Verily, it is now thusly

The good
Erm….

Oh, wait. This is good. Excellent in fact. I’ve got some merchandise. T-shirts, mug and badges. Shout out to Carol who has the know-how. I’m sure that my regular reader will be shipping a crates worth of gear over. Christmas is coming, reader, Christmas is coming.

The bad
Well, I don’t know about you but I’ve had a shitty week. You know those ones where you think it’s just got to better but somehow it never does? One of those. I’ve given up now.

The BB is teething which means that she is miserable most of the time and we can’t do anything to help her. This is soul destroying in ways I have never experienced before. And there is no sign of teeth yet. It’s just her gums preparing themselves for the horror to come. Teeth. What a ridiculous design flaw. You’d think that we would have improved them through evolution by now. You go through agony grow the first set, which then fall out. Then you get another load which take an immense amount of looking after and cost a fortune. Then they fall out and you have to have pretend teeth that hurt. And don’t even mention wisdom teeth. I don’t have wisdom teeth. I know – you’d think I’d have a mouthful.

I’ve had a headache reaching from behind my eyes, up my whole forehead (temple to temple) over to my crown for five days now. It comes and stays. What do you think? Terminal? I think I’m stressed. I’ve never been stressed before. It’s an interesting, and highly unpleasant, phenomenon. Are there tablets you can take? Does it go away on its own or do I need professional help?

The firework problem is ongoing. The neighbours seem to be taking it in turns to taunt us with their fun incendiary devices. I am toying with the idea of calling the police every time one goes up and telling them I can hear gun shots in the shrieking tones of a panicking woman.

Parsnips gave the BB the wind. Terrible, terrible wind. We all suffered equally though.

The ugly
Also, we’ve had an ‘incident at work’ that it has put my thoughts about veils into sharper focus. Actually they're more thoughts about thoughts about veils since I really don't care either way. I think that many people who would like Britain, or more specifically Eng-er-land, to be white would like people of any different ethnicity to disappear, to not have a voice, or a place in our country. And if they are here then they should be invisible and silent. My issue is that unlike the sari, the turban or the even Buddhist monks’ robes the black shrouding of some Muslim women renders them, for me, invisible and silent. That’s exactly what a minority of people want them to be. So it is like the ouroboros which eats its own tail to sustain its life. But as I said in the comments below there is no place in our society for debate on this subject any more and that is the fault of the media, fundamentalists, racists and the government so I will be quiet now. Sssshhh.

Fun with solid food

I keep finding little smears of pureed organic root vegetable in unexpected places. This is not a usual occurrence. We are weaning. BB is in the 99.8th percentile height wise so we had to start her on baby rice three weeks ago, rather than waiting until the recommended six months, which was a bit stressful bearing in mine that she is not five months old until Sunday. It seems like only five minutes ago I was telling you she was four months old. Tempus fugit, etcetera .

Fortunately she has taken to eating like a happy little duck taking to water. She thinks that feeding is hilarious and enjoys a good chuckle half way through. Particularly if it is a vegetable she likes.

Thoughts on food so far include:

Baby rice is delicious. We are looking forward to moving on to fruit puree so we can have some alongside the rice. This will be like a Muller fruit corner, but without the nasty additives.

Potatoes are not delicious at all. They make us pull a funny face and purse our lips very tightly. We refuse to eat them.

Carrots are excellent. They are very tasty and also our favourite colour. Orange is marvellous and we strongly believe that more things should be orange.

Although sweet potato is orange we are not fooled for a second and can detect that the potato force is strong in this one. Not as bad as actual potato but not winning as many friends as the carrots.

Butternut squash is fantastic. A nice mellow shade of orange and a little bit sweet too. Delicious. Even better than carrots. Squash makes us giggle with delight and also wave our spoon around causing an enormous mess.

Swede is our absolute favourite, despite not being orange. We love the swede beyond all reasonable bounds. If we could eat swede all the live long day we would.

I don’t understand this swede thing. The swede is an evil, evil vegetable. Tastes like... I can’t think what. Hideous. As I say; evil. But she likes it. Next thing she’ll be liking apricots and curly kale. Gruesome. Give me a nice brussel sprout any day.

Never mind, we are doing well with the vegetables. Our doctor, who is also a mother of the gay persuasion, said her daughter would only eat butternut squash.

We do each vegetable in turn for two days and then stare anxiously at BB for any signs of adverse effects of said vegetable. Tomorrow it is parsnip (semi-evil) and then we begin the green vegetables on Sunday – courgette, broccoli and cauliflower. I know cauliflower is white but in our book (I recommend it, but only if you are weaning. It’s probably of limited interest to the general reader) the noble cauli counts as green.

Then, green vegetables dealt with, we can mix different purees together like potato, swede and carrot. This is called a medley. We can also give her fruit puree, as a pudding, or side order at breakfast. You have to do the vegetables first because they are savoury and some babies get hooked on the sweetness in fruit and then won’t eat the nasty swede. I don’t blame them as I am a fan of the sweetness.

Also, we keep the purees frozen in the traditional white ice cube trays. We have about three weeks in advance. They look fantastic all lined up in the freezer. Particularly the courgette which you leave the skin on. They look like little bars of soap. All organic from the nice organic shop on Harlesden Road where the man with the thickest glasses in the world works. Nice man. Blind as a bat.

Yar boo sucks

I can’t be bothered today. I think I am tired.

I used to get very annoyed with parents when they described their badly behaved offspring as ‘over-tired’. No, I would think to myself, they are just being a little bastard. It’s because they are evil, not because they are over-tired. It turns out that there is such a thing as over-tired. Who knew? BB gets over-tired at tea time when she has only had a 45 minutes power nap in the morning and refused to go to sleep for the rest of the day. Over-tired mainly involves a lot of loud growling noises and bursts of shrill crying. Occasionally there are bouts of kicking followed by some intense wriggling.

I think I am over-tired. I’m going to lie on the floor and make harsh sobbing sounds until someone picks me up and gives me a cuddle.

Crab Apples

I went to a new café on Saturday for lunch. There seem to be a number of new little cafes and delicatessens popping up in Kensal Rise at the moment. This is probably because, in the manner of an odorous backed up toilet Queen Park is over spilling into NW10. The most hilarious example of this is the deli/café next to Kensal Rise station which is an ultra moderne glass structure not unlike a very grand bus shelter. It’s full of the very expensive tat that people who think they can cook fill their kitchens with to hide the fact that they don’t know the difference between button and chestnut mushrooms never mind which end of the mushroom brush to apply to them.

Not at all like this monstrosity of middle class disparation (like aspiration but totally without value or meaning being all about money and status rather than anything important) is The Brilliant Kids Café and Art Centre. We fit right in because we have a brilliant kid and is certainly a welcome addition the short list of places you can easily take a baby younger than 6 months old. Also, independent of BB, I am so weary of the gastro pub. I don’t think it has been open for very long but it is cracking, I hope it lasts and doesn’t become one of those good places that is open for five minutes and then closes.

One half of Brilliant Kids is the café where an impossibly posh, yet very hearty, woman cooks in an open kitchen. She whipped tD up some Hollandaise sauce for her Eggs Florentine which tD reported as the best sauce she had ever had (even better than my Mediterranean vegetable pasta sauce apparently, damn it all). I had Shepherd’s Pie and steamed broccoli which was magnificent. It was a huge portion, and I thought I wouldn’t be able to tuck it all away, but when I polished it off it was so lovely I could have eaten it all over again. But this is terribly uncouth, I understand, so I contented myself with just the one portion. It is also very reasonably priced with my homemade, organic and delicious shepherds pie coming in at £6.50.

The Gods of Impending Birthday sorted the weather out so we could sit outside. The garden is a little oasis of peace and tranquillity. Once you have got the buggy beside your table. Up to that point it is an oasis of why in the name of god is this garden covered in posh grey gravel that the wheels won’t work on.

We sat underneath a crab apple tree, an upward glance looking much like this:


Next door is the other half of Brilliant Kids – the Art Centre. They do all kinds of workshops for kids; from music and movement, storytelling to knitting. There is a little club afternoon with a DJ called The Crib, where they can learn street dance, and The Popcorn Club on a Saturday morning where the little angels can watch classic children’s films. They also do children’s parties which I imagine are marvellous but hideously expensive.

And you can leave your heap of car parts outside to lower the tone without paying a penny. Joyous. Did I mention the crab apples?

I like watching the whole programme

If you watch Spooks on BBC1 and not on BBC 3 I shouldn’t read this post if I were you. Which I’m not and besides that I’m writing it so I can’t help but read it. At least once on the way through.

Anyway, this is a little bit of filler to reiterate that if you don’t know what happens in the episode of Spooks that was on BBC 3 last night at 10.25pm, you may know it as The Episode After The African Summit Episode, and don’t want to know click away. Go here. Or here. But don’t read on.

So. Can you believe it? That they have gotten rid of Ruth, I mean. The bastards. She has gone somewhere mysterious to pine for Harry because she was framed for something complicated and then I missed a bit and something else happened and Hermione Norris’ character whose name escapes me was a bit mean which was quite sexy and then there was a plastic bag on someone’s head and some shouting and now Ruth has gone.

It’s Roz. The Norris character. I’ve remembered. I find her oddly attractive but this is not really relevant. Although I imagine Hermione Norris will be fascinated to learn that I’ve described her as oddly attractive. And thrilled too. Probably very secretly.

The real reason I love Ruth though, and possibly Spooks, is because I had a little play on at Soho Theatre, quite close to London's West End, once upon a time and Nicola Walker, who plays Ruth, was in it. And she was exactly perfect, just how the character played in my head. She seemed like a very nice person as well and even bought me a pint which always goes down well. When I look back on my hideous foray into professional theatre she is the axis of one of only four good experiences. She’s much better looking in real life as well. Rather like me.

I salute you Nicola Walker. With both hands simultaneously.

But I am not so much enamoured of her that I am prepared to watch Touching Evil. Not even the fragrant Walker can scratch the diseased itch that is Robson Green.

Of course, thanks to the BB I never see any television really. I see a little bit of television, the back of the living room door, the carpet in the hallway, the bedroom door handle, the rails of the cot, the BB. All at high speed. Then if I’m lucky I do it all backwards ending in seeing a little bit of television. I attempted to watch Cracker on Sunday and I did see some minutes of it but couldn’t tell you if Robbie Coltrane was in it because I never laid eyes on the chap. I missed the end last night so it’s entirely possible that in the last minute Hary woke up, Ruth stepped out of the shower and it was all a dream.

I fervently hope so.

Friday round up

Introduction
Friday’s post is becoming a bit of a summary covering many of the recent misfortunes to have befallen me, and the triumphs to have caught me unawares. So, although I am in danger of instituting a tradition, I shall crack on with the summary of where I am at or thereabouts for you.

Reading
I have finished the Bullet Trick. Hoorah. I am fully intending to write a measured and thoughtful review to make up for my previous petulance but I have shoved it on the bookshelf and each attempt to pick it up again results in an enormous wave of sorrow crashing down upon me, dashing me against the rocks of righteous indignation and feverish disappointment.

Televisual confusion
I was messing about with my camera last night and so didn’t plonk myself in front of the television until quarter to ten. I popped on BBC 1, even though I am Cross With The BBC At The Moment, and was most confused to find myself watching a docudrama where Tony Blair was extolling his own virtues as a God in a rather angsty fashion. Then, imagine my amazement, he confessed to having killed people and done all kinds of terrible things. Remarkable I thought. Then he, or perhaps it was Gordon or Claire, stuck a knife up through his chin and it made a noise exactly like when you crack Ice Magic with a spoon. At least I think that what happened with the knife and the chin. I have finely honed reflexes for that kind of thing so was already well under the sofa with my fingers over my ears and my thumbs in my eyes singing Yellow Submarine very loudly to avoid any TV gore induced trauma. Anyway, it transpired that it was not actually a sequel to The Deal but the same actor playing Nero, of the Roman Empire. I did wonder about the togas but thought that may be down to some strange Mandleson/ Campbell/ Blair Greco-Roman wrestling tournament. I think Martin Sheen is his name. He’s not related to Gloria Estefan either.

Football
We have discovered that the team that lost the final of the womens’ five-a-side football tournament had reached the final in the three previous years and so now feel less bad about the sound trouncing we received. Although I can’t even begin to talk about the winners yet. Bitches.

Annoying crazy people
The Mad Man Who Lives Up The Road has a new personality to add to the veritable post office queue he has already accumulated. I shall call her Fanny. She is very irritating with an incredibly loud high pitched voice and grave concerns about her job security. She fears the sack, she fears the sack, she fears the sack, she fears the sack. Perhaps Fanny would perform a little better at work if she didn’t spent most of her time walking up and down my street screeching. I preferred Clive the Librarian. He used to rearrange the shelves in the library and hide the Ruth Rendell’s in the back of the cookery section. I liked him. The library staff liked him less though he meant they had to do some Work. Heaven forfend.

Outrage
I inadvertently left Sad Little Clancy’s door unlocked for three nights and no one stole her, slept in her, pissed in her or threw rubbish in her. I am outraged. The Subaru up the road went like a hot cake. I think I will buy Sad Little Clancy a spoiler and a neon racing stripe.

Most importantly
Bambino Bamboo is four months old today. Happy sortofbirthday [exclamation mark] She’s doing lots of interesting things and being adorable but this is the round up post so there’ll be no more of that.

And there we are. Vaarwel, gentle reader.

InFrequently Asked Questions

Hello, and welcome. I have enlisted the help of Flashman Topside to interview me for my InFrequently Asked Questions. I don’t know Flashman Topside from Adam. Unless Adam is wearing a name badge, then I think even I could work it out.

What is your fantasy Top of the Pops episode (six live appearances and what’s number one)?
Nirvana - A Hazy Shade of Winter
Pet Shop Boys and Dusty Springfield - I Knew Him So Well
The Cure – A Spoonful of Sugar
Madonna – Sympathy for the Devil
Jimi Hendrix – Welcome to the Jungle
They Might Be Giants feat. Patti Smith - Killer Queen

Number one in that particular chart I think would be a David Bowie double A side with Somewhere Over the Rainbow and Unfinished Sympathy.

Is Froosh Bamboo your real name?
Why, yes, it is. Okay, no. A great shame. I might have it changed by deed poll. Although tD would kill me.

Who is tD?
The Divinity is my civil partner. When will we think of a better way of putting that? We’ve been together for so long it makes me seem really old. Even though I’m actually a spring chicken. I think she despairs of my blog and wishes that I would concentrate on writing my next novel or moving the first one out of the bottom drawer so she can fill it with nice brightly coloured stationary. Mmmmm. Maybe I will. She would actually just prefer me to get a job that doesn’t pay voluntary sector wages but then I’d have to work in the private sector. For The Man. Shudder.

So, you are a lady. And tD is a lady. But you have a baby - I’m confused.
By what?

The amount of ladies and lack of a man.
Mmmm?

You’re not prepared to engage with this at all, are you?
Nope. You may like to grow up and join the rest of us in the 21st century.

Okay, moody. Brief autobiography of the Froosh, please.
Born. In Northampton. Grew and grew and grew. Went to school. Realised nobody likes the kid who puts their hand up all the time. Stopped putting hand up. Became smart arsed problem child. Got up one morning made toast for breakfast, burnt toast, saw pattern in scorch mark in shape of Jeanette Winterson’s face, considered this sign, embraced gayness. Ninth birthday. Grew some more. Later, joined youth theatre. Went to university and studied drama, hated it. Moved to London. Did Masters degree in performance studies, hated it. Met tD. Wrote for theatre, hated it. Penny dropped. Adopted zen-like attitude of calm and mellowness and stayed away from theatres. Started novel. Got married. Started blog. Finished novel. Had baby. Put novel in bottom drawer. Wrote this post. Et voila.

You seem to fall over a lot. Are you really that clumsy?
I am an extraordinarily graceful woman. Like a very elegant gazelle. It’s just that some pieces of furniture, some pavements and some pairs of shoes seem to be out to get me. That’s all. Also, sometimes all the blood rushes to my brain and I can’t retain control of some of my limbs. I would rather it was the limbs than the bladder. As my grandmother used to say it’s better to fall over then piss yourself.

Are you another blogger trying to get a book deal?
No, and anyway things like that don’t happen to me or to the overwhelming majority of the billions of pople with blogs. That’s a stupid reason to have a blog. All right, Mr Paxman? Also, why is it not acceptable to just have a blog and be happy with that? I like writing and having a couple of people read it. That is enough. I have a beaten up 1989 Nissan Micra (hello, foxy AA lady) and I have no desire to get a shiny 4x4. It’s that kind of thing. Expect I am in no way saying that my blog is a banger and a book deal is a brand new expensive child killing vehicle. Oh, wait. Maybe I am. I like bangers. Next.

You’ve got all moody again.
Sorry.

So, what’s with the squirrels? Do you hate them?
No. I really like them. They are most entertaining. It also amusing me that one of the Bambino Bamboo’s first word will be probably be an attempt at ‘squirrel’. Skwiiiiil, I expect. I also think that the grey squirrel done kilt them poor widdle wed squirrels argument is bollocks. Humans are the most murderous species on earth so let’s move it out of the glass house, people. The squirrels are more popular than I am. Particularly Bastard. I just don’t get it.

Did they really kill the Prime Minister and replace him with a guy called Hilary?
I’m not allowed to talk about it while the court case is ongoing.

Are you really the world’s worst proof-reader though?
Ph yes.

Your boss has a blog, right?
Oh yes, and if you don’t visit it I’ll get grief. Never mind, I think the ink will be dry on my p45 soon. And don’t call him that, please, it scares me.

Do you really like your job?
I do actually although I think, as with all places of work, the people make it. To be honest I’d rather sit in an impossibly tall ivory tower writing books but I can’t seem to get my finger out of my arse. At least this way I can tell people I’m an editor without technically lying.

Why isn’t this a sex blog? I think I’d like it to be.
I don’t know. I'm too shy. I could tell you about how difficult it is to have sex in the same room as a lightly sleeping two month old baby. And probably immoral. Oh dear, I have never giggled so much in my entire life. Suffice to say we woke her up. See, I’m not good at the sexblogging. I missed the hot girlie action bit out. Also, too much with the giggling. Sorry about that.

What are your five favourite books?
I don’t know. I don’t have five favourite books. I like lots of books. Books are good. I love them. Etc.

You’ve kind of lost interest now, haven’t you?
I think we all have.

Damn. I was enjoying myself.
I’m glad someone was.

Shut up. You're much more grumpy in real life.
Don’t tell me to shut up. It’s my blog.

Sorry.
That’s okay.

Okay.
Okay.

You hang up.
No, you hang up.

No, you hang up.
No you.

You.
On three.

Okay.
One. Two. Thr -.

I hate you, Froosh Bamboo.

Little baby tree hugger

My daughter, who is now 15 weeks old or three months and a bit in old money, is obsessed with trees. Her granny said that 'most babies usually are'. Stupid granny. If she carries on like that she will never be called grandma, no matter how much she hates being called granny. As if my daughter does anything usual – she only does incredibly gifted or stupendously talented. Obviously.

We took her, daughter not granny, to Roundwood Park at the weekend and she gazed up at one tree for ages. She is particularly fond of oak trees for some reason. So, I took a picture of it for her. This was a complicated procedure which involved lying on the ground exactly where she had been in her buggy to get the view right, then wrestling with my conscience to reconcile aesthetic sense with parental responsibility. Neither won in the end – as you can tell from the photo.

Yesterday, she was very unsettled and as it was pouring with rain and we couldn’t go in the garden to look at the real trees, I whipped out the photo.

I spent twenty whole minutes wafting the photo as if in a restful breeze and making a remarkably realistic noise like said breeze rustling leaves peacefully. Nothing. No content sighs, no smiles, no falling asleep. At least there was no grizzling, but still. She’s a tough crowd; my kid.

Then I cracked and went; ‘brrrrrrrr’. With extra spittle and everything.

And for the first time she did it back. (I’d put an exclamation mark here if I weren’t so pathologically opposed to them – imagine one if you like.)

I have not been so excited since she passed her linking ring from one hand to the other and shoved it in her mouth.

‘Well,’ said the Divinity watching from the sofa and being no help. ‘You can certainly tell she’s your daughter.’

‘BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR,’ we said.

But she merely smirked.