We are still a marginally disorganized household. My clothes are in the room that Lottie sleeps in. Madame does not surface until 8:30 am. Darling son needs taking to nursery 3 days a week. Had a bad night with Lottie, so decided not to creep into her room lest I wake her up, but wear what I could find around the house. Ah, how I wished I was not so organised yesterday and put all the clothes away. After rummaging round in the washing machine, I found my gardening trousers and Stuarts top. I call it scarecrow fashion……I also remembered that there were some size 22 panties I had saved as dusting clothes. Decided that I had no choice, had to wear these clothes. Felt quite good, despite about 4 hours sleep. I told Stuart I was going to have the car washed after I dropped Cam off.
On my way to the nursery, decided that the most time efficient way was to drop car off for washing and take Cam to nursery by pram, as it was only a 2 min walk.
This particular carwash is manned by young men, all of whom look too thin and mean, to get a job at McDonalds and hence probably end up washing cars. Nice non threatening older looking man, obviously the manager of these reprobates comes over to ask what needed washing on the car. Told him to look at car and give it the full works. He said about £25. Eyes nearly popped out of head and I asked him to give me a breakdown, apparently it’s a £1 for every window, some minor charge for cleaning wheels, something called traffic degreaser blah blah. I think they must have polished it with personalised chamois for that price. Anyways, decided that haggling was getting me nowhere and toddler getting het up, I agreed.
Started to unpack pram from the boot. At this stage, I started feeling a draft. Quick check on the old trousers confirmed the worst, trousers were falling down. Decide that they wont fall too far, as pants will stop them. Wrong. Taking pram out of car pulls trousers lower still. As I take boy out of the car and try to put into the pram I feel the need to release one hand and hold trousers up. Putting a resistant, thrashing toddler into a pram is an artform in itself, without having to do it one handed.
By this time, my car is being driven away and then pressure hosed down. The boy then starts shrieking in delight, “oh dear, bye bye car”. This drew the unwanted attention of the other mean looking boys, who had nothing better to do than watch me struggle with boy, pram and trousers. To further add to my woes, the brakes on the pram jammed, leaving me no spare hands to investigate AND having to bend down even further.
Decided that I had had enough, bent down, released brake, said Bye Bye car very loudly, and hoped they would not be charging me double for the impromptu show I just provided.
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
Saturday, 26 January 2008
Extreme Origami
I knew it was going to be a big bad ugly mistake. I should have walked away at the till. The little voices were screaming at me, NOOOO, don’t do it. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, and I must remember to put that on my next expansive wish list to Santa.
I purchased a 5 drawer filing cabinet and an A4 box during a closing down sale. Nothing too out of the ordinary about that, I hear you. I really do. However, said items were made out of cardboard were flat packed and self assembly. As I strode confidently out of the shop I felt like a time millionaire and that I really had bought a complete bargin. Until that is, I came to assemble it.
The window of opportunity was about an hour, whilst small baby slept. During said sleep, I normally clean the whole of the ground floor of the house, running round like a crazed tazmanian devil. I guestimated that I could assemble both items and still have time for a coffee and a slice of cake.
There were no instructions for the A4 box. After 10 mins of minimal effort, the box was standing and leaning only very slightly to the left. I felt proud of my achievement and was ready to graduate to the chest of drawers. Wrong, oh so wrong. After 10 mins of frenzied activity, I decided that the chest of drawers had been designed by people who put up Ikea furniture, in the dark, without instructions, for fun. There must be a name worse than sadomasochists for such people.
Determined not to be beaten, I started again. After repeating this cycle about 10 times, I started shouting the words Origami and Hai. I was even tempted to get one of Stuarts ties and wrap it round my head, Rambo style. Deep cleansing breaths did not help, nor did threatening drawers with the recycle bin. In the end, the shrill tones of my screaming daughter helped focus my frazzled mind. I persuaded the items to fit together using my feet, using a technique commonly referred to as kicking. That worked a treat.
I purchased a 5 drawer filing cabinet and an A4 box during a closing down sale. Nothing too out of the ordinary about that, I hear you. I really do. However, said items were made out of cardboard were flat packed and self assembly. As I strode confidently out of the shop I felt like a time millionaire and that I really had bought a complete bargin. Until that is, I came to assemble it.
The window of opportunity was about an hour, whilst small baby slept. During said sleep, I normally clean the whole of the ground floor of the house, running round like a crazed tazmanian devil. I guestimated that I could assemble both items and still have time for a coffee and a slice of cake.
There were no instructions for the A4 box. After 10 mins of minimal effort, the box was standing and leaning only very slightly to the left. I felt proud of my achievement and was ready to graduate to the chest of drawers. Wrong, oh so wrong. After 10 mins of frenzied activity, I decided that the chest of drawers had been designed by people who put up Ikea furniture, in the dark, without instructions, for fun. There must be a name worse than sadomasochists for such people.
Determined not to be beaten, I started again. After repeating this cycle about 10 times, I started shouting the words Origami and Hai. I was even tempted to get one of Stuarts ties and wrap it round my head, Rambo style. Deep cleansing breaths did not help, nor did threatening drawers with the recycle bin. In the end, the shrill tones of my screaming daughter helped focus my frazzled mind. I persuaded the items to fit together using my feet, using a technique commonly referred to as kicking. That worked a treat.
Cranky and Bulstrode
25 January 2008
Subject – Cranky and Bulstrode at the Harbour and Push along Thomas, James and Percy – Boo Hoo
Dear Mr or Mrs Tomy
I opened my present with glee. I normally like the wrapping paper the best as it goes scrunch, but, this time, the contents were better by far. It was Cranky and Bulstrode at the Harbour. I clapped and screamed with excitement, and found it hard to wait for Daddy to put the batteries in.
However, Mr/s Tomy, you are very naughty, as the Push and go Choo Choo’s (Thomas, Percy and James) that I got for Christmas do not work with Cranky. They just keep bumping their heads on the shed leading to Cranky, as they are too tall. My Mummy checked the box, and it does say that it’s all part of the same set: Thomas Motor Road and Rail. Luckily they also bought me Ben the engine, who does fit, as part of my birthday present.
I know there are more important issues in the world than my train set and Cranky not being compatible, like polar bears and penguins not having a place to live soon, children starving etc. But, its hard to understand that when you are two years old. Which is why I have cried and screamed. A lot. I have also taught some of my other toys to fly in frustration. I may also have hit my sister, but I reserve the right to remain silent on that.
Please could you look into the problem for me, as my Mummy and Daddy told me they cannot buy any more for a long long long time.
Thank you.
Subject – Cranky and Bulstrode at the Harbour and Push along Thomas, James and Percy – Boo Hoo
Dear Mr or Mrs Tomy
I opened my present with glee. I normally like the wrapping paper the best as it goes scrunch, but, this time, the contents were better by far. It was Cranky and Bulstrode at the Harbour. I clapped and screamed with excitement, and found it hard to wait for Daddy to put the batteries in.
However, Mr/s Tomy, you are very naughty, as the Push and go Choo Choo’s (Thomas, Percy and James) that I got for Christmas do not work with Cranky. They just keep bumping their heads on the shed leading to Cranky, as they are too tall. My Mummy checked the box, and it does say that it’s all part of the same set: Thomas Motor Road and Rail. Luckily they also bought me Ben the engine, who does fit, as part of my birthday present.
I know there are more important issues in the world than my train set and Cranky not being compatible, like polar bears and penguins not having a place to live soon, children starving etc. But, its hard to understand that when you are two years old. Which is why I have cried and screamed. A lot. I have also taught some of my other toys to fly in frustration. I may also have hit my sister, but I reserve the right to remain silent on that.
Please could you look into the problem for me, as my Mummy and Daddy told me they cannot buy any more for a long long long time.
Thank you.
Saturday, 19 January 2008
Butcherish
I decided it was time to change our butcher. You would think that as a consumer voting with your hard earned dosh would be simple. Alas, no, not in my case anyway. I have been to the new butcher before as a trial run. Asked for a pork loin. He started cutting up the meat, scoring it and asked me if I would like the bones. Which is when I made my mistake. I said something worse than declaring myself a vegetarian. I asked how big the bone was (which is where I should have stopped the sentence) as I had only ever bought pork loin, without bone from the supermarket. He looked up from the hacksaw and said I should not have told him that. I heard myself say ...."but I am now antisupermarket for meat". He then looked up again, this time approvingly. Phew. The next test was when he asked me what I planned to do with it. I replied that my master plan was to marinate it in rosemary, thyme and garlic overnight, sear it then throw it in a claypot for an hour. Again an approving look. Whooo, we were doing well.
Until he told me the price of the meat. Now, you should know that I am going to, somehow or other reduce our weekly food shop to £60 excluding nappies and cleaning products. If I am successful then Mr Brown, I would like to be treasurer. This is partially beacuse Cameron likes expensive food: fillet steak, duck breast, parma ham, etc. Our jolly butcher charged me £12 for a joint of meat for lunch. In hindsight, it was actually me agreeing to take the bones which racked the price up. If I had just taken the meat, sans bones it would have cost half. But now I know for next time. I am going to learn the language which I have named butcherish. Luckily my trusty Hungarian cookbook starts each meat section with a lecture on how to get the best cut of meat, what it should look like, along with an anatomy picture of what part of the animals body it came from.
I am glad to report that the meat was really good. The bones unfortunately went in the bin as they would not fit into the pot. Typical.
Until he told me the price of the meat. Now, you should know that I am going to, somehow or other reduce our weekly food shop to £60 excluding nappies and cleaning products. If I am successful then Mr Brown, I would like to be treasurer. This is partially beacuse Cameron likes expensive food: fillet steak, duck breast, parma ham, etc. Our jolly butcher charged me £12 for a joint of meat for lunch. In hindsight, it was actually me agreeing to take the bones which racked the price up. If I had just taken the meat, sans bones it would have cost half. But now I know for next time. I am going to learn the language which I have named butcherish. Luckily my trusty Hungarian cookbook starts each meat section with a lecture on how to get the best cut of meat, what it should look like, along with an anatomy picture of what part of the animals body it came from.
I am glad to report that the meat was really good. The bones unfortunately went in the bin as they would not fit into the pot. Typical.
Its official
Someone at the nursery is going to die by my fair hand. I decided this whilst mopping sick off my top this morning. Cameron is sick. Probably due to the fact that there was no heating in the room at the nursery last week. I only found this out when I went in and felt the chill through 3 layers. The nursery nurse probably thought I was being over sensitive when I mentioned to keep Camster out of the room. Today we should have been going to Erika's to meet Maisie. Instead I did the equivalent of 25 journeys up and down the stairs between the hours of 5 am and 6am to console the boy. My mood was not entirely helped, when, Stuart having spilled cough mixture on the laminate floor, mopped it up with a babywipe. Babywipe is impregnated with lotion. Lotion + laminate flooring = icerink surface. Whilst I like iceskating, I generally like to be prepared for said event and would prefer to have contact lenses (or glasses) to aid me as I skid along bumping into random pieces of furniture.
Anyways, at 6:20, got up with the boy. Played with him until 8am, when, for the first time in ages I decided to have powernap on the sofa. Camster had other ideas and decided the best punishment for such insolence was to hit me over the head with a tissue box until I relented and played with him and the train set. This involves shouting "choo choo" numerous times, winding the trains up, whilst he puts his foot or hand over the track to cause multiple pile up and starts whining for you to put things right. Hopefully he wont end up working for Network Rail! After about 5 laps, you then have to stop him trying to rip the track apart, and then the whole "game" starts again.
After he had thrown up over me and the kitchen floor at 9am, we knew we had to postpone the trip to Erika's. In the past year we have only ever had definitive plans for 3 weekends, all of which have been scuppered by Cameron being sick. Ah well, the main thing is that he gets better, ready for the next dose of germs!
Am now going to decide what to say to the nursery. It will be a supreme waste of time, as all the people working there are aged about 19, dont have kids and whatever you say to them goes in one ear and out the other. I would have more impact on them if I took out an all page ad in Hello magazine.
Anyways, at 6:20, got up with the boy. Played with him until 8am, when, for the first time in ages I decided to have powernap on the sofa. Camster had other ideas and decided the best punishment for such insolence was to hit me over the head with a tissue box until I relented and played with him and the train set. This involves shouting "choo choo" numerous times, winding the trains up, whilst he puts his foot or hand over the track to cause multiple pile up and starts whining for you to put things right. Hopefully he wont end up working for Network Rail! After about 5 laps, you then have to stop him trying to rip the track apart, and then the whole "game" starts again.
After he had thrown up over me and the kitchen floor at 9am, we knew we had to postpone the trip to Erika's. In the past year we have only ever had definitive plans for 3 weekends, all of which have been scuppered by Cameron being sick. Ah well, the main thing is that he gets better, ready for the next dose of germs!
Am now going to decide what to say to the nursery. It will be a supreme waste of time, as all the people working there are aged about 19, dont have kids and whatever you say to them goes in one ear and out the other. I would have more impact on them if I took out an all page ad in Hello magazine.
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
In which I scare people - mostly myself....
Jan has already been a particularly eyeopening month. Mainly because Cameron now refuses to sleep in the mornings, and now is only happy to powernap in the afternoon. Hence, I hatched a cunning plan to take him to the local softplay area and tire him out. Good and proper. After hurling ourselves through tunnels, screaming down slides, crossing mesh netting bridges for 3 hours, I decided enough was enough. I needed a break, a cup of coffee and some food. Cameron had other ideas.
Cameron escaped into the giant play area. I decided to scare him by shouting BOO at the top of my lungs when he came down the slide. Unfortunately it was not my sprog which emerged from the mouth of said slide, but a girl, who promptly started screaming for her mummy. Funnily enough she did not want consolation from me, the ogre who scared her. Wonder why? The mum of said child did not make much eye contact with me as I sheepishly tried to slink away.
Cameron emerged a few seconds later from the play area......
Once suitably refulled I decided to lay down the law and tell Cameron its one last circuit and then home. Whilst dodging other kiddies, various food items (no cameron, dont eat it its DIRTY!) left in the play area, I came accross a kids toy. Only it was no ordinary kids toy, it was only a Dr Who Sonic screwdriver. I picked it up looking around for the nearest kid to hand it to. Noone about. Now, you should know I have wanted a real one of these since I started salvating over (sorry, watching Dr Who). Sonic will not only unfuse the unidentifiable confectionary at the bottom of my handbag, but will cook a 3 course meal and clear up, just by the touch of a button. So, you will also understand my reluctance to hand Sonic to reception. I hope.
Imagine Gollum with his precious, constantly fawning and cooing over precious, greedily admiring precious and not allowing anyone to touch it. Well thats me and Sonic. The boy is not allowed to touch it and Stuart was only allowed to play with it for a few seconds. Its mine, all mine!
Maybe even the Dr will come and giveme some Sonicology lessons....
Cameron escaped into the giant play area. I decided to scare him by shouting BOO at the top of my lungs when he came down the slide. Unfortunately it was not my sprog which emerged from the mouth of said slide, but a girl, who promptly started screaming for her mummy. Funnily enough she did not want consolation from me, the ogre who scared her. Wonder why? The mum of said child did not make much eye contact with me as I sheepishly tried to slink away.
Cameron emerged a few seconds later from the play area......
Once suitably refulled I decided to lay down the law and tell Cameron its one last circuit and then home. Whilst dodging other kiddies, various food items (no cameron, dont eat it its DIRTY!) left in the play area, I came accross a kids toy. Only it was no ordinary kids toy, it was only a Dr Who Sonic screwdriver. I picked it up looking around for the nearest kid to hand it to. Noone about. Now, you should know I have wanted a real one of these since I started salvating over (sorry, watching Dr Who). Sonic will not only unfuse the unidentifiable confectionary at the bottom of my handbag, but will cook a 3 course meal and clear up, just by the touch of a button. So, you will also understand my reluctance to hand Sonic to reception. I hope.
Imagine Gollum with his precious, constantly fawning and cooing over precious, greedily admiring precious and not allowing anyone to touch it. Well thats me and Sonic. The boy is not allowed to touch it and Stuart was only allowed to play with it for a few seconds. Its mine, all mine!
Maybe even the Dr will come and giveme some Sonicology lessons....
Friday, 4 January 2008
Line Chef
I recently had the pleasure of listening to Anthony Bourdain reading his book kitchen confidential. He described the heated and frenzied activity within his kitchen during service. Well, Anthony, I say, come over to our place and watch me cook lunch or dinner. Being a line chef for me would be a walk in the park.
Let me set the scene in our kitchen. Whilst rocking one baby in the bouncy chair with one foot, I am with the other foot, opening a cupboard door. With one hand I am reaching for olive oil and the other hand is steadying myself on the counter. Once pan is retrieved I somehow manage to abait screatching toddler, who is desperate to cook with me, by holding him on my hips, still rocking the other baby, chop vegetables, stir, sing Old McDonald, step over the numerous toys littering the kitchen. Then whilst still entertaining said kids, cook, set table.
Sticking me in the kitchen with an adult hurling abuse and orders at me would be easy compared to the twice daily performance I hold.
Let me set the scene in our kitchen. Whilst rocking one baby in the bouncy chair with one foot, I am with the other foot, opening a cupboard door. With one hand I am reaching for olive oil and the other hand is steadying myself on the counter. Once pan is retrieved I somehow manage to abait screatching toddler, who is desperate to cook with me, by holding him on my hips, still rocking the other baby, chop vegetables, stir, sing Old McDonald, step over the numerous toys littering the kitchen. Then whilst still entertaining said kids, cook, set table.
Sticking me in the kitchen with an adult hurling abuse and orders at me would be easy compared to the twice daily performance I hold.
Slurp Slurp and Out
Since we came back from Hungary we have been giving Charlotte formula as her last feed of the evening. The faffing about with sterilisation, counting out mini spoons of formula, and then heating to the right temperature has paid off. She is sleeping through the night.
However, and, there is always a however. As Lottie does not quiet yet know how to get herself to sleep, post formula, I put on a bedtime aria performance for her. It mostly involves singing Twinkle Twinkle to her and Jingle Belles an inordinate amount of times. Sometimes, just to keep myself amused I try to sing them in different genres. Today was the turn of Elvis jailhouse rock stylie.
I have to serenade the lady until she puts thumb in mouth and then my services are no longer required. Her day ends ( and my me time begins) when the slurping ends and she is in a deep enough sleep to let the thumb go.
Tonight, I will mostly be cleaning the kitchen. Every evening has seen some part of the house be cleaned that has been neglected / disorganised since she was born.
My only fear is that by the time she can get herself to sleep, I will be so sick of Twinkle Twinkle and Jingle Bells that I will develop Tourettes syndrome just from hearing the first bar!
However, and, there is always a however. As Lottie does not quiet yet know how to get herself to sleep, post formula, I put on a bedtime aria performance for her. It mostly involves singing Twinkle Twinkle to her and Jingle Belles an inordinate amount of times. Sometimes, just to keep myself amused I try to sing them in different genres. Today was the turn of Elvis jailhouse rock stylie.
I have to serenade the lady until she puts thumb in mouth and then my services are no longer required. Her day ends ( and my me time begins) when the slurping ends and she is in a deep enough sleep to let the thumb go.
Tonight, I will mostly be cleaning the kitchen. Every evening has seen some part of the house be cleaned that has been neglected / disorganised since she was born.
My only fear is that by the time she can get herself to sleep, I will be so sick of Twinkle Twinkle and Jingle Bells that I will develop Tourettes syndrome just from hearing the first bar!
Thursday, 3 January 2008
Blood bath
Cameron decided to spice things up a bit on Christmas Eve by knocking his eyelid on the corner of a table. I am generally calm, but I can honestly say that when my son is brought to me with blood streaming out of his face, its a bit of a heart stopper.
I checked the wound, it seemed fairly deep and the blood just kept coming. Who needs ER Christmas special, when you have an active toddler?
Decide to take him to the childrens hospital which is about 5 mins walk away. Get into reception, who then assess him and say that he will probably sutchuring and maybe even an xray. However, I will have to take him to the other childrens hospital accross town, as they only have a fracture specialist in situ at the moment. Receptionist tells me that if the accident happened yesterday or tomorrow, he would have been seen here straight away, but as its today, we have to go accross town.
Slonk back to the waiting room and tell the news to Stuart. He reminds me that Lottie is due for a feed soon and that I should try and get Cam seen at this hospital, otherwise we will need to take both kids accross town.
I head back to the receptionist and tell her "I have just remembered I have a 5 month old daughter at home who needs a feed soon, can you see my son here and now, please?". She looks at me like I am mad or lying, or both. She repeats that we deffo have to go accross town (just like I told you 5 mins ago, she mutters under her breath).
Decide to take Cam home and get our neighbours to take a gander, then based on their advice we will take him accross town. The blood has stopped but that is probably due to the cold outside. Luckily, both sets of neighbours are pediatricians and are always happy to help.
Bless our neighbour, she comes over complete with stitching kit, idodine and sterilising kit. She reassures us that the cut is bleeding as the face has a good blood supply and its close to the surface, not because Cam has done much damage. She cleans him up and he is consoled by my granny who gives him a cake in one hand and a biscuit in the other.
I checked the wound, it seemed fairly deep and the blood just kept coming. Who needs ER Christmas special, when you have an active toddler?
Decide to take him to the childrens hospital which is about 5 mins walk away. Get into reception, who then assess him and say that he will probably sutchuring and maybe even an xray. However, I will have to take him to the other childrens hospital accross town, as they only have a fracture specialist in situ at the moment. Receptionist tells me that if the accident happened yesterday or tomorrow, he would have been seen here straight away, but as its today, we have to go accross town.
Slonk back to the waiting room and tell the news to Stuart. He reminds me that Lottie is due for a feed soon and that I should try and get Cam seen at this hospital, otherwise we will need to take both kids accross town.
I head back to the receptionist and tell her "I have just remembered I have a 5 month old daughter at home who needs a feed soon, can you see my son here and now, please?". She looks at me like I am mad or lying, or both. She repeats that we deffo have to go accross town (just like I told you 5 mins ago, she mutters under her breath).
Decide to take Cam home and get our neighbours to take a gander, then based on their advice we will take him accross town. The blood has stopped but that is probably due to the cold outside. Luckily, both sets of neighbours are pediatricians and are always happy to help.
Bless our neighbour, she comes over complete with stitching kit, idodine and sterilising kit. She reassures us that the cut is bleeding as the face has a good blood supply and its close to the surface, not because Cam has done much damage. She cleans him up and he is consoled by my granny who gives him a cake in one hand and a biscuit in the other.
Wonky Tree
When Cameron was not running round with cakes in both hands, his other past time was stealing chocolate off the incredibly gay christmas tree. My granny picked the tree, unfortunately she must have had too much schnapps, as it was the most crooked tree I have ever seen. It was shaped like a massive Z and was lobsided with its branches. Pretty it was not.
As I let Granny do the choosing out of sight, my job was to haggle and pay. I thought the tree was to cheap to start off with, feeling full of Crimbo spirit I decided not to barter but hand over the full amount.
Normally we step back in wonderment when the tree is unwrapped, but this time, even three laps of the tree, from various viewpoints could not disguise the fact it was the runt of the forest. Beer gogles did not help either. Nor did mulled wine goggles. Double Martini goggles helped a bit.
The only thing left was to try and dress the tree up as much as possible. Unfortunately, my grannies decrations, er, were sparse to say the lest. The tree had one set of lights (from the 1950's, that had definately seen better days) , ribbon (????), and red plastic baubles which all had a dent in a side. Liberace it wasnt.
Granny said we were being harsh and that the tree was gorgeous. When we pointed out that every visitor we had who had seen the tree, said nothing, and started down at their shoes, that should have been some hint. Her response was that we should have supervised her selection process more.
Last years tree was too big ( needed 3 people to carry it), this years was a runt, next year's will be perfect.
As I let Granny do the choosing out of sight, my job was to haggle and pay. I thought the tree was to cheap to start off with, feeling full of Crimbo spirit I decided not to barter but hand over the full amount.
Normally we step back in wonderment when the tree is unwrapped, but this time, even three laps of the tree, from various viewpoints could not disguise the fact it was the runt of the forest. Beer gogles did not help either. Nor did mulled wine goggles. Double Martini goggles helped a bit.
The only thing left was to try and dress the tree up as much as possible. Unfortunately, my grannies decrations, er, were sparse to say the lest. The tree had one set of lights (from the 1950's, that had definately seen better days) , ribbon (????), and red plastic baubles which all had a dent in a side. Liberace it wasnt.
Granny said we were being harsh and that the tree was gorgeous. When we pointed out that every visitor we had who had seen the tree, said nothing, and started down at their shoes, that should have been some hint. Her response was that we should have supervised her selection process more.
Last years tree was too big ( needed 3 people to carry it), this years was a runt, next year's will be perfect.
Christmas ala Avern
Had a great time in hungary, we were flat bound a lot of the time as the snow (and there was lots of it) made it too cold to get out, also, due to lack of wind there was a smog problem. Granny cooked, baked and entertained the kids like it was going out of fashion.
We went to Dobogoko which is in the Pilis mountains just outside Budapest and had a walk round with my dad and his family. Cameron took great exception to the snow being cold and Lottie slept all the way through it. We warmed up with mulled wine. Realised how much of a foodie my dad is when, after, queing in a wooden hut offering mulled wine and sarnies, for over half an hour (and with a massive queue behind us) he starts asking about the EXACT makeup of the sarnie, i.e. butter before the liver pate. Then after thinking for another five minutes he asks what hot sarnies they have. I thought we were going to get lynched.
I got Jeremy Clarkson books for Christmas from Stuart, they are brilliant to read but I ended up so angry after each chapter, that I wanted to scream. Therefore, I dedicate the next paragraphs to Jezza:
Decided to go to the bank in Budapest to withdraw some money from our GBP account. I walk in, take a number from the allocation machine. Its Saturday 28 December, there is noone in the bank apart from the morose looking staff and a geriatric security guard and me. Tumbleweeds pass me by as I wait eversopatiently for 15 mins, whilst the ladies finish their teabreak, chat, gossip about which celebs have fake boobs, and then call me upto the counter.
Anyone who has ever been to Hungary will tell you its a lovely country, but, the customer service is appaling. The next few lines will give you an example, of, how not to treat customers. All of this is true and unfortunately not uncommon.
Cashier asks me for my account number, state it and then hand over my passport. Looking good I thought, I can be out of here soon. I ask to withdraw 1000GBP. Cashy (as I will affectionately call her) looks up at me smiling asking to see my authorisation. I smile back saying the account is in my name and I authorise myself to withdraw it.
Cashy then snarls out of the corner of her mouth saying I need to give them a weeks notice. Aha, I respond, I will take 999 then. She virtually spits at me that she will tell me how much GBP she has. Deep intake of breath follows her words of wisdom as she says that the GBP is in the next office and she will be back in 5. Fifteen mins later (I did not mind this delay, as I resolved to send her back asking for a lower denomination, when she finally arrived) she waddles back in and tells me I can have 500. She has it in 50's.
I was about to ask for it in 20's when I notice that their exchange rate is better than the exchange beauru's on the street. I state that I want to change the full 1000. Cashy is experiencing a hot flush at this stage. I tell her that I wanted the 1000 to take to a good exchange rate place, but as the banks rate is so good, it will save me a trip. Cashy tells me its the rate from the previous day. I tell her that the rate is advertised, I am accepting their kind offer and she HAS to complete the transaction at that rate. I deliver all of this very calmly.
Cashy says that the rate does not stand. Geriatric security guard shuffles over to stand behind me.
I decide to give up. I now need to get out of here asap, before I kill someone stone cold dead with a Jeremy Clarkson book.
I remember that I wanted to check what DD's are due that month. I ask her to PLEASE check. She tuts, pulls the keyboard out from the desk, whacks the keyboard as she enters the data and then throws the printout over the counter. I said thank you.
I start to walk off, she starts shouting that I have to come back. I had forgotten to sign the copies of my withdrawl in triplicate AND I also had to pay 50 forints (about 15 pence) for my transaction.
The red mist decended. I threw my bag down on the counter, cue arms waving, spit frothing, I tell her that this whole trip to the bank has taken me 2 hours, in the UK it would have been 15 mins. I tell her that I have had to organise childcare just so I could get abused and pay for the privelidge. She looks at me non plussed and told me that I should be grateful as the bank is better than it was before!
We went to Dobogoko which is in the Pilis mountains just outside Budapest and had a walk round with my dad and his family. Cameron took great exception to the snow being cold and Lottie slept all the way through it. We warmed up with mulled wine. Realised how much of a foodie my dad is when, after, queing in a wooden hut offering mulled wine and sarnies, for over half an hour (and with a massive queue behind us) he starts asking about the EXACT makeup of the sarnie, i.e. butter before the liver pate. Then after thinking for another five minutes he asks what hot sarnies they have. I thought we were going to get lynched.
I got Jeremy Clarkson books for Christmas from Stuart, they are brilliant to read but I ended up so angry after each chapter, that I wanted to scream. Therefore, I dedicate the next paragraphs to Jezza:
Decided to go to the bank in Budapest to withdraw some money from our GBP account. I walk in, take a number from the allocation machine. Its Saturday 28 December, there is noone in the bank apart from the morose looking staff and a geriatric security guard and me. Tumbleweeds pass me by as I wait eversopatiently for 15 mins, whilst the ladies finish their teabreak, chat, gossip about which celebs have fake boobs, and then call me upto the counter.
Anyone who has ever been to Hungary will tell you its a lovely country, but, the customer service is appaling. The next few lines will give you an example, of, how not to treat customers. All of this is true and unfortunately not uncommon.
Cashier asks me for my account number, state it and then hand over my passport. Looking good I thought, I can be out of here soon. I ask to withdraw 1000GBP. Cashy (as I will affectionately call her) looks up at me smiling asking to see my authorisation. I smile back saying the account is in my name and I authorise myself to withdraw it.
Cashy then snarls out of the corner of her mouth saying I need to give them a weeks notice. Aha, I respond, I will take 999 then. She virtually spits at me that she will tell me how much GBP she has. Deep intake of breath follows her words of wisdom as she says that the GBP is in the next office and she will be back in 5. Fifteen mins later (I did not mind this delay, as I resolved to send her back asking for a lower denomination, when she finally arrived) she waddles back in and tells me I can have 500. She has it in 50's.
I was about to ask for it in 20's when I notice that their exchange rate is better than the exchange beauru's on the street. I state that I want to change the full 1000. Cashy is experiencing a hot flush at this stage. I tell her that I wanted the 1000 to take to a good exchange rate place, but as the banks rate is so good, it will save me a trip. Cashy tells me its the rate from the previous day. I tell her that the rate is advertised, I am accepting their kind offer and she HAS to complete the transaction at that rate. I deliver all of this very calmly.
Cashy says that the rate does not stand. Geriatric security guard shuffles over to stand behind me.
I decide to give up. I now need to get out of here asap, before I kill someone stone cold dead with a Jeremy Clarkson book.
I remember that I wanted to check what DD's are due that month. I ask her to PLEASE check. She tuts, pulls the keyboard out from the desk, whacks the keyboard as she enters the data and then throws the printout over the counter. I said thank you.
I start to walk off, she starts shouting that I have to come back. I had forgotten to sign the copies of my withdrawl in triplicate AND I also had to pay 50 forints (about 15 pence) for my transaction.
The red mist decended. I threw my bag down on the counter, cue arms waving, spit frothing, I tell her that this whole trip to the bank has taken me 2 hours, in the UK it would have been 15 mins. I tell her that I have had to organise childcare just so I could get abused and pay for the privelidge. She looks at me non plussed and told me that I should be grateful as the bank is better than it was before!
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