That's Them Dancing

One of my nephews had a birthday and my step-sister organised a party for him. It was held at one of those so-called "fun" places where masses of kids stampede through various netted-off rooms and leap into giant pits filled with bright balls. Mostly they disappear under and then resurface. I'm sure the occasional one is lost to the sea of primary colour. With any luck.

I wasn't invited because Cinderella thinks I'm great with kids*; she wanted me to bring my camera and maybe take a few decent photos of the (nutjobs) youngsters going mental in the (asylum) playground thingy. I got some shots and then retired to some kind of padded cell where the other adults were sheltering. I munched on fairy bread and watched the endless, terrifying parade of children whizzing by, shrieking and screaming and even occasionally laughing. The noise they made seemed to endlessly reverberate on every surface around us. I felt like I was being sucked down into a whirlpool of mad colour and freakish noises.

It was a wild scene, man.




*And when I am great with kids it's in a totally healthy and approved manner. I have my Working with Children check to prove it.

Birds of a Feather

Bezley and Cinderella and her family have all come back from a two-week holiday on Magnetic Island. I dropped round to Bezley's to say hello to everyone. Cinderella and co were all still there, recovering from the late night flight. [I suppose I should call Cinders' husband Prince Charming, shouldn't I? What could my nephews be - The Pumpkin and The White Mouse? Okay, it's a done deal.] We all left together. Prince Charming is fond of a brew. I mentioned that he was no doubt anxious to get home and crack the first beer of the day. That's when Cinders remembered to show me what she'd bought on holiday: thongs with a bottle opener built into the sole.

All the Pretty Flowers

Yesterday we went down to Bezley's for a birthday lunch - onion soup, roast turkey with a plethora of veggies and cake (not all on the same plate). Cinderella was there with my rambunctious nephews. U2 , the older boy, was putting on a shy act and pretending he couldn't speak. We tried to entice him by talking about Christmas.

"That's right," said Bezley in her best sing-song voice. "It is nearly Christmas, U2. And who do we see at Christmas time? Santa! Hey, tell Aunty Hazel and Uncle Grumpy about the present you got from Santa in the park."

Unfortunately I caught Cinderella's eye and there was much snorting.

I never claimed to be a grown up.

Existential Angst? Wassat?

When my step-sister, Cinderella, comes to visit she likes to have a look at Finny. It was she who had rescued him from her local vet who had in turn rescued him from a plastic bag, filled with him and his (dead) brothers and sisters, left by some anonymous kindly soul in the blazing sun.

Last time she was over she was commenting on what a handsome boy he was. He is a good looking lad but he is also, as the Sex Pistols might say, oh so pretty, pretty vacant.

"He's a bit thick is he? Do you think that's because he was left in that plastic bag for so long?"

"No, Cinders. I think being too stupid to know what was going on is what helped him survive the bag."

Meanwhile, over at Kitten Wars, Finny has won 58% of his battles!

Marry in haste; repent in copperplate.

My step-sister, Cinderella, organised a birthday picnic lunch on Saturday for my nephew's first birthday. She'd invited a few of her friends who have also manufactured sprogs in assorted shapes and sizes. Cinderella is a lovely girl and her friends are pretty decent types too. It was a warm and sunny day and one of her girlie mates, a mere slip of a thing still in her mid 20s, was wearing a top that plunged at both the front and back. With a body like hers I'd be plunging everywhere too.

Just as we were leaving I happened, for the first time, to be standing with this particular girl's back to me. Only then did I notice that she has tattooed across the top of her back her and her husband's name and what I assume was the date they got married. One should avoid standing around goggling at other people at social events, but since she couldn't see me I goggled away.

Seemed like a pretty risky move to me. Though she's clearly not a totally reckless young filly. I was pleased to note that she'd chosen to immortalise the event in a classic and elegant font. Nobody can tell me she lacks style.

But they brought me neither flowers nor breakfast in bed.

Today, for Mother's Day, my step-sister, Cinderella, and I took Bezley out to breakfast. We were sitting at our table when a woman appeared with a basket of chocolates, offering free chocolates to all the mothers*. Cinderella and Bezley took a chocolate.

The woman offered the basket to me. "You're not a mother?"

"No."

"Do you have animals at home? If you have animals, then you're a mum."

As I took a chocolate Bezley laughed and said, "Is she ever a mum to those cats!"



*In the strict, historically-understood sense of the word. Some cranky maldicion man sitting at a table would not have qualified, even though today's callow youths may be inclined to give him this parental moniker.

Pumpkins and Mice

Cinderella wanted to know if, in the event that anything happened to her and her husband, we'd be willing to be guardians to my two nephews.

She said she trusted us.

Cinderella is quite the serious type and I wanted to reassure her that her trust was not misplaced. "Of course, we hope nothing happens to you two," I told her. "But if it does, I just want you to know that we won't beat them too severely."

Girls Ain't Fakin'

This morning Bezley and my step-sister, Cinderella, came up to celebrate Cinderella's birthday over breakfast.

Even though I'd made grand promises to Grumpy about cooking him up bacon and eggs I decided I couldn't be bothered doing him a separate meal and he ended up eating what the rest of us ate: crepes with lemon and sugar followed by field mushrooms with potato roesti, english spinach and a bit of brie. (Not that I'm trying to brag or nothing.)

To my astonishment, Grumpy gobbled up every last skerrick of his serving. There may yet be hope for the man who once said, "I could be a vegetarian - no worries. As long as I could eat bacon."