Reported conversations No. 28: Home alone

Still hot and steamy after this morning's cloud burst - the first of many, I fear, perfectly timed for the school run.

The idea that Mama and Pappi might at some point in the near future take a break alone, together, sans brood, was some days ago mentioned at the family dinner table. Floated gently on the waters of the family psyche.

B., aged 5, obviously takes a while to digest new ideas. Only this morning did her considered opinion on the matter bubble up to the surface of her little pond.

B.: "Mama, you and Pappi can't go away together without us!"

Mama (seeing a romantic weekend away-from-the-hill slipping through her fingers, and trying not to sound too desperate): "Why not darling, I think it's a great idea..."

B.: "No, you can't go away without us!"

Mama (staying cool, but giving herself away with the unconscious Enid-Blyton-speak): "But why ever not, dear?"

B. (speaking slowly as to a particularly dull dullard): "Because we can't - reach - the - pasta - machine." 

Mama (guffawing into the washing up, thinks): I could always leave it on the bottom shelf...



Pic:  justinsomnia

Reported conversations No. 27: someone trying to tell me something

Mostly blue skies, with the land still damp from a brief but bombastic thunderstorm two nights ago. Thirty-three degrees at 3pm - a bit of a shock after the cool stone walls of Carmine Superiore.

Showing a group of visitors around the Chiesa di San Gottardo the other day, with the children close at my heels. A kind-looking German woman, ready to be charmed, asks in halting Italian: "And are these your grandchildren, dear?" 

Ouch! Perhaps I should just give in gracefully and let the hairdresser low-light my grey out of existence after all? Then I could at least pretend I'm not old enough to be my kids' grandmother.

Later...

AJ cuddles Mama in the summer-sunshine garden. AJ pinches more than an inch and remarks: "Mama, you feel like a teddy bear".

Oh poop! Where are the bathroom scales? Too much pasta, polenta and parmiggiano, and not enough puff-puff up the hill. Soon-turning-50 panic settling in to a spot just above the spare tyre.

But then, just last evening... 

The whole family is poring over a satirical cartoon in The Economist, and Pappa is trying to teach the children (and Mama, I suspect) something about debt, credit and the value of money in your pocket, when B. flicks to an ad on the back cover: 

Pappa, interest piqued by a pair of long legs and some high-end luggage, asks: "Who's that?"

B., my 5 year-old angel, replies: "It's ... Mama!"

Oh, thank-you, thank-you, thank-you, thank-you! Now I know what daughters are for.

Reported conversations No. 26 : When I grow up

A little 4-year old voice pipes up from the back of the car the other morning on the school run...

B.: Mama, when I grow up I'm going to be rich.

Mama: Sounds good to me. And how are you going to manage that?

B.: I'm going to put all my toys in a hankie and leave home. Can I take Trouble with me? He is my cat after all...

Mama: Yes, you can take Trouble with you [thinks: one less cat in the bed in winter].

B.: Then I'm going to get some elves to make something really good and sell it. Then with the money I can make more and sell it. Then with that money I can make more and everyone will come and buy it, even the king. Then I'll have enough to buy sausages to eat and more things to sell.

Mama: Sounds like a good plan.

B.: And you know what? If any trolls try to stop me I'll just head-butt them over the side of the bridge and into the stream.

Eyeing her very self-satisfied four-year-old in the rear-view mirror, Mama turns over ideas for the Next Big Thing in management trends, and wonders whether "A princess, a cat, some elves and a billy goat: management by fairy-tale in the 21st century" might work on the NY Times bestseller list... 

Reported conversations No. 25 : Morning similes

The usual morning dash for school has Mama, AJ (age 6), B. (age 4) and Jakob! (the canine teenager) belting down the hill to make up the time spent looking out and rejecting a heap of summer clothes before finding something that works.

Safely belted in with Jakob! sitting in the hatchback, and cruising the curves in fourth, Mama lets out a sigh of relief:

Mama: Thanks, guys, for coming down so fast today. Now we won't be late for school. I couldn't believe how fast you were! You were as fast as a rocket!

AJ: Fast as a ... racing car!

Mama: Fast as a ... bullet!

AJ: Fast as a ... speedboat!

Mama: Fast as a ... racehorse!

B.: Fast as a ... salami!

Howls of demented laughter from the back of the car. I catch Jakob!'s eye in the rear view mirror. His expression says, "You can keep the similes ... but I'll take the salamis..."

Reported conversations No. 24 : On taxes

A big one-two-three-FOUR degrees at 8am as we plied our way through the rain-sodden streets of Cannobio towards school for the first day of the new term.

AJ (aged 6) has been watching Disney's 'Robin Hood'. In the meantime, Mama and Papa have been discussing levels of taxation in different countries. Inevitably, the dirty word arises at bedtime with old elephant-ears...




AJ (thoughtfully): Mama, what are taxes?
Mama (smiling): Taxes are money we pay to the government to help them run our society.
AJ: Are you scared of the Sheriff of Nottingham?
Mama: Well, these days, the government doesn't send a bully to take your money, they take it out of your bank account ... (mutters) when you're not looking.
AJ (screwing face up over a difficult question): But Mama, what are taxes FOR?
Mama: Taxes are used to pay for all the things everybody uses (smiles wryly as the face of Silvio Berlusconi pops into her mind) - the government builds hospitals, schools, and roads for instance.
AJ: No!
Mama: What do you mean, no?
AJ: The government doesn't build the roads. 
Mama: Well who does then?
AJ: The Romans build the roads...


When Mama looks at the perfectly serviceable remains of the Roman road winding through the woods near Carmine, she can't help wishing they still did.

Reported conversations No. 23 : The St Trinians Effect

Today's weather? Damp below, but bright above.

Mama and B. (aged 4 and all girl) are watching 'The Pure Hell of St Trinians'. What can I say, sometimes a mama needs a break from the delights of Postman Pat, Fireman Sam and Sportacus.

In this classic 1960 comedy, the Sixth Form are abducted and carried off to a desert fortress to be married off to a sheik's nine sons. The suspendered Sixth put up a good fight, and the sons are actually wondering whether they want to be married to these hellcats at all when the Fourth Form - Britain's finest fighting force - arrive in stolen APCs and the Arab hordes are routed.

B.: "Mama, what happened?"

Mama: "Well, those naughty little girls stole some tanks and chased the men away."

B.: "No. Mama. Not."

Mama: "Whaddya mean, Not?"

B.: "Mama, not naughty little girls!"

Mama: "Yes, darling. The naughty little girls stole the tanks and chased the men away."

B.: "No, No, NO! The naughty MEN were chased away by the strong girls with broken hats on..."

There's a feminist media studies thesis in there somewhere: "Pippi Longstocking, St. Trinians, haute couture and the rise of the Bad Girl in the pre-Flower-Power consciousness of the western European teen", perhaps? Or what about "Naughty girl, strong woman: perspectives in historical millinery 1960-1969"? Anyone prepared to supervise?

Reported conversations No. 20 : Salt on the salad

At 8am it was already 29°C in Carmine Superiore. Work started early - it's going to be a scorcher!

A little voice from the back of the Panda...

B. [aged not-quite 4 and still mixing her languages] : I can see the See, I can see the See.

Mama [aged quite a lot more than 10 x 4] : Lake, darling. In English we say lake. In German it's See, in English it's lake. [Labouring the point as she pulls out onto the lake road and labours up the gears] Mama says lake.

AJ [aged going-on 6] : It's different you see. The lake is fresh water and the sea is salad water.

[Mama breaks 50 and gets into fourth, one side of her brain calculating the tight lakeside curves that Jeremy Clarkson found so daunting and the other starting to boggle at the conversation]

B : Why is there salad?

[Mama hits 60 and slices across the median line, startling an east-European trucker out of his coma, as both sides of her brain wait for the answer]

AJ : No, silly, there isn't salad in the water, it just tastes of salad...

Mama [shifts into an ill-advised fifth and tips the kids out of their seats on a slightly too-fast downhill left-hander as Cannobio comes into sight] : AJ, who told you seawater tastes of salad?


AJ : My maestra. She said lake water is sweet, and seawater is insalata.

[Mama's brain, hands and feet lose coordination as she freewheels into Cannobio, doing 30 in fifth, with the windscreen wipers on max and all four indicators flashing. She's doubled over the wheel with laughter...and the tiny part of her brain not busy cracking up is busy hoping there are no cute Carabinieri waiting in ambush. Finally, the world's-most-battered Panda pulls into the supermarket car park with all outward signs of sanity, but inside, Mama is red in the face and weeping.]

Mama [finally capable of drawing breath] : Sweetie, I think your maestra said seawater is salata, not in-salata...!

Reported conversations No. 19 : Denial in the doghouse

Ten degrees at 8:30am, sunny intervals. Feeling damp.

Mama : [In a full-steam fury] "Jakob! Jakob! Come here! SITZ! Now tell me, what IS THIS?"

Jakob! : "Wasn't me, ma'am! No ma'am yer honour. Me 'twas not! I didn't scatter cacao in the corners, sugar all over the shelves. I didn't go nuts with the noci, oops over the uva, whacky with the walnusskerne. I didn't spray water all over the washer or put pawprints on the porcelain. And I wouldn't ever, ever, ever eat half a bag of dried plums with the pits still in them." 


Mama : [In full English-schoolmarm-sarcasm mode] "So tell me, Mr Smartypants. Who was it then?" 

Jakob! : [Thinking fast] "Erm...the cat of course! The marmalade cat. I'll go fetch. [Tail starts to wag] Shall I? Shall I? I'd really love to! Just say the word! Fetch, ma'am! Just say fetch and that manky marmalade cat will be lying at your feet in 30 seconds..." 


"Oh. Oh dear. Oh dear me. I think I need the loo.........."


Mama smiles to herself in an affectionate serves-you-right sort of way, makes a quiet note of the whereabouts of the disinfectant and the pressure-washer, and gently closes the door. 

Reported conversations No. 18 : the compliment's in the simile

Five degrees at 8:30am. Patchy sunshine.Today we spotted this year's first butterfly.

Recently, Mama was called to the kindergarten to bring home AJ, who had developed a raging fever. On the drive home, my red-cheeked sneezy-boy broke his sweaty silence with, "Sofia said I was as hot as a stove, and then Andrea said I was as hot as the sun...".

Ever eager to build a lesson in English on an everyday situation, Mama replied, "As hot as chilli peppers." AJ suggested, "As hot as summer", and Mama put in, "As hot as the jungle."

After a pause, and a sleepless-night-to-come cough, the hoarse little voice piped up again from the back of the car : "Hot as ...

... Mama!"

You gotta like the kid!

Reported conversations No.17 : the problem with similes

Two degrees at 8:30am, rising to four degrees at 11am. Grey and drizzly. The promised snow dusted the rooftops of Sant'Agata at 450m asl but dared no further.

Mealtimes in the big house on the hill are a bustling chaos. Four people and any number of cats in the same few square metres, all tripping over each other in an effort to get somewhere too fast.

M., like some devilish alchemist, is at the helm of the wood-burning cucina economica, on which lie various copper pots all bubbling away, with an ancient water kettle in the centre flipping its lid as it boils. B is usually to be found skittering around at floor level tidying up dolls, building bricks, miscellaneous parts of Transformers, and reams and reams of paper. She's popping everything into her doll's pram (that's pee-ram in this house because it's used to ram every piece of furniture, door jamb and human leg in sight). AJ is quite sensibly counting out knives, forks, glasses and plates and putting them on the table in the hopes of 50¢ for his bulging piggy bank. Mama is officiating at the table, "no, the knife on the right, darling, fork on the left..."

The other day, amid the call and response of instruction, backchat, conversation and inter-sibling insult, a little voice pipes up :

AJ : "B., you have to be careful of the paper"
B : "Why? Why you be careful da paypurr?"
AJ : "Because it will cut you. (Taking on Mama's best maestra tone) You see it's sharp."
B : "Da paypurr sharp?"
AJ : "Yes, B. it will cut you."
B : "Paypurr for drawin', paypurr not for cuttin' "
AJ : "Believe what I say, B. You have to be careful of paper. Paper can be as sharp as a fork..."

Reported conversations No. 16 : parolace

My 3-year-old daughter, B., is fond of telling me she's no longer a little girl but a big girl. In theory, she brushes her own teeth, goes pee-pee on the toilet, and doesn't cry when they try to feed her peas at scuola materna. Ergo, Mama, big girl, not little girl. Please.

This morning :

Mama (laughingly) : "B., you're a little bugger, yes you are, a little bugger."

B. (adamantly) : "No I'm not a little bugger. I'm a BIG bugger..."

B. then repeats herself three times just to see Mama fall off her chair with laughter all over again. And all the better to memorize the new vocabulary.

Dammit, I must be more careful with what falls out of my mouth at seven in the morning. Do you think social services will be knocking on my door because I'm teaching my children English swear words that originated as 16th-century ribaldry among the soldiery of the British Army?

Reported conversations No. 15 : flora or fauna?

Bright sunshine again, but there's a fairly determined cool wind blowing. Could mean a change coming. Let's hope not. I like having the windows and doors open in October! And s*d worrying about global warming...

Planting tulip bulbs the other day, with B. an able little helper, dibber in one hand, bulb in the other.

Mama : So now we make a hole with the dibber...
B : (makes the hole) There you go!
Mama : ... and we put the bulb in with his nose pointing towards the sky...
B : (puts the bulb in the hole) There you go!
Mama : ... now we cover him up gently, tuck him up in his bed...
B : (pushes the soil over the hole) Cover him up!
Mama : ... just like Mama puts B to bed and tucks her in...
B : (stops what she's doing and looks up) Mama, I don't want to go to bed!
Mama : Well, if you don't sleep properly you won't grow.
B : But Mama, I don't want to grow up to be a flower, I want to grow up to be a little girl!

Reported conversations No. 14 : conversational gambits for hill-walkers

Nineteen degrees at 8:30am. A strange kind of day weather-wise. Thundery, hot and sunny, overcast. All, seemingly, at once.

My four-year-old son AJ is pretty good in the mornings. After a quick whine followed by a slow Mama-cuddle, he's up and about, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and so sharp I fear he might cut himself. It's an hour dead from the moment I step into his bedroom to tickle him awake to the instant we open the great double front door and start our descent to lake-level along the mulattiera, Carmine's semi-paved mule-track. And in that hour his mind has touched on many things about life, the universe and everything he would like to have explained. The 10 or 15 minutes it takes us to get to the car (going down is easy - coming up a different story), provide him with a perfect opportunity to ask away.

Now, for Mama, mornings are slightly different. While the thinking classes are doing just that, Mama is dashing around getting it altogether, washing faces, cleaning tiny teeth, checking potties, finding stray knickers - socks, hats, gormiti (don't ask), mobile phones, brains... Every mother knows the deal. By the time she takes her first steps on the mulattiera in the morning, a major organisational operation has been completed, and she could really be doing with a third cup of tea and some breakfast.

Instead, the intellectual grilling begins :

Day 1 (sunny, Mama carrying B., the backpack and the trash)

AJ (pointing to a buoy bobbing about on the lake below) : "Mama, what's that white thing for?"
Mama burbles on about things nautical combined with things mechanical.

Day 2 (raining, Mama carrying B., the backpack and some eggs for a neighbour)

AJ : "Mama, what's a clue?"
Mama (making mental note to ease off on the Scooby-doo) burbles on about mysteries, Agatha Christie, Sherlock Holmes and goes on to make up a few Carmine mysteries of her own as exemplars.

Day 3 (still raining with the church swathed in cloud-mist, Mama carrying B., the backpack, and a bag of plastic and metal recycling)

AJ : "Mama, what's a curse?"
Mama (thinks, the rain) out loud starts with wishing people ill, and moves on to ancient Egyptian priests, pyramids, magic and the sudden demise of Howard Carter.

Day 4 (no rain, but the long grass bent low over the path harbours raindrops, ticks and the odd snake; Mama is today carrying B., the backpack, glass recycling, swimming kit)

AJ : "Mama, why do we make the sign of the Croce?"
Mama drags up her early Church history, Christian symbology and theology (such as it is), plus a touch of Anglican polemic. After all of which :
AJ : "Mama, how do you nail a person onto the Croce?"
Mama (thinks, between suspicious snivels, Oh - My - God) : deep breath - goes swiftly through the mechanics, moving on firmly to the art history and iconography of the Crucifixion.

Day 5 (sunny and warm, Mama is carrying B., the backpack, paper and cardboard recycling, a bin liner of old clothes for donation to charity)

AJ : "What's a singing telegram?"
Mama (with a slight throaty tickle) : history of communications in the 19th and 20th centuries. Makes research note to self : is it possible to make a living as a singing telegram in the 21st century?

Day 6 (sunny and hot, Mama drooping like a donkey under B., the backpack, the trash, eggs for the English teacher, dry cleaning, AJ's cup-apron-bib-towel kindergarten kit, letters for the post, and ... a cold)

AJ: "What's a wreck?"
Mama : "AJ, darling, shipwreck, car wreck, or Mama wreck?"

Reported conversations No. 13 : abstinence and family life

A bright, clear dawn, with rosy fingers over the snow-capped mountains. Another gardening day! Lent without alcohol is going, well, okay...

M : Aperitivo time! Shall I get you sparkling apple juice?

L (mumbled under breath) : Zarking fardwarks!

M : I'm opening a bottle of Michel Lafarge Volnay to complement supper tonight - grape juice for you?

L (louder) : Zarking fardwarks!

M : And maybe a Sauterne to go with the apple crumble? I guess you'll pass, eh?

L (losing it, shouts) : Didn't you hear me? Zarking bloody fardwarks!

M (thinks) : My mother always warned me against marrying a Douglas Adams fan ...

For more on giving up swearing for Lent, connect here.

Reported conversations No. 12 : On babies (yikes!)

Five degrees at 9am. Retina-burningly bright, with a hazy mist over the lake.

Congratulations to S and F on the birth of their third daughter. S's pregnancy was, for AJ, the first part of his human biology education : Birds and Bees Part 1. And it had him thinking.

AJ on Monday : Mama, why don't you have a baby in your tummy?
Mama (thinking fast) : Because ... I don't want another one. I have you two and that makes me happy.

AJ on Tuesday : Mama, I want you to have a baby in your tummy!
Mama (oh, no not again) : Well, darling, a baby's a lot of work...

AJ on Wednesday : Mama, if you don't get a baby in your tummy, I'll stop being your friend!
Mama (sidestepping the issue) : Whether you're my friend or not, I'll always be yours.

AJ on Thursday : Pappa, I want Mama to get a baby in her tummy.
Pappa (towing the line) : Well, we think you two are enough for us.

AJ on Friday : Mama, Pappa, are we going to have baby chicks when spring comes?
Mama & Pappa (glancing at each other) : Yes, AJ, why?
AJ : Then Mama doesn't have to have a baby in her tummy. The chicks are enough for me.

Phew! Now I'm wondering when we will be teaching Birds and Bees Part 2 : Mama, how did the baby get into that lady's tummy?

Copyright © Louise Bostock 2007, 2008, 2009. All rights reserved. Please ask first.

Reported conversations No. 11 : Moving house

Minus four at 8am. Dry, with a pink sunrise and a hard frost.

Walking down the hill the other day, we passed the same baita we pass every day...

AJ (aged 4) : Mama, there's a broken house.

Mama : Yes, darling. Look I think someone's using it as a shed.

AJ (lighting up with an idea) : Mama, we could buy it!

Mama : (absent-mindedly) I don't think so, sweetie.

AJ (after a pause) : No, I suppose we couldn't get it up the hill.

CS Broadcasting Highlights of the Year 2008

Again, bright sunshine, blues skies and a warm wind. The clouds are trailing up the lake instead of down it, moving south-to-north rather than the more usual north-to-south.

Traditionally in the UK at Christmas time, there's plenty of tv-watching going on. The Brits have several excuses for slobbing out in front of the box at what they know should be a supremely social time of year. Perhaps the weather is awful and a walk doesn't seem too inviting. Or maybe you've eaten too much and can't get off the sofa. Or, better still, you want to avoid a deep and meaningless conversation with champion trainspotter Uncle Reg on the one hand and the more-than-slightly-overweight-and-nuts-to-boot Cousin Dottie on the other.

Much of what gets shown on tv at Christmas is either old stuff that everybody seems to like (Only Fools and Horses, James Bond with Sean Connery, or Cartoon Time with Roy Hudd and Emu) or content that's already been shown at least once in the year, repackaged to look like something different. An example of this is the 'Best of...' or 'Worst of...' or, more entertainingly, 'Out-takes from...'. Let's face it, this last option is cheap, and it's already been road-tested so it can't flop.

There's no tv in the House on the Hill, and given that I'm about as busy as the Boys from the Beeb at this time of year, I thought I'd do my own highlights of the year from CSB Carmine Superiore Broadcasting.


The Funniest Post of the Year (in me own 'umble opinion) : Breakfast time in Carmine Superiore is a time of virtuoso versatility amid a whirlwind of frenzied activity. A time during which Mama wears many hats...

The Most Heartfelt Post of the Year : This year, we lost too many friends and loved-ones. Such life-changing moments tend to put all other human preoccupations into perspective, and in the midst of our grief, it was the children who kept us moving in the right direction - always towards the future.

The Most Read Post of the Year : This post, a personal guide to Carmine Superiore and Lago Maggiore, drew more than 300 views and 60 comments.

My Favourite Picture of the Year : I can't decide. First, are the flowers after the rain, and second are the camellias that I caught doing arty-farty things in the fontana one Sunday afternoon. And then there was this image of the strangest mist I've seen in my few years here in Carmine, and one of the prettiest of the frescoes in the church. Click on the image to see larger versions; it's worth it.

Best Book of the Year : Again, I can't make up my mind. I can't decide between The Bad Girl on the one hand and Runemarks on the other. Or perhaps the best was The Enchantress of Florence, or maybe it was Neverwhere. Oh dammit! You choose.

Best Carmine Quote of the Year : This came from my neighbour, KK, who is well-known for his dry, quick and clever one-liners.

This Year's Greatest Personal Achievement : I know thousands of people do it every day but it meant a lot to me...

This Year's Largest House-Renovation Project : It was finished in time for winter...

This Year's Greatest Leap Forward in the Italian Vocab Stakes : Sadly, it was on the subject of allergies...

And finally... The Most Sickeningly Self-Satisfied Post of the Year : It has to be this one!

Happy Reading!

Copyright © Louise Bostock 2007, 2008. All rights reserved. Please ask first.

Reported conversations No. 10 : On music

A great big fat ZERO degrees at 9am. The day started bright and sunny and ended brooding, threatening more snow.

In the house on the hill, there are two schools of thought as regards music. M is a dyed-in-the-wool Led Zeppelin afficionado, and although Led Zeppelin formed part of the sountrack of her early formative years, Louise goes for something slightly more ... conservative. Louise would prefer Jessye Norman singing Strauss's Vier Letzte Lieder to Robert Plant singing about lemons. M likes to watch hoardes of 1930s tap dancers doing Trampled Underfoot in an extraordinary show of anachronistic synchopation, while Louise likes to get all meditative to Rachmaninoff's Vespers.

Louise gets to hear her kind of music only when everyone else has decamped to a different country, and M gets to hear his only if he promises to do the washing up at the same time.

A couple of evenings ago, M-in-Marigolds was running the gamut of YouTube's vast collection of Plant and Page bootleg videos, when B toddled into the kitchen for a bedtime kiss.


B (in toddler German) : Pappi, what's that?

M (in high German) : That's music.

B (in very emphatic toddler German, and wagging a wise toddler finger) : Nein, Pappi, das nicht musik.

I rest my case.

Copyright © Louise Bostock 2007, 2008. All rights reserved. Please ask first.

Morning story

As far as I can see in the inky gloom of 6:30am, it's raining. It's been raining, hard, for about the past 18 hours. Out there, somewhere close by, the waterfalls are thundering. Where are the galoshes?

Like all families with children, and plenty without, mornings in the house on The Rock are pretty tightly scheduled. Everyone has their part to play, and if someone misses his cue there's a problem, and it's usually Mama's. Problem.

In those two short hours between the children stumbling out of their beds and AJ blowing kisses to his Mama from his maestra's side, the breadth of Mama's versatility is breathtaking (at least to herself). Could her former employers really have understood just how many roles she is capable of performing? And all for just bed and board. A bargain.

Go on, be a fly on the wall...

"Morning guys! Time to wake up now!" -- Early Morning Wake-Up Call
"AJ, you can't wear those trousers - they're two sizes too small and they're pink." -- Sartorial Advisor
"Ouch! Mama kiss better." -- Mystical Healer
"Oh, yes, what a lovely picture you made yesterday. It's very...black." -- Art Critic
"Now which DVD would you like to watch this morning?" -- Entertainments Manager
"No, not that DVD. It's Mama's." -- Film Censor
"Mama, it's a stinker!" -- Personal Hygiene Consultant
"Get down off those curtains!" -- Kitten Wrangler
"I want juice, not milk!" -- Bar Tender
"Mama, it's a stinker!" -- Cleaning Lady
"Breakfast!" -- Short Order Cook
"Darling, where's that thingummyjig I had yesterday?" -- Miraculous Finder of Miscellaneous Objects
"Does anybody know where that postcard of Sandend is?" -- Scorpion-catcher
"Ouch, ouch. OUCH!!!" -- Hairdresser
"Now, guys, stop screaming at each other! Who had the scissors first?" -- Peacekeeper
"Open wide and say 'aaaah'. Please." -- Dental Hygienist
"Mama, it's a stinker!" -- Laundress
"Everyone out of the door and turn left. Please." Pathfinder and Drill Sergeant
"What do you mean you don't want to walk? Walking's good for you!" -- Fitness Consultant
"Oh do stop dawdling! I'm sure the fire salamander will still be here when we come back." -- Time-keeper and Teller of Little White Lies
"Stop! Look right, look left, look right again. All clear? Now you can cross." -- Last Bastion of the Tufty Club
"All aboard the Ninky-Nonk*!" -- Chauffeur and Cultural Reinforcer
"Say grazie to the crossing guard!" -- Life Coach
"Say buongiorno to the maestra!" -- Language Tutor
"Mama, it's a stinker!" -- Olympic 100-metre Sprinter

Copyright © Louise Bostock 2007, 2008. All rights reserved. Please ask first.

Reported conversations No. 8 : On children

Raining. Solidly. We are beginning to wonder whether this autumn might turn out to be similar to the autumn of '03. If so, watch out anyone plastering walls or laying cement floors and who expect it all to be dry before Christmas!


Alfredo Cattaneo, ever-smiling overlord of a burgeoning plumbing empire. Architect of the plumbing and guttering in our house (and heartily recommended). Huntsman extraordinaire. Husband to the indomitable Signora Cattaneo, and father to the startlingly lovely Gabriella. Often to be seen racing from project to project on his scooter, or flirting with a rapt gaggle of ladies over 70. A charmer.

"What is life without children?"

(Warming to his theme)

"What would we do without children?"

(Making the leap)

"What do people without children do?"

Mama : (Smiling, thinks) Hmmm...

Eat a meal while it's still warm? Get a whole night's sleep? Read a book, make a phone call, go out for supper? Wear stain-free clothes. Lie in the bath surrounded by candles and smelly incense sticks, dreaming...Salute the Sun...Attend a three-hour candlelit performance of the Tenebrae followed by a harrowing Allegre Miserere...Go on a day-long shopping expedition to Milan...Spend a weekend browsing around Hay-on-Wye...

I don't ask for much.