English genes?

Here's Amaia with her big, wee cousin Alasdair. Now here's a wee prediction for the future... When Al grows up he will be a sportsman. Given he's a sturdy wee guy, I firstly thought of rugby but since he learned to walk properly a month or so ago, freeing up his hands, he seems to have developed an amazing ability to bowl balls (stones, ornaments, food and generally everything not glued down!) so I'm going to drop my rugby theory and opt for him having inherited the English genes from my father's side and become a cricketer! ;-)

Watch this space!

Optimist or pessimist?

Scotland's weather has been truly diabolical, even by our standards, this year. I think we've probably seen less than a week over 10°C. But I think I can tell who is the half-empty and who is the half-full guy in my house! When 15°C was forecast yesterday, Léon bravely opted for the clothes he got for our last trip to Tuscany, while my little nephew decided a snow jacket was probably a safer option! They did look comical playing together outside my house - though I think somewhere in the middle might have been a better bet!

Waitrose cake

We did a barbecue last night and mum decided to buy us a dessert for afters. While in Waitrose buying some items for the grill we found ourselves in front of the cake display. Running our eyes along the prices they seemed to range from £2.99 - £4.99. Mum opted for this seriously chocolatey chocolate, hazelnut and almond torte. Somewhat surprised at the final bill we later realized they'd charged her £9.99 for it. When I went back later to check, the price label for this particular cake was not underneath where it was on the shelf but almost a whole fridge further up the aisle. Mum was also a tad miffed at how much smaller it was in real life than its box. Delicious though it was, it was not worth double the price of any of the other cheesecakes and the likes they had on offer, so I wouldn't recommend it!

What happened to respect?

OK, so this isn't going to be the most pc blog-rant I've ever posted, but I'm pissed off and under present circumstances I don't see why I should smile and be quietly tactful!

So dad's last wishes were 'I want none of that religious shite!' Whether you agree with this or not is immaterial. These were the last wishes of a dying man and should be respected as such, whether you think you know better or not. So important they were to him, he made them a prominent feature of his will too. As his daughter, son and wife respecting these wishes was paramount to us. We arranged a totally non-religious funeral, spending hours with the Humanist celebrant writing the sermon with her. We had done exactly what he requested. That gave us some comfort in our darkest hour. We felt we had honoured him in that way.

Those who attended the funeral were told in the sermon that these wishes had been dear and of the utmost importance to him... so how dare a certain nameless acquaintance of my father's take it upon himself to contravene this, upsetting my mother and us in the process. After listening intently to all this on Friday, he handed my mother what she assumed to be a condolence card. Fortunately she didn't open it till she got home. It piously and condescendingly turned out to be a stamped letter from the man and his local priest, telling my mother he had taken it upon himself to have the priest in question say a private mass for my father in order to save his eternal soul from damnation! I am utterly appalled. Had he died, I would have respected his religious beliefs, so how dare he not respect those of my family. If he feels it necessary to pray to his God, that should remain between him and his priest. It should not be thrust into my mother's hand in some self-righteous, superior manner.

As I have said before - atheism is the only religion not granted the respect it deserves. It is time that changed. I am passionately atheist and fail to see why that is not respected.

Think about it

I just wanted to share a poem with you, if you missed the funeral today.

Hibiscus

You get a lot of flowers when someone dies... beautiful flowers, treasured flowers.

On Saturday, I returned home not even 24 hours into this new and frightening existence and found a dear friend had left a lovely bouquet of orange roses on my doorstep. I held them and smelled them and then with a sadness I noticed the sticker proclaiming 'Guaranteed to last 7 days'. With a huge lump in my throat I silently questioned - 'Am I only meant to think of him for seven days, surely a lifetime is worth more than seven days?'. A lifetime is worth a lifetime and much more...The flowers were beautiful but bitter-sweet.

I didn't think another thing about it till today, when I was hoovering out my car. A Yodel van came down the street and asked for directions to number 27. I told him that was me and he took out a box that was about the same size as Léon! Interflora was written on the side. The bitter-sweet thought popped fleetingly into my mind again and I set it to one side and finished my hoovering, working up the strength to re-confront the thoughts and feelings I had been trying to avoid with my little hoovering distraction...

First I opened the card and saw the names Karen (Grant) and Siobhan (Macdonald)... two of the best friends I have in the world - my breast friends - we shared having our first babies, we shared our divorces and the rebuilding of our lives. You don't get closer than that...

I took a knife and cut into the box. There stood a tree marked - Plant this in remembrance of your dad always. I fell to pieces, crying like a baby. I went up to Thomas who asked what was up and all I could manage to say was 'I got a tree!' He looked quite bemused but just held me till I calmed down.

It was beautiful, already in bloom and big and strong with roots. I wasn't going to last seven days or even seven years - it can outlast me! I didn't know I needed a tree until I got my tree, but I really, really needed a tree. My tree of remembrance. It is hard to imagine already how much the tree means to me. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to move house again, not without taking my Dougie-tree.

Mother and daughter

I noticed today that a magazine had used this photo of me and Lots, taken from Thomas's flickr page, to illustrate an article entitled '50 Reasons Your mom is so special'. Given the week we are having, that made my day.

Dad

I'm not ready yet to write about dad, but in the meantime I thought I'd share his cyberpal, Alistair's thoughts with you.

Danish culture

Thomas and I were discussing internationality today - how to make your kids bilingual and also bi-cultural. Bilingual, we have succeeded with, given we both have language backgrounds so know what we are doing but bi-cultural is more bitty. Thomas was complaining how hard it is to give the kids, particularly the three wee ones a real insight into Danishness simply because we never, or almost never, go to Denmark now we have nowhere to stay and we also have very few visits from Danes.
He was saying how some things are more important than others - he'd like the kids to be aware, for example, of what Danes expect to receive when they order a hot dog. You get all sorts of relishes on a Danish hot dog and they'd consider it half-cooked if it was presented naked in a bun like the ones you get here at Ikea, for example.
Given he's a republican (not in the American sense I hasten to add!) I teased him that not a single ones of our kids could pick the Danish Queen out of a line-up of septuagenarians. But would they know how to, if they were mono-cultural Danes living in Denmark? Of course, we concluded... they'd have picked it up from media and other external sources... But in retrospect, I think we were maybe wrong. Just an hour later this came on the news. I asked Léon who the man was and he replied 'a weather man?' I guess culture sometimes depends on who you live with more than where you live!

Rhubarb meringue pie

Immortalized, in case I should ever lose it, Thomas's family recipe for rhubarb meringue pie - yum!

250 g flour

125 g butter

65 g sugar

1 pinch of salt

3–4 eggs, separated

200 g icing sugar

some rhubarb (enough to cover the base of the mould twice)

Make a shortcrust pastry of flour, butter, sugar, salt and egg yolks and line a buttered mould with it.

Cut the rhubarb into 3–4 cm long chunks and blanch them briefly.

Make a meringue from egg whites and icing sugar. Cover the bottom of the pastry with a bit of the meringue, then add the rhubarb pieces, and add the rest of the meringue on top.

Bake for 45 minutes at 175–200ºC.

Zone cards - the laid-back approach

I was in Paris last month. Given I was out in the suburbs but wanted to show the kids round all my old haunts when Thomas was at work, I decided to find out about zone cards.

I asked at the local station - Noisy-Champs, a name Léon loved to pronounce in English, - whether they had family cards, or books of tickets or the likes and they advised zone cards were best for stays of more than five days. I asked them to explain their zone cards - everyone 4 or over needed a zone card at approx 30 Euros and we'd be able to use them on all trains, métros, buses etc. Given that meant me and four of my five kids, I gulped. The woman behind the counter asked their ages. I said me, 14, 12, 6, 4 and 2. She gulped back and then told me that she didn't know of a single bus driver who wouldn't wave Anna and Léon on if three of us were already showing a valid zone card on entry to the bus, and as for trains and métros - I could simply lift them over the turnstiles. I was sceptical. Surely I will get fined if I am caught, I asked. The woman on the counter told me I could easily lie that Anna was 3 so that only left Léon and if the driver didn't believe he was 3 too(!) I could pay for the odd ticket for him in buses and again, she guaranteed I wouldn't meet an inspector on the métro or RER! I figured given how insistent she was on me lying and cheating, she'd be appalled if I was to buy Anna and Léon a zone card so I decided to try it for a day and see what happened. A week later I had been on at least 2 buses, 2 RER and 4 métro a day and she was completely correct. Bus drivers even helped me on with my buggy while waving Léón and Anna past. It really was a breath of fresh air compared to the job's worth mentality I would have encountered here, had I been trying to ferry my family around Glasgow, ticket-free!

Different ways of doing things

I've just been watching the French elections on the TF1 news. For me it was most interesting to watch the queues of ex-pats in London, Israel and all around the world queuing at the Consulates to vote. As the wife of a Danish ex-pat, I always feel sorry for Thomas, the most politically aware man I know, as he is disenfranchised by his own country for daring to live abroad, while equally as a UK resident, father and tax-payer he is still not allowed to vote here in Westminster elections. I wonder if my French friends who live here know how lucky they are to come from somewhere that allows them to vote, should they so wish.

One for mum

Mum's never got blogging. She's asked dad and I more than once over the years what the point is. So feel after yesterday's comment I owe her this post! 

After a little chat with Phones 4 U, that took the best part of an hour, she came out with steam coming out her ears, and finally exclaimed - 'God if I was a blogger, I'd blog this!'

It started about six or seven weeks ago... Her old Samsung was playing up and it was her birthday, so dad offered to get her a new phone. She opted for the Sony Ericsson Walkman Mix. When the phone was about three weeks old, dad collapsed and was taken into hospital. Needless to say, mum has had other things on her mind than taking back her phone that had developed a few little hiccups. And with visiting hours the way they are, it was also hard to fit in. Mum needs her phone for two main purposes. 

• So the hospital where dad is being treated can contact her in an emergency
• As an alarm which she sets to remind her to take her own daily medication since her stroke last summer.

So guess which particular faults it developed? The alarm wouldn't turn off once it started ringing, and the phone kept reporting new voicemails when no one had called her - just what you need for your nerves when your husband of nearly 50 years is terminally ill...

So we went down to Phones 4 U and asked for a replacement. It was six weeks old, faulty and hardly used. 

A completely ignorant little boy of about twenty first offered to have it sent away for repair. Sorry, sonny, you misunderstood - it is just out the box and faulty. With all due respect Missus, we don't do exchanges so I'll just send it away. It'll be back in about three weeks. Mum pointed out it was new and faulty, Marcel pointed it out, I pointed it out, Amaia gave him a dirty look but he went on to repeat no less than five times With all due respect Missus... until mum finally told him to kill off the parrot! We're a big company so we have a policy of not changing anything over 28 days old. Mum rang her lawyer, he too explained to the child that he was bullshitting but still no banana. He told her the only thing he could do was to tell head office. At this point I lent forward and said extremely civilly Do you think I could possibly speak to someone more senior, if you are unable to sort this problem out? He immediately and defensively jumped across the table at me with Don't you shout at me! I pointed out that I don't shout at people, I have no need to as I am quite capable of complaining articulately without raising my voice. He looked blank! In the meantime, he actually answered his company phone and spent 3-4 minutes organising a piss-up at a wee bar in Ayr on Saturday night with his friends in the most pleasant of tones before reverting to the obnoxious, defensive tone again to mother. After yet another explanation of how big Phones 4 U are and how they simply follow company policy at all times, I pointed out that mum was an individual with individual problems and should be treated as a human and not a statistic. He opened an email to head office and wrote: 'This woman has came (sic) into our branch with her phone, I have wrote (sic) a report that it is no working but she isnay happy'. He turned his screen round and asked mum to confirm she was happy with his report!!!  Mum's a bit of a grammarian and I could see from the darkening in her eyes that the boy's grammar was going to cause him to receive a knock-out blow, if he didn't watch out! 

So we stuck to our guns and finally got to talk to head office and they eventually admitted it was difficult to leave a woman with a no phone for three weeks in these circumstances so gave in and replaced it - or rather authorised a replacement only to find they were out of stock. But I have to say the level of stress they put my mother through, despite us explaining her personal circumstances, for a phone that was just weeks old and only worth £65, was such that I will categorically say now that I will never consider setting foot in a Phones 4 U for any future phone purchases of my own (and I tend to spend more than £65). When companies become so large that human compassion is completely lost, they need to be avoided in my opinion.

Names

I find it interesting how many divorced women choose to keep their married name rather than reverting to their maiden name after divorce - whether it is a friendly (if such a thing exists, or acrimonious divorce). I would say, of the divorced women I know, more than 60% kept their ex-husband's name.

I reverted to Buchanan two years before my divorce came through. It was a hassle - I had so many different pieces of ID, places to contact, - banks, passports, driving licenses, mortgage agreements, car loans - you name it... I had to pay to change it by deed poll because my divorce wasn't through. But I had to lose his surname to be me. It wasn't that I didn't like the name - you know me by now - a complete Francophile, I'd move there in a flash. More than that - I loved the exotic. It suited my character and interests. It was also good for my career - I didn't need to explain, as I do now, why I am best placed to be your translator, interpreter or why my spoken French is a tad better than you'd expect from someone who graduated twenty years ago! I loved (and still love) my French family unconditionally, so it wasn't them I was distancing myself from either. But the name represented the marriage, my link to the man I no longer loved and whether I had remarried or not, it was no longer me and it felt wrong to be Mrs or Madame Gautier any more. I could understand staying the same name as my kids, but again, it was wrong in my mind. I had to lose the name that represented a period in my life that was over.

I think I am fascinated by it because I can't understand it. I could not have stayed Gautier without losing myself. It would have been a bit too Shirley Valentine for my psyche, I think that's why I wonder about those who manage it quite happily. I guess there are several types of divorcée.

Dentists

I live across the road from my dentist, so I can see his comings and goings from my bed. He seems to work about 28 hours a week and yet he owns both a BMW jeep and a cabriolet BMW that he uses on sunny days. He has both cars fully valeted on a weekly basis sitting outside my door. I am often tempted to park mine beside his in the hope they get mixed up one week! ;-)

Local Council Elections

We all have something to say when it comes to the potholes in the road, the pavements that are falling apart, the plans for an incinerator in East Renfrewshire, the proposed new builds on the green belt and potential catchment changes, the number of staff in the local schools, their uniform policies and their funding, so why is it that we don't bother to vote in council elections? Today at around 5pm one of the candidates for this ward was in our garden (Thomas knows him and they were arranging the vote count tomorrow). He told me at that point the local polling station was running at a 13% turnout. Isn't that absolutely scandalous? I really think any of the 87% who didn't bother, should think twice before moaning about any of these topics for the next five years. They only have themselves to blame!

Charlotte, the face-painter

Every time I have gone out for the last week, I have come in to all three wee ones painted by Charlotte. She really just loves being a big sister. I have tried painting Amaia myself and there is no way to make her sit still long enough to paint anything, so I really have to take my hat of to Lots. What a star. I can't imagine Charlotte's life if she had never been a big sister. She's definitely much more comfortable in that role than in the role of little sister, in general. In any case - if she keeps up the practice, I reckon I know what kind of summer job she'll be looking for when she's bigger!

A footnote

After my wee placing request grump, I have to add a footnote. The council has decided from August that they want the school uniforms to change completely across the whole council area. I'm not sure one hand knows what the other is doing however... Friday was the final deadline for ordering the new uniforms, so when did the primary one placing requests come through? Saturday morning of course! So Anna is now happily going off to the same school as her siblings did before her... unfortunately however she is potentially going naked unless I can persuade them in the morning to take a late uniform order!

(Piss-ups and breweries spring to mind!)

Learning golf

Following in Pumpa's footsteps, Marcel has taken it upon himself to teach the babies golf. It's funny how normal a concept that is to me as a Scot (despite not being a golfer myself). Thomas was telling me last week his Danish friends fall about the place laughing, thinking it is incredibly eccentric to even know what a golf club is at the age of two!

Lavender scones

Thomas has been cultivating a jar of lavender sugar now for as long as nine months. Fresh lavender from Tuscany was mixed in with sugar and eventually today, he decided to follow his ever-so-fancy lavender scone recipe. We waited with bated breath till he brought them through for four o'clock coffee.

And... for some reason, though they were nice enough scones - there wasn't even a hint of lavender! Hmmm - back to the drawing board I guess :-(

Sleeping Beauty

Awwh - wee Lotsie! She went to an all night birthday party for only the second or third time ever last night. She came home, sat on her bed, turned on facebook and then fell asleep for the next 16 hours!

Not before time!

When I got divorced the last thing the kids needed in the upheaval was to be made to change school too. Initial plans for me to buy my ex out of our house fell through... and the housing market hadn't hit the fan yet so I didn't manage to buy a new place in the same catchment area. We are literally two minutes across the catchment boundary. So when it came time for them to start moving onto high school, both Marcel and Lots unsurprisingly opted to stay with their friends of seven years and move on to the high school they should have been going to, had I never moved out.

I have to say however that the way the council deals with placing requests is fairly stressful for for the children in question. For some reason, the child's application goes in to the council on Dec 1 of the preceding year. The child is handed a form to take home to their parent stating 'I wish to accept the place on offer at my catchment high school or I want to make a placing request'. Charlotte, of course, saw she had a place at a school that not a single one of her (approx 100) classmates was going to and looked vaguely panicked. Over the course of the next five months, on numerous occasions leaflets and handouts were brought into the p7 class sent by the council and handed out to everyone except the three or four kids who were in the same situation as Lots - parents had divorced and moved just across the boundary. Each time the leaflets came round Lots claimed not to be upset, though one of the other girls spent the best part of the last five months bursting into tears every time they were handed out. Five months is a very long time for an 11 or 12 year old already dealing with puberty and the rest. The very kids who had already been through the upheaval of their families splitting were put through five months of stress.

When the letter accepting to grant her a place in the high school attached to the feeder primary she'd been in since five finally dropped through our letterbox on Saturday morning, Charlotte had already been through asking me appeal procedures and the rest. I just think there must be a better and more sensitive way of dealing with this type of request. At the very least, keeping the kids themselves out of the loop would help. If Lots isn't getting her handouts till next week, frankly there was no need to hand out the leaflets in front of these kids as much as two months ago.

And finally...

François and Carine, the two remaining members of the branch of the family who got back in touch with me last week, also got back in touch with me on Wednesday. It feels good to have been brought back up to date with all that has happened with people who were my family for twenty years - the people who never stopped being my family.

I can't wait to meet the new babies: Baptiste, Thomas, Cloé and Charline!

Christelle and Arlette

And another! Not only did my youngest niece, Christelle, re-surface today, one day after her older sister - (here I am with her in 1987, and 2003). But their mum did too! How happy am I? Two nieces and a sister-in-law back in my life in the space of just two days - I just can't believe my luck! :-)

Isabelle

Over the nearly seven years since my first marriage fell apart (officially), I have occasionally blogged the loss of my French family. It's too private a grief generally for me to mention publicly, but sometimes I allow myself to go there...

As I have said often, it sometimes felt, when we split, as if my huge French family had been put in bus which had run off a cliff. I come from a tiny family (though it is growing now with my kids and my brother's). I grew up with no aunts, uncles, cousins - just a brother and two parents. In France I had a mother-in-law, three sisters-in-law, three brothers-in-law, three nieces (and their partners), two nephews, and one of my nieces had a baby. Over night, they all disappeared from my life and it tore me apart. I had been an auntie to my three nieces, in particular, since they were two, six and eight and suddenly after twenty years, I lost them. But slightly worse, I thought, than the bus crash scenario, was the fact that my children were still seeing them. My family was continuing and I was excluded. I ached to hear how they were doing, how their lives were progressing but the divorce was hellishly acrimonious and he was there giving them all the only version they would ever hear of the events.

The years passed and I managed to go on but part of me was always missing...

And then, this morning the unexpected happened. I was working so on my computer. Facebook was on in the background as usual. Completely out of the blue the facebook chat light lit up and there was my niece, after nearly seven years asking me if it was ok for her to still be my niece?! What a question! I wished I could sweep her up in my arms as I used to when she was a child, but she's a fully-grown woman - a mother herself now. After talking to her all morning and seeing photos of her daughter I'm completely emotionally drained - what with dad's collapse and hospitalization this week and now this - but what a wonderful day it has been. I feel so lucky to have her back.

Mum and Anna

Since dad was taken into hospital on Wednesday, Mum has been eating with us every night before going up for visiting.

Today I heard Anna ask Thomas - Why is Granny eating at our house all the time?
Thomas explained that with Pumpa away at the moment because he's sick, it makes sense for Granny to eat with us so she has someone to talk to and doesn't get lonely.
Anna looked more than surprised and asked -Why doesn't Granny talk to her imaginary friends when she's home alone? Then absolutely dumbfounded she enquired - Doesn't Granny have any imaginary friends????

Ryanair

Flying Ryanair is just getting to be a joke. I've ranted about them till I'm sick ranting about them - about their fees x 7 for using credit/debit cards, the fact fact they abandoned their old policy of letting babies and disabled people pre-board, their nonsense about checking in on-line or fining people £60 each - I don't tend to lug a printer about in my rucksack when I am camping, personally - give me the choice guys! Anyway today's rant is about luggage.


Last summer was bad enough - Thomas's hand luggage going out to Pisa weighed 10.2kg, Anna's weighed 6kg - they held up a queue of 100 people while they moved two newspapers from Thomas's case to Anna's. I can fully understand them chucking out his newspapers if he had been alone - they are petty like that, but when he was carrying both cases - that is just jobsworthing to the nth degree.


So last week we flew to Paris. Unwilling to pay the 120-odd quid surcharge to take a couple of hold cases, we went for the crazy option seven small suitcases as you are allowed to carry them on board yourself free of charge. Funnily enough, the other 182 passengers on board had had the same idea - ho hum. So we all struggled up the stairs with our 189 small cases and fought for locker space to store them (having all had them size and weight-checked at the departure gate.) On arrival at Beauvais, only three cases came off on the carousel for that full flight, so they literally flew with a full plane and an empty hold. We then struggled across Paris  on Sunday - a toddler, two small kids, two big ones, two adults, seven cases, a buggy and a rucksack - on foot for the first half mile, then bus, regional train (RER), metro (up and down stairs, stairs and more stairs and it was during the Paris Marathon so we were knee-deep in runners who'd just completed the course), bus and then foot to the Ryanair plane at Beauvais - paying in total something like 150 Euros to get out into the middle of nowhere to their stupid airport. Next time, it'll be a sensible airline into CDG - Ryanair - you've pissed me off one last time - whenever there is an alternative in the future, Ryanair will be ruled out.


(Oh and my prediction for Ryanair in the future - given the 737-800 has a capacity of 189 passengers and on other airlines they can each take 20kg of hold luggage - I reckon by next summer Ryanair will have bumped hold luggage up to £100 each to put people off taking cases completely and will have installed around 48 seats in the hold itself for passengers willing to travel without windows!) ;-)

Granny?!

I took the kids up to Montmartre the other day to see the artists sitting drawing in Place du Tertre. Obviously with so many children, I had to run the gauntlet of artists all saying they could sketch them for some astronomical fee if I had a spare couple of hours. But the most shocking for me was just as I was taking this photo. A woman of about 50, sketch pad under her arm, asked Marcel who was standing less than a metre from me if she could draw his cute, little daughter for him! Arg!

Passport issues

Léon needed a new passport last year. We called up the UK passport photo guidelines which stated that although glasses were borderline acceptable, they much preferred glasses to be removed on your passport photo. This seems ludicrous to me given the great detail they go to about not opening your mouth or smiling as your features will be so distorted as to render you unrecognizable. Why on earth do they want your glasses off? I barely recognize Léon without his glasses as he's worn them all the time since he was four! 

Anyway, we followed the rules and he got a passport containing the above (left) photo.

Then Anna's Danish passport needed replacing. We called up Danish passport photo guidelines and they stipulate that if you wear glasses, they must be present on your passport photo. So Anna got a passport with this photo on it. 

When Léon found out this anomaly at the weekend he stated categorically that he wanted a Danish passport now, and would be refusing to travel on his UK passport henceforth! Emmm - could be difficult. He hasn't had his French passport renewed since he got his first glasses, so I don't know whether French passports prefer glasses on or off, but given a certain person's reluctance to pay for anything I can pay for instead, he's probably going to have to wait till he's an adult before that's renewed!


Life's a bit complicated when you have five dual-nationality kids!

The Eiffel Tower

I don't think I have ever seen anyone look as proud and happy as Léon when he reached the top of the Eiffel Tower. I didn't have the heart to tell him he'd been before - but I guess he doesn't remember!

An enigmatic child

I don't always get Charlotte.


Charlotte has a sweet tooth. She would live on chocolate, sweets, candy floss, nutella, and all sorts of rubbish - preferably washed down with lashings of double-cream - if I didn't ration her. She'd even manage to work her way through a box of sugar lumps if she thought she could get away with it. 


From she first started talking, however, Lots has claimed to hate jam - in all its flavours - with a passion. She'd rather have no breakfast than let a jam sandwich pass her lips. Given the make-up of her character and tastes, she should love jam, but she refuses stubbornly to taste anything remotely jam-like.


I don't get it at all.

Sulley?

Here's Amaia dressed up to look like Sulley out of Monsters inc... And that's as close as any of us managed to get to any Disney characters despite being a couple of stops away from Disneyland Paris all week! Personally, I'm not a fan of all that US, barf-worthy waving and shaking hands with Mickey but I'm not heartless... I am a mother and I know at least three of my babies would have been absolutely bowled over by a day in Eurodisney. However, I fail to see, five years into a financial crash, how the place is still open at all. I did enquire how much it would be for me to take the kids in for one day. Note the number there - it says one day, not one week! £294 for a one-day pass for my family - this does not include food, overnight accommodation or anything like that - this is just entrance to the park! (And worse still Amaia doesn't even pay yet, so this is just mum, dad and four kids inc a 4 and a 6 year old! For some reason both Marcel (14) and Charlotte (12) are both classed as adults already - that's a wee bit cheeky in my book - they must know if you are taking in your teenager and pre-schooler, it is your pre-schooler who really wants to be there and your teenager is already not overly impressed at getting dragged along, so making you pay full adult price is a bit steep!) Given it only cost £430 for a seven bed villa in Paris for seven nights, I fail to see how a day pass for the same family at Disneyland can cost just £100 less. So that's a big thumbs down, Disneyland, from the Buchanan-Widmann-Gautier family!

Mrs Who?

It's never dull being married to a foreigner... I should know, after all I've had my fair share of foreign husbands!

First time round I changed my name - It was more the done thing back in '91 than these days. I wasn't so much asked by the registrar if I wanted to change it, as told when I signed the marriage certificate 'This is the last time you will sign Buchanan'! That seems strangely out of date now - though I have to say I am still more often than not called either Mrs Gautier - when one of the schools phone me, Mrs Widmann, when someone rings my doorbell (marked Thomas Widmann and Phyllis Buchanan) or Mrs Buchanan-Widmann. I even get Mrs Buchanan by people who have sussed that a) I am married, b) I call myself Buchanan. Ho hum! One day someone will address me as Ms Buchanan as it says on my personal documents!

Anyway that wasn't the topic - just one of my bugbears. I keep hoping I'll still be around when society catches up with the reality that Miss Gautier's mother is no longer necessarily Mrs Gautier, and that if Master Gautier joins Beavers, sending a large Beavers welcomes the Gautier family card, though it may be a nice gesture, isn't always appropriate!

So - back to foreignness. First time, as I said, I became Gautier. So I too had all the fun. People, of course, have heard of Gautier because of Jean-Paul Gaultier. Gautier actually has three different spellings is France each with a different frequency. Firstly, and by far the most common is Gauthier, second and not nearly as common is Gautier, third and almost unheard-of is Gaultier. But of course we Brits only know one Gaultier - so I spent half my marriage correcting the spelling of my name from Gaultier to Gautier (and still have to on everything my kids ever sign up for). And that's just the clever ones who actually sussed my name at all. I got various fun ones over the years: Phyllis Gucci (I wish!), Phyllis Gottier, Phyllis Got-here, Phyllis Goatie, Phyllis Goatbeard... Snailmail caused daily bouts of hilarity. 


Then of course I got divorced, but none of the fun was lost, given I still have three house members with that surname. I moved in with a Widmann. That's not too hard, surely? Oh you'd be surprised! Often he simply loses an 'n' and becomes Widman, but we've had Whitman, Woodman, Whiteman(!), Wadman (is that someone with lots of money?), Windman (I won't suggest what that might be!) and finally last, but definitely not least my personal favourite Thomas Wild-man! I have actually had the postman come out with the words 'Do you have a Wild man here?' (None of your business, postie ;-) ) I know I stayed Buchanan this time round but if he gets Wild-man often enough, I might just consider a name change. Life would never be boring being Mrs Wild-man, surely!? It's very Tarzan and Jane ;-)

Film pods

Is it just me or does any one else miss film pods? They were such handy wee things. As a camper and a photographer, I remember their many uses...

I used to take two - one with salt, one with pepper on holiday. They were just the right size. I'd have two or three filled with washing powder, one with a sewing kit, mixed herbs etc. On a picnic, if you'd taken enough photos, you and a partner could use one each for drinking wine slightly more delicately than swigging it from the bottle.

Packing for a trip recently, I did wish I'd kept just a few from the old days! It's funny... I bet if I showed my kids this photo, they wouldn't even know what it is!

Photographic blackmail!

This is one of my all-time masterpieces - even if I say so myself. Given Marcel is the kind of kid who is really quite image-conscious these days, never daring to go to school with a hair out of place, lest one of his many female fans should see him. What better ammo can a mother have to drop on her son's facebook page, randomly, after he's gone to bed at night than a cutesy baby photo, complete with smug blueberry face and jam sandwich stuck to his head! It is just asking to be done, isn't it?! ;-) (He loves me - really he does!)

Personalized number plates

I've never been a fan of personalized number plates. I've always liked to think that if I got to the stage of having that amount of money to waste, I'd rather give it to cancer research, or sponsor an orphan in the 3rd world or whatever - but that's another rant... I'm sure many of my close friends have them, and I can't fall out with the whole world!

Anyway, what I was going to say about personalized number plates was - given they were brought in, presumably to be used as status symbols, are we now reaching a point four years into the recession where not having one is actually a bigger status symbol? I've noticed cars I expect to have personalized numbers - big BMWs, Mercs and even the jeep-shaped Porsches whizzing past me when I am in Thomas's old Micra in the M77 sporting brand new 62 plates instead of ZZ 3 and the likes. Now we can't afford to change our cars every three years in this new economic wilderness, is having a current number plate the new way to show off your wealth?!

Curry torture

With the sudden and unexpected good weather the last few days of March came the reminder of the curry torture we suffer all summer - well on the sunny days anyway! 

The problem is the Indian restaurant across the road from our house. Despite being in business since the Harvie Avenue shops were built, possibly as far back as my high school days, it isn't wonderful. Their curries are watery and insipid and I doubt they have ever used a fresh herb or spice in their kitchen. I think they are more a 'two heaped tea spoonfuls of smart-price curry powder' type of place to be honest. You couldn't pay me enough to eat there... There are so many better Indian restaurants in Glasgow and Thomas is an expert Indian chef. The problem is that somehow despite the mediocrity of their actual food, they somehow manage to emit an absolutely mouth-watering smell, particularly early evening when I am sitting down to consider what we can have for dinner. I have no idea how they do it - maybe they put all their fresh herbs and spices into their extractor fan to tempt people in while simply wafting the odd dried chili at the actual meals! Anyway the result is that if I happen to be sitting in the garden, the smell means I can't think beyond curry, and that's not exactly going to be great for my figure, is it? The only solution therefore is to wish for a summer with temperatures as mediocre as their culinary ability so I don't make it out to my garden bench too often!  But that would be a bit depressing too!

Food colouring

I wonder if food colouring is one of those markers of the thresh hold between childhood and adulthood? Charlotte made these cup cakes on Thursday and iced them herself. Charlotte and her younger siblings thought they looked so appetizing they wanted one of each colour, each. Marcel, Thomas and I couldn't really get past the colour. They were sitting there on the table looking like a culinary ad for Ikea!

Will I finally realized Lots has crossed the line, the first time she ices a cake in a pastel shade... or worse still - dollops on mascarpone instead? ;-)

Oh, and one last bugbear... when did they become cup cakes anyway? They were fairy cakes when my granny taught me to make them in my spotty pinny at the age of five, and to me they'll always be fairy cakes!

Anyway - look how happy they made my Bopster!

American Pie

I don't usually have time for cover versions of American Pie - but Weird Al's just leaves me speechless with admiration! Mind you, both my sons, my nephew and brother are all Star Wars daft, so just put up with me.

Simpler is sometimes easier

Am I getting old, or are kids making the world more complicated than it needs to be?

The other night Marcel, Charlotte and I were watching Groundhog Day for probably the twentieth time! We don't usually watched movies more than once or twice but this is in everyone's top ten so is a good one to unite us round the TV. We got to the snow scene and Phil and Rita started dancing to Ray Charles' old classic 'You don't know me'.

Because we've all seen it so often none of us was giving it our full attention. I was working on my laptop, Marcel was on facebook on his laptop and Charlotte was also playing a game on hers.

Marcel commented how he'd always loved that song, but didn't know what it was. He whipped out his phone

and started fiddling with it and holding it up. I asked what he was doing and he looked at me like I came out the ark and told me he was 'shazaming' it. His phone app would listen to the tune and tell him what it was. He had joined the song too late so it failed to detect it. He skipped back and put the scene and the phone on again. Frustrated when it failed a second time, Lots grabbed her phone too and the two of them started 'shazaming' it! I asked why, given they were both on laptops, they didn't just google it (or better still ask me - the old fogey in the room - as I could actually tell them what it was!) But both were determined to show off how no mortal being could live without Shazam. I turned my laptop round, typed 'groundhog day you don't know me', clicked on the first link and was soon playing them the whole tune on Youtube while they both cursed and spat at 'Shazam', still determined to show me I had simply been lucky to find it before them!

I did feel quite smug though!

Cake-tastrophe

We volunteered to make a cake for Pumpa's birthday... to be more precise, I volunteered Thomas to make a cake for Pumpa's birthday! Thomas and I have a lot of work on this week, and added to that the kids are off school - so without childcare we've both been working past midnight every night. He'd also brewed some beer that needed to be bottled today so things were quite hectic. Running late, around 9-30, I was getting the girls ready for bed when Thomas ran through in a panic - he'd run out of eggs! I ran out to the supermarket, while he kept stirring and by 10 things were back on course but the girls, Amaia in particular, were way beyond shattered. As Thomas finally stuck on the layers and candles, Amaia trudged through to the dining room and used all her remaining energy to pull herself up into her chair where she sat, plate in hand saying 'Granny and Pumpa' over and over. Thomas didn't realize immediately she had it in her head they were about to turn up for cake, so lifted her, resulting in complete meltdown, accompanied by intermittent shrieks and sobs. It was only when I finally convinced her Granny and Pumpa were in bed asleep, that she agreed to be carried to bed, all the while sobbing in Danish 'Granny sover, Pumpa sover, Granny sover, Pumpa sover!'

Marcel, a future economist?

Thomas and I watched Inside Job the other night. Despite both being fairly into economics, following stock markets and the likes it was still absolutely astounding to be reminded of the magnitude of what has been going on for the last decade or more in the US economy. To see all the same culprits pop up in Obama's government and realize they haven't the slightest intention of regulating the banks any more in the future than they did in the past was more than soul-destroying, especially given that any future Republican president would be even less likely to look in that direction than Obama if he scrapes back in... It was thoroughly depressing. 

Marcel was hanging about with nothing to do today - or rather it was too snowy to venture out so I asked if he'd like to see it. I explained it was more or less a documentary and that it might be hard to follow but he should stick with it if possible because it would be very significant, at least historically for his life and understanding thereof...

He disappeared into the TV room. I expected him to last 20 minutes before putting on a different movie - something with Will Smith or Meryl Streep or the likes, but no he remained glued for the entire two hours then came bouncing out completely invigorated, talking ten to the dozen analysing the whole sub-prime market, the insurance, CDO and derivatives issues etc. He was absolutely enthralled and said it was the most outrageous but also most fascinating financial plan he'd ever seen. Unlike us, who found it depressing, his young brain was thrilled at the state-master-minded bank robbery and he couldn't stop analysing all day, how it could have been done better so as either not to have collapsed, or to have collapsed slower so only a future generation would have found out what had happened. He cynically concluded that with a little tweaking, something should be able to be done to make the plan work better next time round. He sat analysing how the CEOs taking smaller bonuses might have made it drag on longer and wandered off to check out entrance requirements for economics degrees here and in the States, muttering under his breath 'There's a shitload of money to be made out of this mum!'
I don't know whether to be proud or scared witless!

Happy Anniversary!

Congratulations to mum and dad - married 47 years ago today. (Looks like it was a snow-free day back then!) I'm not sure many of my generation will make this incredible milestone.

I guess my one regret is that when you don't marry Mr Right until you are 41, the chances of celebrating your 47th wedding anniversary (and still knowing who you are(!) is fairly slim). I don't think anyone in my family has ever lived to 88 :-( Well, it gives me something to aim for...

Face paint

I had forgotten how much more face paint we go through when the biggies are away on one of their three compulsory annual holidays with my ex. Anna just doesn't know what to do without them and constantly mopes around until I cheer her up with a bit of face paint. I should charge it to my ex!

The other issue, as time goes on, is her incessant chatter. I think she feels she has to compensate for all three missing children single-handedly talking, talking and talking without ever stopping for a breath - my nerves are frayed!

When she finally runs out of things to talk about, she either makes something up about Silly Mad John and his family, or counts to one hundred over and over!

I guess unless you've been in the situation, it is hard to understand my kids' world. They are together 80% of the time and then suddenly they are wrenched apart through no fault of their own. Anna and Amaia don't really understand where their family goes to or why. Léon's not overly sure either. When you are little, time passes much more slowly so it is hard for the little ones to remember after their July separation, that another week like this will come again at Xmas and in April. They feel like lost souls at times.

Paddling pool in March... snow in April!

Well it looks like Scottish weather has nose-dived off a cliff this morning. I'm sitting here in jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a cardie, with the central heating on. No one (funnily enough) is outside in the paddling pool today because it is currently snowing... Yes it is bloody snowing! There's exactly one week (not to mention 19°C) between these two photos.

Expanding on the Batman theme

Ever since we had the front of the house repaired, Léon has been inventing wilder and wilder fantasies about Marcel being batman. It seems a shame to spoil his fun by painting over the bat in white, so I decided a more appropriate course of action was to extend the theme onto the cladding on the front of the house. It is looking good, don't you think?

Dandelions for mummy

It's the thought that counts, I guess!

I spend every spring, summer and autumn on my knees pulling dandelions out of my lawn. I hate them with a passion. Turn your back for ten seconds and they multiply like rabbits. And they always come in twos. This year we have more dandelions than lawn.
Given the beautiful weather this week, I have spent more time on my knees than usual! I am totally scunnered with dandelions.
Today I had to work so Thomas took the kids out for a walk. Amaia came bouncing in afterwards with a bouquet for me! Dandelions - thanks Bops, that's lovely. Followed closely by Anna who had not only picked me twice as many and even stuck them in a vase!

My kitchen is now overflowing with dandelions! Thanks kids!