I've been feeling a little blue.
A little small.
A little like I'd like I'd like to go home now please. Except I am home.
A little like I would rather like a grown-up to tell me I'm doing Ever So Well, or to gently suggest areas of improvement.
A special star or sticker on my chart would help enormously.
And a little reassurance on the modern relationship would go down well.
Is it normal that the man I love and have done 11 years with can be Very Annoying sometimes?
What with his habitual being SO laid back and not stressing or worrying.
How bloody inconsiderate.
The nuggets of brightness in my day today were Cole and I spotting a tree that looked exactly like a bottom and over-hearing Ro say to Reg at bedtime...
"Dad, five more minutes and you're out of here, back down-stairs, lights on, ok?"
If you find my mojo, please send it back to me - or it may well arrive tomorrow with my new IPhone... fickle? Moi?
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Mr Roberts and the Pancake
My mother in law lives in Chapeltown.
Yes, Him Indoors is a Chapeltown Boy born and bred.
Believe it or not, he doesn't own a fire arm nor deal drugs.
We do manage to make regular visits to Chapel Town without selling the children into slavery nor having the car-jacked....
(ok the fact that our car is shit has Nothing To Do With It... they've tried to nick it several times at home in Roundhay)
One of the things I love about Reg is this Chapel Town Bad Ass neither, drinks nor smokes, nor contaminates his temple/body with neither caffeine nor tannine.
This Bingley Girl is by far the Bad Boy in Our House.
His home-turf is a peaceful community where the guy at the corner shop knows who I am and my children's birthday's. I know that we sensible types know this, but Stereo Types are Not Always True.
So... Reggie's Mum (aka Josie/Granma) still lives in Reg's child hood home in the Heart of the Hood (aye)
The first time I ever visited Reg there, he took me to his old bedroom and proudly told me - wait for his killer line:
"You can see St James's Hospital from my bedroom window."
I looked out and could not disagree... you could indeed.
And still no spliffs nor reggae music.
(My sweet full circle came three years later after giving birth to our daughter Romany at aforementioned St James's Hospital... Reg had just visited us and left to pick up supplies... Ro and I stood on the ward looking out the windows and I told her: "We can see Daddie's old bedroom window from here...")
Anyway, throughout our many years of visiting Josie/mother-in-law/grandma - when we visit Josie, as reliable as St James
Hospital in the distance; is Mr Roberts Who Lives Next Door.
Mr Roberts has lived next door since before Time Began. And every day this smart West Indian man has worn a suit. And I have never seen him without his tie and hat.
Mr Roberts has educated me and Cole and Ro in the art of the West Indian accent.
Since the children were born - in particular Cole who he took a shine to - Mr Roberts comes out to have a chat.
For the first few years we could only make out the odd word Mr Roberts said: Beckham! (Cole is blonde and plays football)
And Pancake...
(maybe Mr Roberts knew that Cole came into the world on Pancake Day)
As consistently as Chapel Town gets bad press, Mr Roberts greets us over the fence with - and these days I am Ever So Down With The West Indian Accent.... "Beckham... Where's me pancake?"
It's become a theme. A reliable topic which I enjoy more than the usual "weather" debate. "Where's me pancake Beckham?"
"I will be tossing in my grave thinking of that pancake."
Mr Roberts is at least 403.
Today, I found out something I didn't know.
We were having Sunday lunch at Granma Josie's. Our beloved Auntie Natalina was at home with us taking time out from her globe trotting and SuperNannying Royalty and Generally Showing Us All How It's Done to have dinner with us.
Cole sat still long enough to eat 47 plates of dinner then had to go into the front garden to jump up and down/shriek/play ball/work up space for perhaps one more roast potatoe?
Enter stage left Mr Roberts.
The kitchen windows were open so we all strained to hear what had become a guilty habit.... ear-wigging Cole and Mr Roberts conversations.
It began as normal.
Mr Roberts: "Beckham... where's my pancake?"
Cole: "I posted it through your letter box."
I looked to Reg or Romany or Josie/Granma/SheWhoUsuallyKnowsWhatOnEarthIsGoingOn...
I say: "Why is Cole saying that?"
Then Reg informs me.... "Oh yes... we did... we were making pancakes and Cole wanted to give Mr Roberts one. We wrapped it in silver foil and posted it through his letter box."
So then we all pay great attention to Cole and Mr Roberts in the garden out front.
The penny (and the pancake) clearly drops for Mr Roberts...
"Aah... my days, I was readin my paper.."
actually sorry, I really can't even write the West Indian accent convincingly...
but it turns out that:
Mr Roberts was at home reading his paper.
Mr Roberts found a tin foil parcel drop through his letterbox.
The note that Romany insisted on writing to accompany the parcel remained stuck in the letterbox so it was anonymous.
Mr Roberts looked up from his paper and felt suspicious about the soft parcel that arrived.
He removed a portion of his newspaper to wrap the parcel in.
Then, in order to refrain from touching the parcel used a mirror to view the parcel from various angles.
All in all Mr Roberts decided the pancake was Bad and Wrong and Not To Be Trusted and it was, at arms-length, wrapped in newspaper and dumped in the outside bin.
At approximately 3.30 this afternoon Mr Roberts realised that the soft parcel was indeed a six year overdue request for a pancake and nothing more.
Thus began a half hour of us trying to apologise for worrying him.... whilst Mr Roberts was mortified for not accepting the gift and I think even more, for - his words - "Throwing away good food."
We all had to go out in turn to reassure him that we would have all done the same had an unidentified pancake come through our door.... I told him I would definitely have done the same thing though not sure I would have thought to use a mirror for protection.
Bless him.
He was genuinely, touchingly gutted that he'd missed out on our pancake.
Whilst we were genuinely concerned and gutted that we had inadvertently scared or worried him.
After half an hour of going over the finer details of the confusion he left only to return with £10 for Romany and £10 for Cole - not accepting his money was simply not an option even though we tried.
We are now planning what we can bake or make for Mr Roberts next and how clearly we can mark/deliver the goods. Whatever we do, it's gonna be ace and lovely and from our hearts.
As we digested the afternoon's discovery, Natalina said to me, "That's one for your blog!"
And I thought... nah, I can't write this - how on earth can I convey the different strands and levels of this over-the-garden-fence hoo-ha?
(by cleverly using words like "hoo-ha" obviously)
Maybe it was my 47 glasses of red wine but the whole thing to me encapsulated family and history and multi-cultural-ness and communication and the Little Things being the Big Things and how it's important for six year old boys to chat to old West Indian men about, pancakes....
If it all got lost in translation, all you need know is -
Mr Roberts you are a true gentleman.
(and if I was Cool in da Hood I would say some Street lingo about flippin but I'm not. So I wont. It's for the Best.)
Yes, Him Indoors is a Chapeltown Boy born and bred.
Believe it or not, he doesn't own a fire arm nor deal drugs.
We do manage to make regular visits to Chapel Town without selling the children into slavery nor having the car-jacked....
(ok the fact that our car is shit has Nothing To Do With It... they've tried to nick it several times at home in Roundhay)
One of the things I love about Reg is this Chapel Town Bad Ass neither, drinks nor smokes, nor contaminates his temple/body with neither caffeine nor tannine.
This Bingley Girl is by far the Bad Boy in Our House.
His home-turf is a peaceful community where the guy at the corner shop knows who I am and my children's birthday's. I know that we sensible types know this, but Stereo Types are Not Always True.
So... Reggie's Mum (aka Josie/Granma) still lives in Reg's child hood home in the Heart of the Hood (aye)
The first time I ever visited Reg there, he took me to his old bedroom and proudly told me - wait for his killer line:
"You can see St James's Hospital from my bedroom window."
I looked out and could not disagree... you could indeed.
And still no spliffs nor reggae music.
(My sweet full circle came three years later after giving birth to our daughter Romany at aforementioned St James's Hospital... Reg had just visited us and left to pick up supplies... Ro and I stood on the ward looking out the windows and I told her: "We can see Daddie's old bedroom window from here...")
Anyway, throughout our many years of visiting Josie/mother-in-law/grandma - when we visit Josie, as reliable as St James
Hospital in the distance; is Mr Roberts Who Lives Next Door.
Mr Roberts has lived next door since before Time Began. And every day this smart West Indian man has worn a suit. And I have never seen him without his tie and hat.
Mr Roberts has educated me and Cole and Ro in the art of the West Indian accent.
Since the children were born - in particular Cole who he took a shine to - Mr Roberts comes out to have a chat.
For the first few years we could only make out the odd word Mr Roberts said: Beckham! (Cole is blonde and plays football)
And Pancake...
(maybe Mr Roberts knew that Cole came into the world on Pancake Day)
As consistently as Chapel Town gets bad press, Mr Roberts greets us over the fence with - and these days I am Ever So Down With The West Indian Accent.... "Beckham... Where's me pancake?"
It's become a theme. A reliable topic which I enjoy more than the usual "weather" debate. "Where's me pancake Beckham?"
"I will be tossing in my grave thinking of that pancake."
Mr Roberts is at least 403.
Today, I found out something I didn't know.
We were having Sunday lunch at Granma Josie's. Our beloved Auntie Natalina was at home with us taking time out from her globe trotting and SuperNannying Royalty and Generally Showing Us All How It's Done to have dinner with us.
Cole sat still long enough to eat 47 plates of dinner then had to go into the front garden to jump up and down/shriek/play ball/work up space for perhaps one more roast potatoe?
Enter stage left Mr Roberts.
The kitchen windows were open so we all strained to hear what had become a guilty habit.... ear-wigging Cole and Mr Roberts conversations.
It began as normal.
Mr Roberts: "Beckham... where's my pancake?"
Cole: "I posted it through your letter box."
I looked to Reg or Romany or Josie/Granma/SheWhoUsuallyKnowsWhatOnEarthIsGoingOn...
I say: "Why is Cole saying that?"
Then Reg informs me.... "Oh yes... we did... we were making pancakes and Cole wanted to give Mr Roberts one. We wrapped it in silver foil and posted it through his letter box."
So then we all pay great attention to Cole and Mr Roberts in the garden out front.
The penny (and the pancake) clearly drops for Mr Roberts...
"Aah... my days, I was readin my paper.."
actually sorry, I really can't even write the West Indian accent convincingly...
but it turns out that:
Mr Roberts was at home reading his paper.
Mr Roberts found a tin foil parcel drop through his letterbox.
The note that Romany insisted on writing to accompany the parcel remained stuck in the letterbox so it was anonymous.
Mr Roberts looked up from his paper and felt suspicious about the soft parcel that arrived.
He removed a portion of his newspaper to wrap the parcel in.
Then, in order to refrain from touching the parcel used a mirror to view the parcel from various angles.
All in all Mr Roberts decided the pancake was Bad and Wrong and Not To Be Trusted and it was, at arms-length, wrapped in newspaper and dumped in the outside bin.
At approximately 3.30 this afternoon Mr Roberts realised that the soft parcel was indeed a six year overdue request for a pancake and nothing more.
Thus began a half hour of us trying to apologise for worrying him.... whilst Mr Roberts was mortified for not accepting the gift and I think even more, for - his words - "Throwing away good food."
We all had to go out in turn to reassure him that we would have all done the same had an unidentified pancake come through our door.... I told him I would definitely have done the same thing though not sure I would have thought to use a mirror for protection.
Bless him.
He was genuinely, touchingly gutted that he'd missed out on our pancake.
Whilst we were genuinely concerned and gutted that we had inadvertently scared or worried him.
After half an hour of going over the finer details of the confusion he left only to return with £10 for Romany and £10 for Cole - not accepting his money was simply not an option even though we tried.
We are now planning what we can bake or make for Mr Roberts next and how clearly we can mark/deliver the goods. Whatever we do, it's gonna be ace and lovely and from our hearts.
As we digested the afternoon's discovery, Natalina said to me, "That's one for your blog!"
And I thought... nah, I can't write this - how on earth can I convey the different strands and levels of this over-the-garden-fence hoo-ha?
(by cleverly using words like "hoo-ha" obviously)
Maybe it was my 47 glasses of red wine but the whole thing to me encapsulated family and history and multi-cultural-ness and communication and the Little Things being the Big Things and how it's important for six year old boys to chat to old West Indian men about, pancakes....
If it all got lost in translation, all you need know is -
Mr Roberts you are a true gentleman.
(and if I was Cool in da Hood I would say some Street lingo about flippin but I'm not. So I wont. It's for the Best.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
