Sunday 20 October 2013

Payback!

It’s not often that M and I ‘go out’. But when we do, we get pissed. (I say pissed, there are, of course, varying degrees of enjoying wine with dinner and, being a couple of stone lighter than M, I get ‘more’ out of the Merlot than he does.) Anyhow, because of my propensity of trying a new (hell, any) good wine/M’s weakness for a guest ale, we know this will happen and we don’t venture far, so that we can tumble home, full on rump steak. Last Friday was no exception and we spent a lovely evening together at a table for two, discussing children, work (but only the juicy parts), other children and, just on the right side of pissed-ness, a political discussion* on selective/non-selective schooling, pros and cons thereof and it was silently noted how much more lefty I get after my third glass of wine.
 
Always the responsible parent (!) I had phoned my boys and checked that they were going to catch the last bus home. (Not Max, as he was tucked up safely with his dad). Teenage assurances that they’d come home before 11pm, I relaxed and tucked in to my cassoulet.
 
So, reasonably priced and surprisingly tasty dinner eaten, wine bottle and pint glass empty and a Bailey’s liquor that was served in a half pint pot - I kid you not - M made his move by tempting me back home with the promise of a family bag of Minstrels, which he seductively called ‘pudding’. Well, what girl can refuse that?  So we started pulling on coats and bracing ourselves for cold walk back along the A260 when M quipped ‘Luke’s insured to drive your car, you know’.  
 
And you just know that I had my eldest son on speed dial before M could change his mind.  And there we were, in a car park, waiting for my SON to collect us and take us safely home.  And to be honest, I don’t know who was more shocked, me or him. Anyhow, about 20 minutes went by and I got slightly concerned, bearing in mind that we live about a mile away, if that. So I called Luke to make sure that he hadn’t stacked my lovely little 107 into a lamp post or wedged it onto a roundabout, or indeed, took it to Halfords carpark to perform a few donuts. To my surprise and humour Ellis answered, stating that they were on their way (!)
 
So this was a first, for my son, for me, for us as a family. After a very difficult couple of weeks, and in an instant, we were a little family in that tiny car, laughing together, sharing a first, glorious memory:
 
                                               Ellis says:  "How cool is this?"
 
 
 
*Ok, it was so not a discussion, I just blasted my opinion at my dinner companion and he gave up trying to interject about one minute in. Public apologies. 

Sunday 6 October 2013

Pets and their names

This is Dot, our girl cat: 

Dot being casual



 
Or, as the vet knows her, Dorothy. Also known as Dolly, DotDot and DollyDotDot. I quite often call her Beautiful Girl and she responds to that. I daresay that Man has a few choice names for the Cat which he uses when I’m out of earshot ...





Pet names in our home are normal, like finding milk tops behind the toaster, that's normal. Or everyone asking where their uniforms are on a Monday morning - normal. So, for instance, I NEVER call Man by his name. He is always Marin (history: typo in an email). He’s also known as Marleen and Bradders.

Now that The Big One is of a very sensitive age, and liable to cast a mega dark cloud of stropness around the house if the proverbial piss is taken, Luke is now pretty much just Luke. He used to be called Lukey-Boy, but death stares from him as this was called out from the touch line ended that. He is Luke Oliver when he’s being cheeky or is winding someone up. When I say someone I mean either of his brothers. Winding them up involves changing their TV channel, hiding their mobiles/chargers/loo roll, eating their secret stash of sweets, the usual. He does that a lot. “Luke Oliver, give it back!!” My sister used to call him Spooks, for the rhyming effect, however she dropped that once he surpassed her in height (when he was about 8, haha).

Ellis used to be known as Eli but he doesn’t like that so much. One day my mate N and I were trying to think of a word that rhymes with ‘Ellis’. Pretty much nothing does, like month, purple and orange. Unique, through and through. Except that N and I decided that Lettuce was pretty close and so that has stuck and he is often referred to as Lettuce.

Max has a grand nick name: Maximum Spastication. Not very PC, I know, but it suits him. It’s taken straight out of the film Gladiator, or, more accurately, the brilliant Jon Culshaw’s parody:

“My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife... and that's when I called Claims Direct!”  

My Max also answers to Massimo and is referred to as Maxi-Moo by my girlfriends. He does not, however, like being called Maxi.

I am Mum, obviously but also Minty (of old marriage fame), sometimes shortened to Mint. Oldest friends call me Clairey and I like that, work colleagues call me Butters, some friends call me Utters. Students call me Miss Butterfly. My sister never calls me by anything but Sis.

And I love that we have this familial affection for each other, and in that I include the monikers that Man and made up for our brood of five sons, one year on holiday in France. If you can picture the scene: seven people, sharing a two bedroomed mobile home with one loo and two gas rings = Tempers frayed. Of course, we were in polite company most of the time so their nick names were abbreviated (LF, NF etc): we proudly introduce, in age order, Lazy Fucker, Contrary Fucker, Stressy Fucker, Cheeky Little Fucker and Spazzy Fucker.


Sometimes, when the red wine and patience are low, in the middle of a French forest with no Wi-Wi, nick names can encapsulate the character perfectly. 


Here's DollyDotDot in a bag: