I know. I am as astounded as you are.
You'll fall off your chair when I admit that I haven't lost half a stone or finished my Christmas shopping either.
At the beginning of the month I fudged a couple of the dates so it looked like I'd blogged every day. I hadn't. Phew. Glad to get that off my concience.
Actually, my subconcious must be a little troubled, because last night I had a vivid dream in which I was sitting at my laptop trying desparately to think of an aspect of my life I hadn't blogged about before the timer ran out and it was too late. I was hit with inspiration when it occured to me that I'd not yet mentioned that my tabloid celebrity husband had just admitted he was an alcoholic and had joined AA, intending to sell the story to Hello! My dream blog readers get to feast, while you guys get the scraps from their table.
It takes about 40 minutes to drive to Sprog's nursery. On a good day with no traffic (ha!) you might zoom there in 20 minutes with a bit of luck and a following wind. On bad days it has taken me as long as an hour and 10 minutes, one way.
There are closer nurseries, but none of the closer ones will let her go part time. By the grand old age of 3 they are expected to go every day or they will fall behind. Dubai schools take academia very seriously. Homework is routine from the age of 3. My friend's 4-year-old arrived home with a stern note explaining that she was not up to scratch in her scissor usage, and a pile of 'cutting' homework to bring her up to speed. Another friend's 3 year old brought home her end of year report which advised she ought to work on her 'standing on one leg, and also hopping skills' over the summer.
So Sprog goes to a lovely nursery with an enormous shaded garden, where they are happy for her to go three mornings a week. In her class of 15 children there is a teacher, a teaching assistant and a nanny (the alternative at closer nurseries and schools are classes of 30 with only 2 teachers.) They do much the same thing as she would be doing at school - letters and numbers and colouring and cutting and painting and sticking. They also do splashing in the paddling pools twice a week, and have a discovery room where they do cooking and science experiments.
I wish it were closer. We are considering moving closer to the nursery if we stay in Dubai.
The biggest problem with the drive is Wilfie. At least Sprog only goes one way, and is happy to read and chat and play guessing games, and is cheerful because she adores nursery so is happy to make the trip. Poor Wilf hates his car seat with a fury. He screams to be put in it. He screams to be stuck in unmoving traffic. He screams when he is briefly released from the dreaded car seat only to be whisked past all the fun nursery toys, instructed to wave goodbye to his beloved big sis, and whisked out again, no you can't play with that, get back into your carseat. Poor lad. And now it's time to pick her up so we'll do it all again.
It got so bad that I employed a babysitter to come to my house and play with Wilfie, take him to the park, give him his breakfast, that sort of thing. Florie is a lovely lady, used to dealing with children, and she lives locally. Wilfie took grave exception to being left with a babysitter. In fact, he decided that the only thing he could possibly hate more than spending nearly four hours a day in the car, is being taken to the park on his bicycle with the lovely Florie. We very quickly reached a point where Florie would arrive and Wilfred would greet her by flinging himself to the floor wailing and writhing in anguish. Wilfred is not an obliging child.
I apologised to Florie and said that although she had done nothing wrong, and I truly didn't suspect her of beating my child as soon as my back was turned, it wasn't working out. Florie agreed, but casting a doubtful eye around the sty that is my home suggested that she come and work for me as a cleaner instead.
She did, and continues to do so. I love Florie.
Wilfred still hates his trips to and from nursery.
I have arranged a car pool for one of the days so now there are only two nursery days to cope with. We car pool with a rather gentle little boy and his over protective mother. The little boy talks solemnly about cars and trucks and diggers and buses. Sprog is not impressed. I must admit that even I have lost some of my initial enthusiasm for identifying every vehicle we pass. One morning we told scary stories, but the little boy's mother asked us to change the subject as the little boy doesn't care for scary things, so back to DHL vans and bendy buses. Little boy's mother was rather tight lipped on delivering Sprog back to me this afternoon. Apparently they had been playing 'making funny sounds' and the little boy took exception to Sprog copying his funny sound. Sprog evidently took it and ran with it, ending in the little boy wailing in distress, his mother begging her to stop, and Sprog flatly refusing to stop making 'his' noise, all the way home.
I suppose it made a change from Wilfie wailing.
It is the evening of my girls' night in. Today I have had cancellation after cancellation after cancellation.
Of the 13 people I invited, four are coming.
Of those four...
S can only stay for an hour
C can't arrive until late (and I suspect won't come at all)
P I have already seen at a coffee morning and then a birthday party today.
D will shortly arrive looking lovely and be surprised to learn that she alone makes up 50% of the party for most of the evening.
I feel somewhat deflated.
On my way to the supermarket, some idiot pulled out in front of me causing me to brake quite hard. Well, fairly hard anyway. I spread my arms wide, palms to the ceiling in a grand universal gesture of "what the fuck??!"
The moron driving sort of waved and smiled and continued to creep out.
Cheeky bugger! thought I. And I edged forward towards his car, gesturing with one open palm to indicate that
(a) I thought he was a moron
(b) His crap driving had caused me to come to a complete stop
Again he smiled, even laughed a bit, and I rolled my eyes crossly and shook my head in disbelief and waved again as if to say "well you've gone this far, you might as well get on with it and stop blocking the road, idiot".
And as he drove off, still smiling and waving at my unimpressed glare, I thought "hey, I wonder why that idiot has gont Priya in the back of his car?" and then I thought...
...
...
... with sinking realisation...
...
...
...
"Ooooooh no nononono! Oh god no, that was the absolutely lovely husband of my dear friend J."
I could die.
- Come on you wretched pair!
- I'm not a wretched pear Mummy... I'm a manky mango. And Wilfie is a naughty little pineapple.
What's the first exhibit you visit at the zoo?
You, ya big monkey!
When "speck" is defined as a noun, it is 'a very small mark, or amount', it is 'a bit'.
But when "Speck" is the name of a cat, it is defined as "Get out of my room":
As a future tense, it is defined as, "I don't have to tell you what will happen if you don't":
So, Belle de Jour's outed herself. I'm actually quite surprised that she's still a news story, but maybe I'm just out of touch. The cynic in me can't help but think it's a bit of a marketing ploy, especially given that there are apparently two Belle de Jour books due to come out, as well as one written as herself.
While we're on the subject of self-promotion, I've blogged over at my Italy blog, Driving Like a Maniac. There's far less sex than in BdJ, but there is a stalker. Ooh.
I've never had a bike with gears before! It's an early birthday present. This morning we cycled to the swimming pool. This afternoon we may venture further afield to my friend Sarah's house. The only consideration is that my little cycling buddy is not the fastest and makes longer trips a bit of a palaver.
Connery made a better Bond but as a person he is a bit of an arse....
