly shrugs his shoulders. "You not only one." Oh, he is trying to make me feel better now. "Woman come in yesterday with her wedding photo's. EVERYONE having yellow faces! Entire wedding is full of yellow faces! I told her, what you doing? She said, what to do, she can't have another wedding. I tell her, she want to consider it, with these yellow face photos."

So, still got to get the helium balloon, they promised 'Barbara' would get some more Thomas ones in, and when the voice of a pikey in the discount store speaks, I believe. DON'T FORGET TO CLEAN OUT THE BUBBLE MACHINE OTHERWISE IT WON'T WORK!!! Stick that on a post it note, you know you are going to forget that. Haven't got any post it notes. Put it on your list...buy post it notes. So, party is on Sunday. Thursday, I've got a freebie hairdressers appointment courtesy of Herbal Essences shampoo. The main drawbacks of having a freebie promo haircut, is 1. The salon is always about a 2 hour journey away. Stanmore? Where the hell is that? How is that my local salon?? No, I didn't read the small print. 2. The hairdresser will probably be some incompetent trainee. Well, if it's not so bad that it doesn't actually make me cry uncontrollably, I'll be satisfied. Friday, I am taking Ky to see Thomas and Friends Live on stage. Saturday...oh Saturday. The day which I should be spending cleaning the flat, preparing the food, hanging the party decorations, will be spent trying to coax Ky into a tiger costume (buying the face paints was VERY optimistic) for a fancy dress party, again, miles away. And guess what? The clocks go forward! Oh fantastic. Because I can really imagine on Saturday, having that awkward feeling of having that extra hour hanging about, twiddling my thumbs, thank god that's taken care of.

Bring it on. I'm in control of this party, not the other way round. I can do this. I'm a mum, with a son, who's gonna have some birthday fun. (Cue Rocky theme music).

Words Fail Me

I have tried to make play dough three times now and failed. My first attempt at making play dough was a complete and utter shambles, due to the fact that I replaced nearly all the ingredients on the recipe with incorrect ones. I learn my lesson and the second time round I start off optimistic with an air of smugness; making your own play dough does give you that earthy motherly satisfaction in the same way that baking bread does (don't get me started on that, another botch job and I have a breadmaker!). Alas, it ends the same; shambles, distraught toddler, bin. But where did I go wrong?

I go on to a parenting forum to seek advice. After a few expected replies, "knead it" "sprinkle with flour" "use less oil", I'm given a recipe by someone who is apparently a play dough expert, and ends with "I haven't known anyone have trouble with this recipe except for someone who used tartare sauce instead of cream of tartar!!!" followed by a laughing emoticon. That emoticon was laughing in my face, because I too, thought the two tartar(e)s were the same thing. But apparently, one is a kind of baking powder, and the other, the one I used, is a creamy fish condiment, laden with either smelly and/or lumpy ingredients such as capers, onions, eggs, vinegar, mustard, gherkins etc. Alarm bells should have been ringing when the smell of my phony play dough mixture was making me heave, not to mention having to sit there picking out bits of gherkin and capers. After I was laughed off the forum, I started to feel a bit bloody annoyed to tell you the truth. How could two different things be called such similar names?

When I was about four years old, I remember being in the car with my mum, driving past a building and seeing two blokes, dressed in white overalls, leaning on the wall outside, drinking their tea, smoking their fags, and having a chat. I remember this image so clearly in my head. Just moments before, I had been thinking about words, and how they came about. When I saw the two blokes, I thought, maybe it's them, maybe these two lads had the job of standing there all day making up all the words in the world. In reality, they were probably talking about the page three girl or how they lost a tenner on the dogs. But that image and thought stuck with me. Put aside Latin and all that; those two men made up all the words in the world. Their conversations would go something like this:

"Right then. What we gonna call this natural raising agent for use in scones, drop scones, soda bread and a wide range of other recipes?"

"Dunno. Let's brainstorm. How about......bakey rise, secret riser, no phoney sconey..."

"Nah, something original. Something that gives you no clues to what it actually is."

"Oh right. Slumanka dewflipper....shoome plicker...dreamy larker.....steamy marker....see-me harker...creamy tartare....."

"I like that one....creamy tartare. I know....Cream of Tartar!"

"But it's not really creamy is it. It's a powder. And it's bit similar to Tartare Sauce."

"Nah, just lob the 'e' off the end of Tartare, it'll be alright."

"But don't you think someone might confuse...."

"Leave it mate, look at the clock, time for a beer. Cream of Tartar is fine."

And my third attempt, in case you are wondering, started off well, a big bowl of flour and Cream of Tartare waiting to be transformed. Unfortunately when I returned from a quick visit to the loo, Ky had dispersed this fine powdery mixture so that it was everywhere else but the bowl. Noting my face of horror, and blinking one very floury eye rapidly, he explained himself in one word: "Avalanche."

Jobsworths in Libraries

I don't like jobsworths. And a large majority of them seem to work in libraries. I should know, I used to work in a library. I wasn't a jobsworth though, quite the opposite; I used to steal the books and spend most of my time flirting with the handyman. He became my drinking pal for a while, and one night, after discovering he'd forgotten to hand his keys back in, we let ourselves into the library in the early hours of the morning to see if it was haunted. There must have been about a hundred keys on that keyring. Now we've all had trouble putting the key in the door after a night on the lash, so imagine how long it took us to find the right key for this four storey building, boasting 50, 000 members.

We did get in though, and found ourselves on a kind of Scooby Doo adventure, where we ran around the building listening out for spooky sounds and looking for 'clues'. When we got bored of that, we thought we'd liven up those dull librarians a bit by writing rude words on post it notes and swapping their stationary items. Let me tell you there was uproar in that office the next day. It really doesn't take much to fluster a librarian. We did get quite freaked out at one point, when we kept hearing footsteps and whispers and made a hasty exit. In the cold light of the next day, it was quite obvious that it was actually the night guard, who probably was still freaked out by our footsteps and whispers the night before.

The manageress of this library, I shall call her Anne, although her real name was even more librariany than that, was your classical librarian. She wore spectacles, she was timid and she had twelve cats. She looked so much like a librarian that were she to turn up at a fancy dress party in her normal attire, she would probably win 1st prize for her outrageously stereotyped librarian costume.

Anyway, I hate jobsworths. When I went to the library yesterday to print out a booking form for my mother, having booked up a place on a coach taking her to Luton airport so that she can catch the plane to Turkey to have a get together with all her facebook poker friends, I was told I could not use the facilities using my son's card.
"But I always do."
"Yes..." said jobsworth, smirking "But your son is not with you today."
"But you only found out because I told you it was my son's card." I said, realising my mistake.
"Yes." She looked as though I had just made her day.
"Well let's start again then shall we. This is my library card."
She then looks at the code on the card, taps away at the computer and asks "What's your date of birth?".

I sighed. She's got me there. Because although I like to think I come across younger than my years, there is no way I would pass for a two year old. I'm potty training Ky at the moment, therefore he was at home with my mother, being coaxed into having a poo on the potty, completely oblivious to my predicament. So I have to pay to use the printer, or I have to go back home, take my son off the potty, have him wet himself all the way to the library, hold up my dripping wet son to show the librarian and half hope he shits himself, right there in front of her pointy librarian jobsworthy nose. I apply for my own library card instead (my suggestion). She asks for details and ID, helpfully adding "I know we've already got your details from your son's card, but you could have been anyone who just found this library card and walked in". Walked in, and what exactly? What's the worst that can happen? What is it that keeps this jobsworth awake at night? So I could have just found this library card on the street, then walked in to try and smuggle a free use of the printer. Normally, I raid banks, but when I fancy a light day, I try to use the facilities of a library of which I am not entitled to.

At my last visit to this library, another one of the librarians tried to fine me 15p for an overdue book. "But I tried calling to renew it but no-one answered the phone." This librarian had teeth like Janet Street Porter and she started having a goofy fit, stumbling over her words, teeth constantly getting in the way, so panicked by my audacity to question the rules; "yes, yes but, 15p, we have to charge, it's..it's...on the computer....you'll have to pay...it's in the terms and conditions...". I then stuck out my teeth and did a really goofy impression of her saying "well I'll just go and get my purse and lose my place in the queue then!" That was a bit childish really.

Circus Minimus

I took Ky to see Circus Minimus, performed at our local arts centre. Instead of sitting in our normal seats, the ones that if you put a small toddler on who in certain positions the chair will flip up and swallow said toddler, we sat in a circle on the stage. Out steps the ringleader, who when devising his character obviously focused on the word 'wacky', and unfolds the circus. But this is no typical circus, which is really the only fault I can find with the whole show. Because if you tell a small child you are taking them to see a circus, they will have certain expectations, and it's best not to mess with the expectations of children. Ky had never been to a circus so I was alright there. Although if I do take him to see a real circus, I may be in trouble.

The whole show was like taking an acid trip really, especially the huge flying jellyfish - I definitely tripped out on that one. It's a multi sensory, hands on, interactive world covering themes of growing, eating and sleeping. It's a bit difficult to explain because it's like having a mad dream which you try to describe to someone but can't quite put into words, and they just end up looking very puzzled. Especially when they don't hear the bit where you say "I had this dream....". If you've ever had one of those conversations, you'll know what I mean.

In the cafe of this arts centre where the show was held, is a play pit full of soft play shapes. After the show, the kids will inevitably plead to stay while they dive in and have their much needed dose of rough and tumble. All the parents stand around the edges, having grown up conversations, and it's funny when you step back and notice, the countless remarks made in the direction of the pit, frequent, sometimes overlapping; "You do that one more time and we're going", quick, to the point and back to the conversation that barely paused. I don't know if it was the jellyfish doing things to my head, but when I stood back a bit, the orchestrated chorus of parental voices echoing around the children's play pit was rather eerie;

"NOT with your elbows." "Give the triangle back please, you've already got a square." "Mind the baby." "NO throwing." "Say sorry." "Who had the square first?" "I said, no throwing" "Do you want to go home? Well then." "Mind his head!" "Do you need a poo? Quick then."

I let it mess with my head a bit because I was bored.

Extraordinary things, jellyfish.