OK so I’ve been back for a week, but I’ve been busy!

Skye was gorgeous (some photos here but don’t click unless you are keen on pretty hills and my children); weather was mixed to say the least, but we were only rained off on two days and the first was rather pleasant with games and dvds and general not-doing-much. (On the second we were Doomed: we tried to go swimming, the pool was shut; to a playground, which we couldn’t find; on a boat, too choppy…ended up driving from Broadford to Staffin for a baked potato. Lovely scenic drives and small walks between showers are fine for us but the girls were fed up. We finished in a pub playing giant connect four.)

We travelled up via Glencoe and the ferry for the sake of the romance. Week 1 we stayed in Glendale (in the fabulous missionary’s house): high points included a wonderful meal at the three chimneys (inlaws handily in a nearby B&B and could be called upon for babysitting duties), spotting a golden eagle at the Quiraing, Neist point (though we disappointingly failed to see sharks, dolphins, or anything much beyond sheep). Tamsin had a wonderful time shouting BAA! at every single sheep (there are a lot of sheep) and I enjoyed preparing very basic meals from the village shop and reading books. Maggie walked well. The roads, 2m-wide sheep-covered strips of tarmac across moors, took a little getting used to, and it never got dark. We could see the outer hebrides from our living room.

Week 2 we stayed in Breakish, near Broadford and the bridge. Failed to see otters (we will just have to go again) even though we made the trip to the hide but we visited the serpentarium and held a python. We popped onto the mainland to visit Eilean Donan and Plockton (of Hamish MacBeth fame) and to go on a boat trip. We had scenic drives, walked round Loch Coruisk in the driving rain, built sandcastles and generally pottered about. Lit the stove in the evenings as it was chilly, and ate lovely fish.

Allotment weeds are as high as my head, I have a pile of work on, and Cameron is away on a course. Back to real life.

Conscious that we have about 10 days to go before we go to sunny Scotland for a fortnight, I’ve been engaging in some rapid-fire allotmenteering, dashing down for the hour or so between children-in-bed and too-dark-to-dig. I got my maincrop potatoes in on Saturday – that’s fine, the pack said to plant between March and May so 8.30 pm on the 31st May is well within that window. Percy Thrower would have something to say about my planting method (dig trench in the middle of the weeds, pulling out the worst of the roots. Scatter spud fertilizer; use bulb planter to put potatoes in. Earth up with weed roots) and they are definitely closer together than they should be, as I didn’t have the strength to dig a second trench, but at least they are in and no longer regarding me reproachfully from the windowsill. Last night I flung in some borlotti beans: dug a big hole, filled it with lawn cuttings, back-filled with soil and weeds, put up a wigwam and put the bean plants in. You could almost hear them breathe a sigh of relief as they moved from 1-inch-diameter pots into the ground. They are thigh-high already, poor things. Next year I will sow them later.

Interestingly (to me, anyway) the purple french beans are happy wee things, growing up their poles and the new seeds I sowed have all germinated into nice little plants. The yellow ones, which are supposed to be going up alternate poles to make a lovely stripy wigwam, are pathetic. One has disappeared altogether (I’d blame slugs but my chief suspect is Mike-next-door’s overenthusiastic weedkilling on the path between us). The seeds have either not germinated at all or have come up to be eaten.

My raised bed, however, is a joy and a triumph. I must photograph it before I eat too much of its contents. (The photograph up there, by the way, is not a bouquet but some purple flowering bok choi, which was lovely in last night’s thai-curry-cum-stirfry. Unlike the aspragus which was just wrong.)

Very fuzzy because of little fingers on the lens (and my mobile isn’t the best camera ever) but here is Tamsin having her first ever babyccino. Shortly after buying both girls new sandals: they are costing me a fortune!

What we did (last weekend) was head down to mum and dad’s. Friday we went to Legoland, Maggie’s slightly belated birthday treat. It took her a little while to get into it – for the idea of “going on things” to sink in – but once it did, she loved it. She was much braver than we expected and loved the jetski ride with Cameron. The lego troll in the fairyland brook was a bit scary, though – and it was a bit of a shame it wasn’t warmer as there is a fantastic water-play area for littlies. We only had to shelter from one rainstorm, which is pretty good going, and unfortunately ran out of steam before getting to the Viking water ride thing I fancied going on – but that just means we will have to go again. Nice and quiet on a Friday, too.
Cameron spotted in the paper that there was a Banksy “thing” happening at Waterloo, and as luck would have it we were planning a day in London on Saturday anyway. We had tickets for the Lord of the Rings musical and my parents primed for a day of childcare. Cameron’s city knowledge far surpasses mine these days (the shame) and he led us straight to the appropriate tunnel – a short queue and we were in. Lots of great stencilling but my absolute favourite was the small children with spray-cans and crayola stencils merrily putting up small dolphins and palm trees!

After lunch we walked over to the theatre, past huge crowds out enjoying the sunshine on the south bank. The musical was fine: what a treat to go to the theatre in the afternoon and beautifully, spectacularly staged. The incidental music was nice but the songs forgettable and the trouble with the LOTR story – well actually there are a couple of troubles with it. One, there is just too much of it so it had to be cut hugely (of course, who wants to sit in a theatre for 4 days), and two, there is a lot of “travelling” or “being chased” which in effect means watching people run in circles round the stage. Still it was 3 hours and I didn’t feel bored, so that says something. And I loved the bit where the orcs came along the aisles and leered at the audience. I was scared and the little girl in front of us was utterly terrified.

Dinner in Chinatown and home to a sleeping baby (!) and an in-bed child. Fantastic.

Spring seems (shh! don’t jinx it!) to have arrived at last. My cucumbers have finally germinated; the second row of potatoes has been planted; the apple tree is going to burst into pink any day now; and the weeds are making up for lost time. But hoorah for being able to go out without layers.

Yesterday we went without layers to the park, for the first time since…gosh I don’t know but we certainly haven’t been this year. Maggie had taken to saying mournfully every time we drove past that it had been aaaaaggggeeeees: she was right. It was really fun, I had forgotten – and lovely now T is big enough to go on things and enjoy it as well. Here she is enjoying the slide at the zoo on Monday, too. While we were on our way to the park I spotted a poster for a new dance class in the village: perfect! M has been mithering to go to ballet for months now – I hadn’t done anything about it, partly through sloth, partly through a general feeling of being quite scheduled enough already thank you, and partly because I was just not sure whether she really wanted to do it or just thought it was what girls did. Anyway, we went for a trial today – big success. Huge. Holly, who had been her bessy mate at preschool before she started school last September, was there and she (Holly) had a pink ballet outfit and pink shoes. It just doesn’t get much better than that when you are 4. Tamsin and I spent a pleasant three quarters of an hour in the church graveyard (I like graveyards and she likes climbing and jumping, so we were both happy), peeping in occasionally to see what they were up to. M was right in the thick of it pointing her toes (in trainers, unfortunately, as I hadn’t provided ballet shoes), skipping, waving her hands and being a starfish on demand. She’s gone to bed a very happy little girl.

A great birthday: presents first thing*; Daddy got home around 11**; Aunty Suzi, Mia and Callum** came for lunch. Then this afternoon was The Party: about 8 4-year-olds** and several younger siblings – musical bumps, pass-the-parcel, egg-and-spoon racing, cake, and plenty of time to play, dress up and jump on all the beds. The Aunty Sara and Uncle Ian** came for tea before Mummy fell in a heap, Daddy collapsed with jetlag and Maggie refused to go to sleep (“I’m not tired“). A huge success with plenty more photos to be found on flickr.

*loads of them and what a star she is, wanting to ring everybody up and thank them immediately.

**with more presents, naturally.

What are we kitchen goddess types to do when faced with the last day of preschool before the holidays and an elder daughter, whose very name means blossom, with a birthday mid-holiday? Why, blossom biscuits of course!

They looked rather better before the icing was applied, as you could see the authentic cherry-blossom shape. (But she is nearly 4 and minimalism just will not do: they had to be Pink. Though she took some persuading that they shouldn’t be pale pink with dark-pink middles; her expectations exceed my abilities.) The boys at preschool may refuse*, so we made a few white ones too. And they would have been somewhat improved had I not all but run out of plain flour, meaning we had to make them with wholewheat with the bits sieved out (I’ll get a reputation as a nutrition nazi down the nursery). But I think they are cute and seasonal, so there.

*Paddy likes pink, apparently. The other, less-assured boys are more batman and ninja turtles.

Some drama in the garden this morning: there I was sat at the PC (where else) when I heard a bang and some feathers drifted past the window. When I went to investigate I found this bird of prey – since identified by my helpful and knowledgeable hubby as a male sparrowhawk – consuming a collared dove on the patio! He was there for at good 45 minutes, allowing me to get some reasonable photos (there’s a couple more on flickr, too), although it was tricky because of the excessive gloom and his refusal to stay still! My morning room has lots of glass and white paint, too, so I had reflections to deal with…but still, you can see a beautiful bird. Of course, I love our collared doves, too – but he really is a bit special.

I now have half a pigeon on my patio: have made a mental note to get rid of it before I next send the children out to play!

I am very happy with the new furniture: doesn’t my room look larger and lovelier? Something of a saga getting hold of it: we initally ordered some bespoke free-standing stuff last March. Excuse followed excuse (at one point the cabinet maker cut off a finger, which we thought was a good reason for a delay, but the replacement just seemed to spend all his time making expensive kitchens); the chap in the shop never once rang us spontaneously or for weeks after when he promised to, and sometime at the end of last year he sold the business. Eventually, patient people that we are, we just asked for the deposit back (and got it after 6 weeks of hassle).

Then we rang Neville Johnson. I cannot praise them highly enough: if you are in the market for fitted furniture and have plenty of cash* (they were not cheap but it appears you do get what you pay for) then put them high up your list. I suppose it shows what shoddy service one gets used to that I am utterly delighted to have found a company whose employees ring when they say they will (within half an hour when they say they’ll call you back), turn up spot on time, are courteous, clean, and well-presented and completed the entire process from initial contact via design (3 hours at our house), planning and installation in less than 2 months. I am a very satisfied customer.

In other aren’t-people-fab news: Tamsin dropped my purse in Asda today and apparently when I picked it up I left my card behind. Flustered in the queue (T climbing out of the trolley**, M crying because she hurt her finger), I was on the verge of putting back all my shopping when the lovely kind shining-armour lady behind me in the queue paid for my shopping! Gave me her address so I could send a cheque: she deserves some really fantastic karma. (My card had been handed into customer services by somebody else kind so I could get cash out to pay her back on the spot.)

*or are sufficiently fed-up to pay anyway.
**why don’t they have straps?

We’re having what Pewari euphemistically tell me is called a “mental health day” today. I’d have called it a “sitting on my lazy arse” day, but hers sounds better – and, to be fair, we often have days like this and I do have robust mental health (touch wood) so perhaps there is something in it. If you’d asked me last night what I was going to achieve today the list would have been long: to town on the bus to go to bank, library, Holland and Barratt, and (shh!) get a birthday present for Cameron. By 10 am, however, it was apparent that none of this was going to happen. I am trying quite hard to not spend the entire day chatting on msn and surfing at random, but Cameron left at 6 am, after which we all fell asleep again, and I can’t quite bring myself to care whether the kitchen is clean or the living room tidy. Let’s be honest: I struggle to care at the best of times, and this is not the best of times.

In other news: Tamsin has her first shoes, a minute size 2 1/2. She’s right on the cusp of toddlerhood and really not a baby any more.
And if you’ll excuse a bit of insufferable mummy pride, Maggie is clearly a methmatical genius in the making: I told her to eat 10 more spoonfuls of weetabix. After a bit she told me she’d eaten 5 so had 5 more to go. Then I asked how many she’d had she said 2, then told me that meant there were 3 left! I was most impressed – no counting on fingers required (apart from by me, to make sure she was correct).

Less impressive perhaps, but more amusing: she told me she had been asleep for 100 years and been woken by a handsome prince. I asked his name; she told me Sarry. “Sarry?” I said. Yes, Prince Sarry. Say it fast!

A Tamsin anecdote to even things up: one day last week she scampered up the stairs on her own and back down again bringing my conditioner from the bathroom as a souvenir. It’s great to know she is safe and confident on the stairs but this is not quite the way I expected to find out. She might feel ready but I’m not sure I am yet.

I’ve been reading Kate Atkinson’s latest book, which has had me wondering why some novels are literary and some just, well, novels. I’ve found some interesting ideas around the web, about internal versus external plots and about longevity, which seems to confuse literary fiction with classics (are they necessarily the same thing?) At which point my brain went la la la and I reverted to housewifery (while continuing to enjoy my book. I think, for what it’s worth, literary fiction is that which speaks to something deep inside: without necessarily knowing what or why, it touches your soul. Even if it is nominally a detective story. Oh, and it probably needs some recurring motifs that have a clever link to the characters.)

And now I am going to order some seed potatoes. Who says there is no variety in the non-working life?