Angry bird

Sometimes, the stars align and I am able to go for a run. Today was one of those blessed days: husband available to umpire the children (check); no-one beset by illness (check); calendar empty of birthdays / weddings / christenings / bar mitzvahs (check); Mummy awake, willing and adequately fed (check).

So off I set, down to the riverside at Kollbrunn for an easy few kilometres to Kyburg, a quick glimpse of the castle on the hill, and back through the woods. Lovely.

I leave the car by the cemetery and set up my iPhone as I do my walking warm-up: Run Keeper on, select playlist and shuffle, wait for the GPS to engage... and Start Activity...

*nothing* Hm. Hm? So where is the music? And the Run Keeper lady? Come on transatlantic fitness woman, speak to me... *nothing* OK, the ringer must be switched off. *fiddle* No, ringer is on. OK, the volume must be turned down. *fiddle* No, volume is on full. So, the headphone jack? *fiddle fiddle* Plugged in. So what? Why won’t it play..? Oh - Iggy Pop! I really like this one too. Argh! Stupid old iPhone. It’s done this before, something to do with the headphone socket getting disengaged or something, and you have to take the headphone jack in and out to get it going. Right – in, out, in, out, in, out. *Nothing* In, out, in, out, in, out, in, out! *Nothing* Bloody thing! It plays through the speaker but not through the headphones. I know the headphones are working – I used them yesterday. Bloody hell! Adele. Only decent song on the whole crappy album and I’m missing it. God! Bloody stupid old iPhone - it’ll be rolling in the deep part of this frickin’ river in a minute. Why haven’t I ordered the new 4S yet? I bet that one’s frickin’ headphone socket doesn’t disengage. Right, I’m going to phone them first thing Monday morning and order it. Maybe they’re open on Sunday? I might phone them right now. Tell them my iPhone is a piece of crappy batshit and I want a new one. Piss! First run I’ve managed to get in ages and I don’t have any music. I HATE running without music. It’s half the fun. And when I’ve got no music, I just think about how much my thighs hurt all the time. I’m not running without music, it’s just annoying. I’m going bloody home. AH! EMF – tune! Why won’t it bloody PLAY! What is WRONG with it?! GOD! Have the kids had it this morning? Little ratfinks... all the toys in the world and all they want is my phone to make endless cup cakes, no interest in playing with the kitchen we bought them at great expense, of course, but give them my iPhone and it’s cup cakes all flippin’ morning, never get tired of it. I’ll sell their bloody toys and get the new pissing 4S only that’ll probably go wrong too...

Why do I always have this shit with technology? I only want some bloody music, not the moon on a stick – pissyshittingbollockybastardbloodyarsekickingcrappycrappycrappyfrickingcatbollocks.

Just WORK you pieceofshitetotallyannoyingletmedownallthetimewasteoffrickingleccyoverhypedarsingApple-Crapplebollockypileofbollockedbollocks! GAH!

*deep breaths* Now why can I hear a tiny tinny Marc Bolan? What is THAT about?! *listens* Ah. Oh yes, that makes sense. Right. *looking over shoulder to make sure no-one’s watching* I haven’t actually put the headphones in my ears. *fits headphones, flees the scene*

Coming clean

I give in. Rather like the lush grasslands that over thousands of years were overwhelmed by the encroaching sands of the Sahara, I am giving up my home to the inexorable expansion of the Things. Like the once-unyielding stones of Angkor or Borobodur, the voracious tentacles of the Stuff have engulfed me, weakened my foundations of cleanliness, and pulled me down under their crushing weight. I simply cannot stand to spend one more minute tidying up.

Now that I have surrendered my home to the Objects, it will slowly evolve into an archaeological site of the future. Hairy students with Bristol accents will one day chip through the sediment. On the surface, they will find the biggest Stuff: books, single shoes and empty DVD cases. In the next layer reside the medium-sized Things: Lego, magnetic letters and pieces of shredded paper. Finally, at the bottom, in some cases actually embedded in the rug, lay the tiny Bits: gold stars, multi-coloured beads and ancient grapes that occupy a new category of food stuff (for 18-month-old Alpha Blondie strongly believes they are edible) that is halfway between fresh fruit and dried raisin.

What will these archaeologists make of my home, hundreds of years from now? “Maybe this random scattering of Things had a ceremonial purpose?” they will ask. “Or were the inhabitants forced to abandon all this Stuff because of a sudden climactic event?” they may well posit. “Perhaps this mother of the Anthropocenic era just sat down in the middle of the room one day and thought ‘feck it, I can’t be arsed any more’?” one of the mature students will more accurately wonder. And who can blame that poor, ancient creature, who simply did not have the wherewithal to cope with the overpowering deluge of Crap that swept into her life along with the sudden arrival of two children?

Take this morning, for example. For reasons I have no patience to explain, I was scouring the house and garden for the following Lost Items: a packet of modelling clay, an item of clothing that may or may not exist, and a watering can rose. Nothing. The act of looking-for-things often throws up other unexpected chores, so on the way I cleared a path to make the stairs navigable again, did some recycling, unearthed a copy of Elmer and read it with Alpha Blondie, removed and washed the kids’ bed sheets, discovered an elusive corner of a Peppa Pig Jigsaw and completed the puzzle to check I had all the other pieces, and cut out about a hundred butterflies from the aforementioned wrapping paper. All very good...

... but back to the Lost Items. There was only one place left to look – under the sofa. I lay face down in the prime grape-drying area between the couch and the footstool, and dislocated my left shoulder in order to better sift through the quagmire of Things. No clay, clothes or watering can roses. But I did find: a Charlie Chaplin DVD, two Peppa Pig DVDs, a red cushion, half a wooden carrot, a book, a shoe (mine), a slipper (Alpha Blondie’s), a sock (Curly Girlie’s), a block of Post-it notes, an otoscope, a number 9, an empty tin of macademia nuts (the Husband's) and a Frisbee.

Naturally, I didn’t remove any of these items from under the sofa because then I would have had to find homes for them all. Instead, I lay there with Alpha Blondie bouncing on my back making trotting noises and made a decision: instead of removing the Things from under the sofa, why not simply store them there? Then, when the Husband asks for his nuts or Curly Girlie demands a wooden carrot or Alpha Blondie wails ‘OOOoooOOOoooOOO!’ (which roughly translates as ‘I need a shoooooe so I can go outside and fall over on the stones’) I can just say: ‘under the sofa, Darling!’ What a neat solution.

Love is...

I love you. Just this afternoon, the Curly Girlie said it to me for the first time ever - a special moment, which was rather undermined by this insight into the fickle thoughts of a toddler:I love you. *pause* Oh! You love Mummy? Yes, I love Mummy. Ah... that’s lovely, and I love you. Yes. Who else do you love? Daddy. Aah... My brother. Aaah... Little Oof-Oof (favourite toy) Aah, of course. Big Oof-Oof (second favourite toy) Ah, yes. Cat. Which cat? Cat. All the cats? Yes. Ah-ha. Light switches. What? Light switches. You love light switches? Yes. And Lady. Which lady? Today lady. *thinking* The lady in the supermarket who gave you some ham? Yes. Hmm. Beads. Beads? And pencils. Right... And glue. OK. And letters. Letters, ok. And the kitchen. I see. So, basically, you love everything you can see right now? Yes. *pause* But most of all, you love Mummy, right? Yes. Well, that’s something.

Toddler conversation

Mummy?Yes, love? Can I take my sock off? OK. Mummy? Yes? Can I take my sock off? Yes, OK. Mummay? Yes. Can I take my sock off? Yes, if you want to, take your sock off. Mummaay? Yeees? Can I take my sock off? Darling! Yes! Take it off. Mummaaay? *sigh* Can I take my sock off? Yes. Mummaaay? Yes? Mummaaaay? YES? Mummaaaaay? ... Mummaaaaaay? Yes! Can I take my sock off? Look, it’s your sock, I really don’t care, take it off, leave it on, it’s your decision. Mummy? *deep breath* Yes, Darling? Can I take my sock off? Is this some form of psychological torture? Mummay? What? Can I take my sock off? Are you working for the CIA? Mummaay? With a profound sense of dread and trepidation - yes? I took my sock off. Excellent. Mummy? Yes, love? Can I take my other sock off?

Kaleidoscope Curly Girlie