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Sunday, December 02, 2012

There's a certain look that people tend to get when they're forced to spend time with my daughter...


It's an expression I often see in the mirror. But yesterday I saw it on the face of our good friend Marie, who came down from Croydon for the day to spend some quality time with our children...


... while Lisa and I went to bed. At least, that was our hope. As it transpired, only one of us got to sleep, and it wasn't me.

Marie's visit started well when I picked her up from the station, and almost managed to bundle the wrong woman into the back of my car. I blame the weather. If it wasn't so cold, people wouldn't insist on covering their faces with scarves, and I might have had a fighting chance of realising that the lady walking towards me wasn't my friend before I attempted to give her a hug. Although if you do want to make friends, that's a good ice-breaker.

Fortunately, I managed to avoid an assault charge and successfully identified Marie, who was holding a bag of Christmas presents she'd wrapped on the train, plus a chocolate fudge cake from Waitrose, which I offered to carry for her. On my hips, for the rest of my life.

We returned to our highly sought-after postcode, where I guided Marie past the organic dog poo, and reduced our carbon footprint by leading her up the stairs past the broken lift and the dodgy hall light, before welcoming her into the drawing room. Where she produced this...


I sometimes struggle to interpret modern art, but I think that one speaks for itself.

Anyhoo, if there's one thing history has taught us, it's that when Marie comes to visit, it's only a matter of time before we get James on the phone, asking me to mention him on my blog. He's not so much an old flame as a bright spark who smokes, but despite dissolving the jam partnership a number of years ago, J&M still speak to each other regularly. Mostly on the phone at my flat.

So it came as no surprise when Marie's mobile rang after half an hour, and Lisa and I found ourselves shouting "HELLO!" across the living room to someone we haven't seen for six years. James got married in the summer (congrats, buddy) so I expect our cake's in the post, but on top of that, he's just had a short story published in a best-selling (that's more of a prediction than a fact) anthology. Entitled 'London Lies: Urban Tales from Liars' League, it's already attracting two-star reviews on Amazon, and at just £8.99 (how can they afford to pay tax?) is the perfect Christmas gift for that hard-to-buy-for relative, or person you don't like. Although if you don't have the money, you can enjoy James' story for free. It's about hippos. Personally I'm getting his brother's book instead. It sounds a lot more absorbing.

Anyhoo, after a home-cooked lunch of pasta and garlic bread, we warmed our hands on the glowing embers of the Atkins Diet, and sent Lisa into the bedroom to catch up on some sleep while the rest of us went out on the town. Here's Toby in his gangsta rapper's hat, and Amelie dressed as Dappy from N-Dubz...


Personally I was a bit more Louis Walsh...


Uncool, old, and with the vacant grin of a fool. More embarrassing still was that the moment I got Toby dressed, Marie noticed he was wearing the same coat that Amelie had at his age. She even remembered the occasion Am had worn it. But hey, we're not going to let gender stereotyping stand in the way of a few hand-me-downs. We're on a tight budget. And he can pay for his own counselling when he's older.

As for Amelie, she had the awkward experience of meeting a dalmatian dog whilst wearing her spotty tights, and looking like Cruella de Vil's daughter. But despite that, the four of us spent an enjoyable hour strolling along the promenade above Brighton beach, to the sound of Amelie asking if we could go to Lidl, until she was eventually pinned to the ground by a metal pole which fell from heaven in an act of divine intervention...


She still made us go to Lidl though.

We eventually made it back to the flat after sundown, at which point I dragged Lisa out of bed and forced everyone to recreate this two-year-old photo. Amelie's twice that age and three times as heavy, but when you're the right side of thirty-five and you employ a personal trainer, no amount of weight is too much...


And it helps that by the end of the average day, you feel more inclined to drop Am on her head.

3 comments:

Jon the Bassist said...

We never got to see the organic poo and a dimly lit stairwell!
I believe that in the wrestling world that move is called the piledriver!

Not sure how much help these comments have been? 

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Phil said...

Very helpful. I trust Steph's practising her wrestling moves ready for our next meeting.