Barren Mare

Whoosh

Holy crap, I am getting married on Saturday. S-a-t-u-r-day, as in two days from now, only it is already nine pm here by now, so slightly less than that. Saturday! 

There are many and varied things to freak out about , but instead I am taking the excellent advice of my wise friend L. We had lunch at the end of last week and she took one look at my slightly panicked and wide-eyed expression before immediately prescribing two glasses of wine every night, to be taken with a repeated "zen whooshing motion" made about the neck and face. And you know what, it's kind of working! Never mind that the window works were only finally finished today about an hour before I had to collect Botany and the whole place smells like paint and I jammed my finger trying to shut the top pane. Never mind that I keep receiving these random emails from the venue with questions that really should have been answered about a month ago. Oh and never mind that my mother and Knox's mother have fallen out very badly, like the aftermath of a small nuclear explosion, which should make for a lovely current of thinly disguised tension on the day and well...for the rest of our lives, apparently. 

Zen whooshing motion. Wine. Repeat.

Knox and I generally get along extremely well considering the large level of stress we often consume on a daily/weekly basis. The one thing we quite regularly disagree about is Botany and certain aspects of her upbringing. The early morning wakings continue to be a source of friction; he is adamant that the reason she wakes up at the crack of dawn is because she wants me and more specifically, my boobs. I remain slightly sceptical about this; my view is that she usually wakes up because she can only sleep ten hours at any given stretch, and at that point, she's just done with sleeping. If she was so tired the night before that she went to bed at 7.30, we're doomed. 

Having agreed we needed some hard data on the matter, we kept a sleep chart for over a month, mapping wake up times and nap times and go-to-sleep times. What it indicated was a wake-up time varying from between 5.30 am to 6.30, but on average 10 hours a night and that Botany is in fact in the normal amounts of sleep ranges for a child of her age. 

What it didn't show is that some mornings she wakes up and chats to herself quite happily for 15 minutes before calling me. Or that some mornings, she actually didn't ask to nurse at all, and I managed to get her out the door to nursery before she remembered it was something that she wants. Or that if Knox is here and gets up with her, she's quite happy to accept that Mummy is still sleeping and to leave me in peace until I drag my carcass out of bed an hour later. All of which to my mind somewhat disproves the "she wants boob, hence wakes up" theory. But Knox is hard to convince on the subject- he thinks that even if she gets it later on in the morning, it's an incentive to wake up. I'm trying to take his opinion into account but the only way to test his theory is to proceed to full scale weaning and frankly, that is sooo not something I wanted to tackle before the wedding. The issue has dragged on and invariably we end up hissing at each about it at 5.30 in the morning when we hear Botany stirring.

I did have one other major realisation as I studied the chart data. There is a myth (largely perpetuated by my parents) that Botany "requires less sleep than I do". What dawned on me is that this is quite untrue. The reality is that to be at my absolute best, I would ideally have roughly the same amount of sleep as Botany. Of course, unless I go to bed at the same time as she does, that obviously isn't going to happen. 

The wedding shoes are called "Jasmine" and I bought them at Topshop, for those who were wondering. They also come in a rather fetching red colour, though mine are a kind of strange steel grey-blue. Of course, the problem with getting anything from that store is that they change their stock about every thirty seconds (so we can all stay "bang on trend!")

By the time I post next, I will (hopefully) be in a state of married bliss; we're headed to Paris for a quick honeymoon but not until next weekend, so if at all possible I will bring you an update of sorts as to how the day went. And if she'll deign to hold still for more than ten seconds, a picture of Botany in her dress (at least, from the back).  

The tiny dictator has a birthday

Botany has recently perfected saying, "I want" and "I need". Having learned those key phrases, she has also discovered how to deploy the expression of her many and varied wants and her needs at every possible interval. 

"I want a banana! I want pink milk! I need to go potty! I want to go in the garden! I want an ice cream cone! I want to go to work! I want to go to the beach! I need my nappy changed! I want a pony! I want to go for a wee walk!" (I'm actually not making any of this up. The first time I heard "wee walk", I nearly died at the cuteness. The eighth time, not so much.).

Clearly, she is delighted at the reaction she gets as she observes certain adults in her midst scrambling to comply to with her whims and much, much less delighted when certain other adults do not. Denial leads to screaming, thrashing, wailing meltdowns, with the result that a system of time-outs has had to be implemented. Knox and I are hoping for the best at the wedding next week but frankly, pretty much bracing ourselves for the worst.

Tomorrow, my girl turns two years old. I can honestly say that despite the moments when she is being a pain in the ass, I remain completely, utterly, totally besotted with her. She is amazingly intelligent, funny, silly, challenging and adorable. I never tire of looking at her sweet cherub's face and the smell of her delicious baby neck. I still sometimes slip into her room once she is finally asleep to stand over her crib and marvel that this little person is here at all. I have the sense that time is going to slip through our fingers at a frightening pace now- and in between wanting her to snap out of whatever hissy fit she is pitching, my heart wrenches at how soon babyhood will be left behind. Happy birthday, dear Botany.

Meanwhile, in other news, the entire flat is covered with a heavy layer of dust from the essential maintenance on all the windows. Every day for the last two weeks I have come home to find the toilet seat being left up and worker deitrus everywhere (including those lovely tabloid newspapers which feature bare breasted women on page three, a quaint British tradition that I have never completely gotten my head around.) I could probably overlook this, but the other day I arrived back to discover that my poetry fridge magnets had been rearranged into a message so graphically obscene that it's not even possible to have a sense of humour about it. I mean, what the effing eff?  Who does that? 

Based on previous experiences with tradesmen, I decided that while what had happened was creepy and inappropriate in the extreme, it was also prudent for me not to mention it until the job is completed. So I just quietly took down all the magnets and hoped they would be gone by the time I got back today. Unfortunately not- and worse still, Botany decided she wanted to "help the men with the work", complaining vociferously when I tried to haul her into the haven of her room until they finished packing up for the day. Then I discovered that while most of the work is done (and the tools thankfully carted away), the painting is to drag on into next week. Next week! My friends, next week is the week of my wedding. I want to have a day or two while Botany is at nursery to go back to bed immediately after dropping her off, sleep until eleven, tie up some loose planning ends and then lie in a bubblebath applying face packs and polishing my toenails while listening to catchy pop music. Goddamnit.

On a happier note, I bring you a photo of wedding shoes. There was a bit of a saga behind finding something I wanted; the purchase of order of an expensive French brand online proved disappointing (and way too ill fitting to contemplate dancing). I flirted with an art deco-esque design, going so far as to try them on twice but the colour was ultimately wrong- and well, it was just not meant to be.

Finally, I spotted this pair in the shop window, from across a crowded street and it was love at first sight. Love! I even negotiated a 10% discount, which was either savvy or obnoxious, depending on how you look at it.

Preserving the illusion that I might actually have this under control

Somewhere in the annals of this blog, I once received a very flattering comment to the effect that the person would continue reading even if I were to publish my grocery shopping list. I don't want to press my luck quite that far. But- partly because it amuses me and partly because I am too deranged to think of much else, I am actually going to present you with the list currently fermenting on my desk of Things I Need to Remember to Bring to the Wedding. Bear in mind it is a work in progress:

• Peacock feather buttonholes for Knox, my dad, the best man (who is a woman) and any other random taker (I have four).
• Laptop. We need this to play music.
• Travel adaptor for laptop since the plug is American and the computer will not be of much use if we cannot plug it in.
• The thing I am going to wear on my head- an art deco-esque headband purchased from Etsy.
• Great-great grandmother's amethyst thistle brooch to be added to ribbon on bouquet handle
• Blue underwear (for something blue)
• Strapless bra (dress not strapless but not wanting worry of straying bra)
• Corset-y thing to hold in tummy
• Some sort of hosiery yet to be purchased
• Some sort of attractive wedding night pyjamas that do not have moth eaten holes or baby-related stains on them (yet to be purchased)
• Wedding shoes
• Something borrowed- yet to be figured out as to what
• Chequebook and pen plus credit cars for all the vast sums I shall presently be dishing out as part of this nuptial endeavour 
• Botany's dress (you shall have a picture of the deliciousness)
• Botany's shoes (normally retail for 24.00. For me, 3.70 on e*ay- bargain!)
• Botany's flowers
• Bedding for travel cot
• Crate of nappies, wipes and nappy sacks
• Camera and spare batteries
• Disposable cameras for table
• Acne cleansing face goop and spot blaster
• Favourite shampoo
• Phone charger
• entire contents of makeup case
• medication
• the rings!!!

Before I forget- the mention of the potty training in the previous post was perhaps just a slight exaggeration. We are more flirting with the whole concept than actually embarking on a full scale assault of the issue. Botany was showing all the signs of potty readiness so I bought one, just so she can get used to it. On one happy occasion she actually ran up to me yelling "poo now! poo now!" and clutching at her bits. So we ran to the bathroom, grabbed the potty and whipped off her nappy. Whereupon I discovered that, as usual, she had actually already done the poo. But she wasn't quite finished yet and was happy to sit there on the pot finishing the jobby job. We both inspected the results with a certain amount of pride and self congratulatory back patting. And since then she has shown a complete reluctance to go any further with it, other than occasionally dragging the potty out into the hallway at inappropriate intervals and demanding to be changed even when she does not need it.

As for the first trip to the dentist- oh god, it was a complete and total horror. I had my reasons for wanting to get her registered which I will explain another time. But let's just say that it was an absolute disaster and I don't want to attempt it again any time, ever (even though of course at some point, I will. I like nice teeth.) 

And, since you asked so nicely, here's a picture of the dress. I really must learn to use my camera at some point during this lifetime. I don't think it's a very good photo- on reflection, the whole thing looks a bit lifeless and limp and I assure you it's very much nicer when I actually have it on. But when I went to try to take an improved photo, I realised I had already sent it to my mother's flat so she could organise having it pressed. Also, when I took the picture, I was fairly certain I was going to wear the shrug thing on top for the whole day, but I have since reconsidered. So unless it is absolutely perishingly cold (a distinct possibility for Scotland in August), I will only put it on when the mood takes me or perhaps later in the evening.

Anyway, caveats aside, it gives you the general idea. Enjoy.

 

 

 

Have you seen my balls?

I am, it seems, dropping some of the many, many balls I have in the air- including keeping up with my blogging deadlines.

At the risk of sounding like a whiner- this month?  Insane. Insaaaaaaaaane. Aside from the small matter of finalising all the wedding details (three weeks from now!), get this:  E. in New York all last week, no help with Botany care. Car insurance is due for renewal. Road Tax is due for renewal. Car breakdown insurance is due for renewal. Home insurance is due for renewal. Car is due for servicing. Botany's first dental appointment. Birthday parties of the children of three friends to attend. A Dear Friend's birthday. On the same day, Knox's birthday. Botany's second birthday in two weeks. Major work starting on all the windows in the flat tomorrow, unable to be home all day even at naptime. Botany's eczema flaring up. My mother's friends arriving in town for the wedding and asking for restaurant recommendations. The commencement of potty training.

Tonight I went to lay out all my pills to take tomorrow morning (as I do) and discovered I have totally run out of thyroid tablets.  I cannot afford to get any more tired and sluggish than I already am, which means I need to get the thyroxine prescription submitted immediately. I add that to list, mentally kicking myself for not even realising I was about to run out. When I start slipping up on getting the basic medication needed to sustain my health, I realise that I'm no longer juggling anymore, I am flailing.   

What I'd really like to do is lie down somewhere and quietly freak the fuck out for about an hour, but it seems there is no time for this, either. Instead, I am making lists and trying to chip away at the ice block of panic in my chest. I keep thinking, surely I've been busier than this at some point in my life. Except I sort of doubt that I was this busy with a two year old hanging on my thigh endlessly demanding things in tiny dictator fashion.

To add to all the fun, the road works in this town have reached the point where to make a right turn to my parent's flat (ordinarily just one mile down the road), I have to go almost two miles out of my way. Botany actually knows the word "diversion", as evidenced by her piping up, unprompted, from the backseat, "Anudder davershun mummy?"

Sigh.

I am glad you all seem to like the ring- it does bring me daily happiness to see it on my finger. I have some pictures of the wedding gown as well, but I was wondering: is it bad luck for the internet to see the bride's dress before the groom does?

A long-necked model

The batteries for the camera arrived with the last grocery order, and so I resolved to honour my promise to at last produce pictures of the ring. Girl Mouse still being in absentia, I decided to enlist the support of another one of Botany's friends, namely Mr Giraffe.

Whereupon I discovered two things: firstly, that I do not really know how to use my camera very well- or even at all- and secondly, that Mr Giraffe, while bewildered by the proceedings, nevertheless looks rather fetching in diamonds.

Observe for yourself:

  

Mr Giraffe wonders, "Why do I have a ring on my head?"

Mr Giraffe thinks, "Huh. I suddenly feel like I am in the Empire State Building."

Mr Giraffe heads off into the sunset on the savannah, his work done. 

As Beyonce might say

I had fully planned on taking and posting pictures of my engagement ring to go along with the following story. In fact, in the stylee of cutesy wedding photographers, I was even going to photograph the ring on the finger of Botany's toy Girl Mouse, thus tying in two recent themes together.

 Then I discovered that the recent child visitor appears to have stolen Girl Mouse or possibly it is just lost. At the same time, the mice finally finally finally started to partake of the poison bait liberally strewn around my flat (and disappearing). That's a good thing but makes the whole topic slightly less amusing, especially as I wonder whether they have perhaps died somewhere behind the washing machine. Lastly- the batteries for the camera that I know I bought for a friend's graduation less than a month ago? Missing. Gone. Nowhere to be found. I decided to take the hint and just write about the ring, for now.  As it is, it has taken me over A WEEK to get a draft post together. 

Knox made it clear around Valentine's Day that he was minded to propose, but being traditionally inclined, he wanted to have a ring on him when he popped the question. However, he's also savvy enough to know that I might be sort of, um, particular about the type of ring I would want. Unsurprisingly, it is actually something that I had given a bit of thought to over the years. As soon as was seemly (approximately five minutes after he left that weekend) I found myself sprinting to the computer to embark on a feast of internet trawling for likely ring candidates.

There was then a rather delicate interval where I wondered how to indicate to him my very particular preferences without being too demanding or grasping. I was unsure of the budget and decided "within reason" would probably suffice. Finally, he said, look, just send me some examples of things you like.

As it happened, that night, I had been looking around a certain popular auction site and found a very fetching item. I loved it immediately. It was a slightly unusual but quite simple platinum ring, with an art deco-style setting for four emerald cut diamonds. It reminded me a little of the Empire State building for some reason. It was not too expensive. And the auction ended in about 11 hours.

"I like that one," I told him via instant messaging. "A lot."

It was, however, I felt, probably quite premature to be rushing into buying the first ring I had seen that I liked, and one should never be too hasty with online auctions either. We talked about it for a short time and then I went to bed. When I woke up in the morning, I checked and saw the auction had finished. The ring was gone. I experienced a pang of regret and then figured I would find another one that I would love just as much. 

I looked and looked and looked and looked. And kept returning the auction page, staring at the ring I had missed out on. There was nothing like it to be found on the internet, certainly not remotely in the same price range. I flirted with a couple of other possibilities, but without all that much enthusiasm. I worried Knox would get tired of hearing about the whole issue, especially when I began wondering how hard it would be to find the person who had won the auction.

"Listen," I said to him, "some other bitch is out there and she is wearing my ring!"

What I can say, diamonds make a girl slightly insane. 

Finally, I gave up and we agreed we could go look around when we were over the States on our March visit. Of course, we spent virtually the whole trip chasing after Botany. Beach! Museum! Aquarium! Wheeling the doll buggy around and around the house! There was no time to do any shopping of any kind for ourselves other than a mad dash to Old Dark Blue for some emergency summery Florida attire. I half heartedly pinned my hopes that we would have an opportunity to at least stick our heads in a jewelry shop when we went off for a couple of nights on our own toward the end of our stay.

The first night at our B&B, Knox seemed quite preoccupied with finding a nice place to watch the sunset. We hadn't really been able to see a single Florida sunset the entire visit so I thought nothing of it. As we sat having early evening cocktails with the guest house owners, we quizzed them about the best spot for sunset viewing and they directed us to a bench just across the road, looking out over the marina. We gulped down the rest of our quite potent drinks and hotfooted it over there.

Ooh, lovely sun. Look, pretty colours. Knox put his arm around me. How romantic is this, I thought. And then he whispered in my ear, "Will you marry me?"

I pulled back. Hey! What a chancer! First sign of a sunset and he goes all mushy and...  "wait a minute," I said, "where's the fucking ring?"  

My exact words. Charming, no? The epitome of class. Whereupon, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a box, putting it into my hand.

I sat there blankly for a second. There was such a strange mix of thoughts in my head. I confess I had no idea what was in the box- I halfway expected it was going to be a ring pull tab from a Coke can, since we had had something of a joke about this and I could not believe he had actually gone ahead and bought something without my having seen it first. I opened it.

In fact, it was the Empire State building ring. He'd stayed up until 5am the night of the auction researching diamonds and grades and carats- and then he bought it for me. It's one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me, and I cried a bit more and said yes, of course of course. And we took cheesy pictures in which I am grinning ear to ear in a slightly manic fashion. With the camera that now needs batteries.   

Pretty dress

Visitors! Visitors from out of town and overseas! For ten days! Bringing with them a young child three months older than Botany and a tendency to pack it in and live life at a dazzling pace. They left yesterday. The house is quiet once more- no more squealing rows over teddies and the doll buggy and the book that the other child wants to read. No more Botany's plaintive cry of "Share!" while wrestling the desired item out of the other child's paw. (Share meaning "give it to me at once", of course.) I'm a little drained and quite backlogged in my usual endless round of tasks (including writing the ring story. Your patience will be rewarded with photos of the shiny thing.)

Speaking of tasks, I have a new daily chore to add to the litany. After 20 or so months of submitting quite dutifully to putting whatever it was I had chosen for her to wear, Botany recently began to demonstrate a preference for donning what she dubs "pretty dresses." Of course when she announced that this was all she wanted (accompanied by ripping the proposed shirt and trousers ensemble out of my hand and throwing it across the room), I only had about two dresses in the wardrobe. In the interests of keeping the peace and being able to leave the house to go to work/nursery in a reasonable timescale, at the first opportunity I duly acquired a couple of suitably fetching dress items. Amongst these was an attractive rose coloured frock, plain in design but made of a pleasingly soft fabric, with a floaty form.

Cue obsession. Absolute obsession. This is the pretty dress to end all pretty dresses. For an entire week it was quite literally all Botany wanted to wear, even at bedtime. Any other dress was spurned emphatically.  Removing the pink pretty dress resulted in tears. Putting it in the washing machine and then letting it dry resulted in a spectacular nuclear meltdown, with tiny fists pounding on the wall followed by a stealth attempt to later actually untie the cord holding up the overhead drying rack. Ain't happening, baby, that rope is secured to within an each of its life, given that when we put it up I anticipated just this eventuality. Unfortunately, there was no way around needing to wash the thing, since the obsession coincided with both a hot spell of weather (sweaty) and the discovery of a food item named jam (sticky). 

Finally, in desperation, my mother made a mercy dash to town to buy a second, identical pink pretty dress. The look of ecstasy on Botany's face when I produced it in the morning and her delighted wiggle of joy when I slipped it over her head made it worthwhile. However, I draw the line at having more than two of the same item, especially since I fully expect that this is a passing fancy that will end abruptly, sooner rather than later. But in the meantime, the need to have a constant supply of clean pink pretty dresses means every night, the dirty one is handwashed and hung up to dry while the next one is rotated into position for the morning.

I suppose, bearing in mind all the strange quirks of toddlerhood, this is a relatively small thing. But the experience of nightly washing and drying of the same dress occasionally gives me an odd Groundhog Day type sensation. That or feeling transported back to the olden days of yore when people really had far less clothing and (I would imagine) made do with one or two dresses handed down from child to child. Mind you, I expect they were accustomed to being far grubbier, generally, and less likely to encounter sniffs of disapproval from the other people at the sight of a little jam down the front.  

Small but annoying potatoes

I was going to tell the Tale of the Ring, as promised, but I confess I am not having the best of weeks and am not in a great frame of mind. It seems petulant to complain about the relatively minor things that are weighing me down- compared to the real problems of others, it is small potatoes. And yet, they are my small potatoes and seem in need of unloading all the same.   

Knox had his Big Important Scary Interview yesterday for his dream job, but he didn't get through to the next stage of the recruitment process. This is disappointing, to be sure but he was quite preoccupied with preparing for it for ages now, and everything else has had to temporarily take a back seat. That might not ordinarily would be not such a big deal except that there's this WEDDING and all, and I am beginning to anxiously watch the days slip by with certain key details (you know, flowers, music, how am I actually going to get to the venue in my pretty white frock) still not nailed down.

Then I feel silly because after all, it's still not entirely clear what he is going to do for a job in the same city as me and Botany and in the long run, that's more important (and scary).

The goddamn mouse is still in residence. I know I said I would stop wittering on about it so much but it's starting to really bug me that the little fucker is managing to crap absolutely everywhere and is utterly resistant to bait, traps and other cruel and unusual methods of destruction. Plus it makes me jump out of my skin every time I unthinkingly wander into the kitchen for a glass of water without turning on the light first and next thing I know there's a small gray object darting across the floor.

I'm worried about money. When I moved into this flat last year, the valuation report flagged up that the windows needed some repairs and maintenance. Since the whole experience of splitting up with E. was already so eyewateringly expensive, I halfheartedly got one quote from a company that weren't really all that interested in doing the work, and then I did nothing else about it. Turns out that original estimate was way off base, because a year and two more quotes later, I have a better idea of what it will really cost. And it's hideous. I can either stump up the cash now and be done with it, or spend the next winter shivering in the icy cold drafts wafting in with a repeat of last season's ghastly fuel bills. Unfortunately I am also spurting money from every artery on wedding related gubbins and you know, generally, the economic climate is not looking so hot just now. 

Botany's early morning wakings are maddeningly close to being something resembling manageable in that she has taken to sleeping until 6-6.30 most days. Then, just when we think we're doing better, she pulls a 5am wake up (or earlier) call for several days in a row. It's become an extremely sore point between me and Knox as to how to handle it; in fact, probably the only thing we ever argue about. In many ways I worry more about her wake ups contributing to the friction about the issue than I do about actually having to get out of bed.

There are other various and sundry tensions brewing with family members which I am not at liberty to write about for fear of discovery. But let's just say I am especially stressed about it given that I'm not sure how to resolve the issues, other than to give myself a personality transplant together with rewriting my chequered past.    

Lastly, I have a spot the size of Nebraaaaaskka on my chin. I know I should leave it Strictly Alone but I am never very good at that, plus it hurts and I find myself inadvertently clawing at it. It's so yucky that Botany has actually taken to pointing at it, or even poking it with her little finger saying, "Mummy has sore spot on chin." Yes, darling. Thank you for repeating that in front of my parents, the grocery store clerk and the nursery staff. Your verbal skills are outstanding.

Really, Botany's speech does make my jaw drop regularly these days. It's actually starting to freak me out a little. Yesterday I put a new dress on her and she said quite calmly and clearly, "take the tags off."  This kid is 22 months going on 12. And she's healthy, gorgeous and bright as a button- which, when I think about it,  makes the above complaints pale into tiny spuds of insignificance.

Because it's always fun to rearrange the furniture anyway!

Traps O'Death were already being deployed at the time of the writing of that last post. That is, the serious no-more-messing-around-you-little-bastards-neck snappers and the poison snacks were deposited at strategic mouse-favoured locations. Well out of the reach of even the most intrepid of Botanies, I might add. I tried various baits, although it turned out we were out of peanut butter. After nearly a week with no results (and more mouse antics in the night), I broke down and got out the mothballs.

Someone wise suggested that if I used mothballs my house would stink like old, incontinent people. Forever. I laughed when I read that comment and chuckled a bit more when I first opened the package, because damn! These really are some whiffy little items. Then I winced a bit as I strew the smelly things about the flat, silently chanting "Beloved grandmother's attic. This reminds me of my beloved grandmother's attic".

When Knox arrived, he wrinkled his nose as soon as he walked in the door and said, "Phew. It smells like old, incontinent people in here."  At which point even I had to concede that it simply reeked. Oh well, I said, we can try it for one night.

You would have thought I had put down the equivalent of mouse catnip, because that night, they came and cavorted about the bedroom like never before. Well, I was actually sound asleep, but Knox lay awake, witnessing the whole thing. The mouse came in, tapdanced around the shoes for a bit (where I had most liberally placed the mothballs), scampered up and down the length before ascending into my laundry basket.

Then, he reported incredulously in the morning, the mouse leapt straight out of the basket and clung on to that nice blue woolen scarf I have hanging on a hook on the back of the door. There it swayed, suspended above the floor, presumably trying to work out how to scale the Everest proportions of the wardrobe itself to reach the nappy bag on top, before dropping off and running away to feast on whatever crumbs Botany had dropped under her highchair.

It was like the Mouse Olympics, Knox said, shuddering. I would not have believed him about the scarf on the door thing, but Knox is not prone to making stuff like that up.

So, in the morning, the mothballs were removed and all windows opened to try to clear the stench. Fortunately, since it was only one night, it doesn't seem the odour was permanent, although amazingly hard to get rid of the smell despite the relatively short length of time. You have been warned, ye who would consider mothballs.

As far as the ongoing mouse problem, I decided the solution was to remove all the shoe storage boxes (leaving nowhere to hide) and to relocate the laundry basket in a less mouse friendly location and to pull the wardrobe out from wall making it less of a desirable place to hang out, all the more so with poison and Trap of Death at either end (to be removed in the day time from botanical reach). That night, we spotted the mouse in the kitchen, obviously looking for a new home. We sealed up the room that night, apart from the hole in the back of the refrigerator where they are obviously coming and going, and in the morning we took the bold step of sealing that hole as well, in the hope that the mouse had gone there rather than say, behind the cooker.

Since then, it's been a mouse free zone in my room- so far, anyway- and we're hoping the rest of the flat is similarly cleared, although I am less optimistic about that.

I was just breathing a sigh of relief as I stood by the bedroom window sill, folding my laundry, when a gigantic spider ran out from behind Knox's underpants and sat there glowering at me while I freaked out elaborately.   

Next time, I promise: less rodents and more wedding chat! I believe I owe you a story about the ring.       

Mousefestation

It appears you are all too scared of catching my computer cooties to comment. Never mind. I think (I hope) my clever father may have fixed it. Or at least he ripped out the system's guts, performed emergency surgery and stapled it all back together again. It is functioning, for now, although I am not completely optimistic that the problem is completely eradicated.

Much like the problem with the mice in this flat. Following a long quiet spell after the murder of Graham Mouse, the mouse family is back- at least one, or possibly two. Unfortunately, it seems that the mouse clan has decided to relocate into my bedroom- specifically, behind my wardrobe. I suppose I could live with a certain amount of scampering around the flat, but when it's happening right next to my bed, it gives me the heebies.

Worse still, the mice are demonstrating a decided fondness for my laundry basket. Over the weekend,  I stashed the nappy bag there (thinking, tra la la, that I needed to make sure the bag was off the floor so the mice didn't get into it.) Then, as I was changing the bedsheets, I heard a rustling of tiny mouse feet coming from inside the bag. I ran to get Knox, and he quickly zipped up the bag opening. He held it up.

"I bet the mouse is long gone," he said.

"I wouldn't be so sure- I think it is still in there," I told him. So we waited it out, placing the bag in a quiet corner. Sure enough, about half an hour later, we heard telltale scrabbles. Eek. Knox bravely embarked on a bit of mouse relocation out in the garden- as soon as he opened the bag, the thing leaped about ten feet in the air, straight past him and into the sanctuary of the stone wall.

In hindsight we probably should have tried to take the mouse a bit further afield, because within a day or so, we were hearing the same familiar noises. I wouldn't have necessarily thought it was the same mouse, except it keeps heading for the damn laundry basket in the bedroom. Last night, I was awakened at 1am by the sound of small chomping noises coming from the laundry corner. With the aid of a broom handle, I poked the basket and the mouse shot out over the side (scaring the beejezus out of me, I might add) and off behind the wardrobe. I threw my coat over the top of the basket but evidently that was not enough of a deterrent from whatever appealing morsel it was in search of, since an hour or so later, I woke up again to hear the mouse making merry amongst my dirty linen. This time, when I stabbed the basket, the mouse made its escape over the side again but changed direction mid leap, heading straight for my feet, causing me to pinwheel frantically backwards still clutching the broom handle and emitting a muffled shriek.

This morning as I sat hollow eyed with exhaustion at my desk, a colleague said sympathetically,

"Botany keeping you up all night?"

"Nah," I said, "laundry mouse." 

Cue look of bemused confusion at the gibbering idiot.

So, I've had enough of the mouse antics, and from now on, it's war. War, I tell you!  I'm going in all guns blazing with all removal mechanisms at my disposal. Somebody once suggested mothballs, which I will try, though these are surprisingly tricky to find. There's no evidence of moths in the flat as yet, but given that we seem to be suffering from all sorts of infestations stemming from various sources, it can do no harm to have a two for the price of one method.