Ok, I've tried to ignore this thing, but since I stopped writing in the summer when I suffered a complete sense of humour meltdown, I can't stop myself from thinking about things I could write about if I could be arsed. It turns out I'm depressed. I prefer to think of myself as bi-polar, but with a distinct lack of manic episodes. It sounds so much more glamorous than depressed. Depression is just so damn common. When I've shared this terrible secret with close friends, they've invariably said that they've been popping anti-depressants for years. So I've decided to get over myself, and return to writing therapy. I doubt there are any readers left out there, but this is my blog and I'll write if I want to.
In the last hour I've experienced one of the worst bad mother moments: a public one. I had to face my aversion public transport and take the Little Darlings home from school on the bus. Did you know that buses do not ordinarily have a first class section??? Spouse needed the car for an out of town meeting, and I am still carless. I knew it would be painful since they are unable to sit still for at least an hour after they finish school, and can only communicate at a rate of decibels that would rival a 1970s Iron Maiden concert. We climbed to the upper deck and as they ran to the back of the bus, I chose a seat at the front, putting as much distance between us as possible. Before we had got a hundred yards they invented the game of bus-surfing. This involved trying unsuccessfully to balance on the seats as the bus careered round corners on the county lanes. I immediately sensed that they were irritating everyone, so I summoned my most scathing - can't you control your children- look at a woman approximately the same age as me, on the other side of the aisle. Sadly my attempt to disclaim them failed, and I was forced to try to chastise them. That failed too.
The next tactic was to try my hand at diversion. Pointing out interesting cows or trees in the landscape around us never worked with my Little Darlings, who would respond with "and, what's your point?". All I had to hand was my ipod. I gave it to Jack since he's the circus leader, and turned on his favourite song. Some years ago during a tortuously long car journey to the South of France, when Boychild (Latin name, jackus satanicus) misbehaved (approximately every 4.6 minutes) Spouse put on I Can't Decide by the Scissor Sisters, with the refreshing lyric "I can decide whether you should live or die; Oh you'll probably go to heaven; Don't you hang your head and cry..." He loved it of course. I smiled smugly at the bus load of Primark bag carrying, Croydon face-lift wearing mums in control of their little darlings who had to suffer the anguish that is the tone deaf Boychild screeching along to the ipod.
I believe that Boychild derives his ability to invent new games like bus-surfing from his father. During the course of our relationship Spouse has invented a delicious new drink by mixing champagne with orange juice, and was devastated to learn that bucks fizz already existed. Before we were married and on holiday, again in France, in a house infested with mice that insisted on eating everything and crapping everywhere, he invented a mouse-trap like no other. It involved a mouse sized walkway fashioned out of a french stick that the vermin had helpfully hollowed out, leading to the open top of one of those plastic barrels of surrender monkey urine that the French palm off on stupid English visitors that should know that you get what you pay for. He placed a lump of cheese at the opening of the barrel, with the intent that Michelle Mouse would fall into the undrinkable substance and promptly drown, or possibly disintegrate in the fumes. To ensure that none of the critters missed out on the fun, he placed a sign "Fromage this way" at the bottom of the walkway. It didn't work of course, and we ended up with a conventional poisoning, but the mouse-trap made an interesting centre-piece on the kitchen table. In fact Spouse probably missed out on the Turner Prize. On reflection though, I'm surprised that he didn't suggest converting it into a fun game for children that involved compiling a heath robinson mouse-trap...
