Switzerlady

My favourite bank (again.)

2008-06-25T19:05:00.003+02:00

It's not been a great week. The big reason being yesterday's post, but add to that tropical tummy trouble, Gloria splitting her head open on the shower attachment* and the car breaking down outside the local brothel and you could say Kampala is losing its shine.

Whenever I'm down, though, there's nothing that lifts my spirits like a bit of Barclays bashing. Hello, corporate spies!

My brother recently sent me through some info about Katine, a sub-county of Soroti district, where The Guardian is sponsoring various health, education, watsan and livelihoods programmes. "It starts with a village", goes the lofty strapline. The Katine projects are run by AMREF (African Medical and Research Foundation), who, to give credit where it's due, seem like dudes. But it is all funded in partnership with...Barclays Bank! BB are matching them pound for pound in donations. Barclays who charge £5 on every withdrawal once your balance goes under £50 (£50 pcm being the average wage here in Ganda.) They should make their money back in no time by squeezing the very people The Graun wants to help! FYI, my local branch also scores pretty high in Basic Incompetence. I needed to withdraw a couple of million shillings the other day to pay for our holiday, and after a lot of waiting around and flustered tapping on the computer, I was informed sheepishly they had ran out of money. Well done!

I feel better already.

*Gloria is fine. She is a bit accident-prone. She will have a scar on her hairline, but only a tiny one.

Paining

2008-06-09T07:52:00.003+02:00

Ugandans don't say something 'is painful'; they say 'it is paining me'.

My start-up is paining me.

Following some very useful customer feedback, I have been trying to get East African fabric. Uganda has not yielded much so far, at least not of the right quality for children's clothes. You can, however, get lovely soft Kikoy fabric from Kenya. Baby K having no passport, I figured the best thing would be to get my contacts (hi Phyllis) to buy the stuff and post it. This has led to much paining.

My package got stuck in the post office. FYI, if MI6 need a new office, they could do worse than move to Kampala main post office. It makes rabbit warrens look like palaces of minimalism. Package located, they wouldn't release it until I had paid duty on it, which FYI was sixty percent of the value of the fabric inside. Coughing up the tax bill involved a morning of utterly needless standing around in the Crane bank. (It was Charles, a friend of mine, who did the standing around: I sat in the pouring rain in the car park opposite jiggling baby.)

I don't have a problem with taxes. But sixty per cent duty is eye-wateringly high, I'd say. How can anyone turn a profit with that kind of tax burden? If there were decent roads and shiny new schools springing up here and there I'd mind a lot less. So where is the money going? Answers on a postcard..

At least now I have these babies:

shorts, wrap skirts, towelling-lined bathrobes coming soon

PS Happy Birthday Mama xxxxxx

Still checking?

2007-11-10T11:45:00.000+01:00

Well in case you are, I've moved.

Come and see my new home!

The Last Post

2007-09-14T15:52:00.000+02:00

Well, here we are.

My writing desk is pretty bare except for the computer. It's our last day.

In a few hours time we'll be somewhere in France. I will be either

a) in a motorway service station, ordering a Happy Meal.
b) panicking about the bikes/ the contents of the roofrack falling off.

c) hotly denying we're lost

d) asking Emma if she needs a wee

e) ensuring a continous flow of biscuits from the front to the back seats

Thanks for reading, everyone. I've loved writing this silly diary and I've loved all the comments. This blog thing has been a great way of staying in touch with old friends, and making some new ones. There will be a Uganda blog, but we don't get there til end of November, and til then I am on sabbatical. I have no idea what it'll be called yet, but it'll probably have Uganda in the title.

Goodbye, Switzerland. You were beautiful, and still are.

Goodbye, Swiss chums. I've made some friends for life.

Goodbye, readers. Thanks for hanging in there: let's keep in touch.

Goodbye, Switzerlady. Stay on the straight and narrow.

Au revoir!

I Had a Farm in Arfricah

2007-09-11T08:15:00.000+02:00

As part of a general genning up on our next adventure, I've just re-watched Out of Africa. (It first came out in 1985 - don't that make you feel old?) It won a cabinet full of Oscars. What I don't quite get though, is why didn't anyone notice - between superlatives about the acting, cinematography etc - that it's crashingly dull?

The first hour goes like this.

Scene 1: Meryl looks out wistfully across the savannah to soaring classical music.
Scene 2: Low-level flirting between Meryl and Robert. When Bob's passion runs high, he gets out his scratchy gramaphone and they dance.
Scene 3: Meryl works on the farm and talks patronisingly to the natives.
Scene 4: Meryl meets a lion. Bob to the rescue! (They repeat this lion thing 3 times in all. By the third time, I was hoping it would eat at least one of them.)
Scene 5: Meryl looks out wistfully...zzzzzzzz.zzzz

Occasionally interesting things happen, like Meryl gets syphillis or the farm burns down, but they are thin on the ground in 2 and a half hours of staring and encounters with big game. Do you see what I mean? Or has the X Factor addled my brain?

In other news. I am very nearly not sick anymore, though I still need to take it easy. Friday is our last day in Switzerland, and therefore the last day of Switzerlady. There are boxes everywhere, though most of them are yet to be filled. I turned 34 yesterday, and had special breakfast of pancakes with maple syrup. It stayed down. 'God bless America', I say.

Those nausea cures: the results

2007-09-03T14:38:00.000+02:00

1. Vitamin B6. Definitely helping. 7/10.
2. Dr Herb's granules. Taste nice. Not convinced they're very effective. 3/10.
3. Watching hours and hours of clips of The X Factor on YouTube. TEN, TEN, TEN, TEN MILLION OUT OF TEN!

I LOVE the x factor. I love the contestants. I love the judges, despite Sharon and Dannii looking increasingly like their own waxworks. I love the stories.
I don't know why so many of the women sing I Will Always Love You, because it's very hard to pull off. Here's someone who did:

*sniff!*

2007-08-29T10:04:00.000+02:00

Do you remember I wrote something sniffy and moralistic about 'no more narcissitic posts' from now on? Well, guess what! It was a big, fat lie! Heck, sometimes you just have to beat that drum, yank that chain, smack that pony. So here it comes, my big whinge, and it's all me, me, me, me, me ME! Me and my morning sickness.

Firstly - let's get rid of the 'morning', bit, once and for all shall we? (I won't even bother responding to the people out there who think it's all in the mind.) Morning, afternoon, evening - any time is fair game. I've even been known - frequently, in fact - to wake up in the middle of the night, throw up, then go back to sleep.

What makes me sick? In short, everything. Just waking up. Cooking smells. 'Over-exertion.' By which I mean going to the laundry room and back, taking the rubbish out, sometimes just too much wandering from room to room. Things that are now out of the question: domestic chores, going to the shops, looking after my children, any kind of food preparation (I have to hold my breath as I open the fridge door). In short, normal functioning is suspended.

Eating ceased to be a pleasure some time ago. Now it's a case of "must fill stomach now." In fact, the thought that has consumed each waking moment for the past 4 weeks is 'what shall I do to get some relief'? Birthdays have come and gone. My friends have had babies, got married, moved house. People I love have sent concerned emails. I've ignored them all. The present, the nausea, is everything.

What do I eat? A short list. White bread. Honey. Ham. Gherkins. Rice, sometimes, as long as it's drowned in soy sauce. Occasionally with peas, but again, heavy camouflage. I'm sick of all of it. What do I drink? Coke. I hate it, but the bubbles and the sweetness calm the stomach, at least for a bit. I can't drink water: I taste the motes of dust, the washing up liquid or the chemicals in the plastic. It's unspeakably foul, though just about OK if I add some apple juice.

With all that coke sugar, it's important to brush my teeth, right? Yes, only it makes me vomit, pretty much instantly. All that jabbing around in the mouth - it's like sticking my fingers down my throat. Once I've thrown up, I haven't got the energy to do them again. So my poor teeth have a nightly coating of stomach acid. I can almost feel them rotting in my head.

Let's not forget the tiredness. The tiredness. Some days I don't know which is worse, the overwhelming nausea or the crushing, draining, emptying exhaustion that accompanies it. I've spent hours and hours in bed sleeping, but it's never enough.

How many times a day am I sick? Well, on a good day, twice. 2 is the minimum. On a good day - like today - I can pootle about on the computer, have a shower, make a few phone calls, that sort of thing. I must be careful not to overdo it. On a bad day - yesterday - I have a good morning, decide to do the recycling, then retire to bed, vomiting almost non stop in the afternoon. How many times? I lost count.

This has been my life for 4 weeks, and I've had enough. The Switzergent has surpassed himself, looking after the girls, cooking and clearing up, bringing me a stale roll to gnaw on in bed. He hasn't complained. Our friends, my ma, the Red Cross ladies have mucked in and I feel amazingly well-supported, as well as hugely grateful. But enough is enough: I want to be back to normal.

Another Glory-related hospital drama

2007-08-25T16:10:00.000+02:00

She'd had a fever for a couple of days and was very pale. Not that I'd paid much attention: I was too busy staring into my green plastic sick bucket. The Switzergent showed his usual over-concern ("is it a brain tumour?"), which I countered with my usual understatement ("it's probably nothing!"). I agreed to at least take her to the doctor.

11.15 appointment. I staggered down the hill to the surgery, dizzy and nauseous, running late, with my ashen-faced little girl in the pushchair, clutching an empty plastic bag. I got to the surgery door and was immediately sick. The receptionist led me into a room, gave me some water and relieved me of my no-longer empty bag. Gloria stared vacantly.

The doc examined her. At the time her fever wasn't too high, but she looked terrible: dark-eyed and still extremely pale. She did a blood test. "She has a very high white cell count," she told me. "I'd like her to have further investigations in hospital." Oh. I had left Emma with the maman du jour, and only left the house with my health insurance card. No phone, nappies, wallet, nothing. "Never mind about all that," said the doc. "Just get there first. I'm sending someone with you as you're in no fit state."

We walked to the hospital - 500 metres away - at a snail's pace. Anything faster would have made me sick. Very efficiently they whisked us into a consulting room. All of a sudden, Glory went from being "unwell" to an obviously very sick baby - 40 degree temp, colourless, blue-lips, arched-back and crying a terrible, heart and gut wrenching cry. This was not good. They took more blood. They put a venflon in her hand. They gave her suppositories to bring her temperature down. None of which she liked at all.

"We think it might be a urine infection," said the blonde, impossibly-young looking doctoresse. "We need a sample." We were transferred to a bay. Glory lay in her steel-barred institutional cot breathing rapidly and looking grey. We waited. No pee. An hour passed, then 2. No pee. 5 hours passed. She was put on a drip. She peed. "Definitely an infection," said the doc. "Only we need an uncontaminated sample for culture. We have to put a catheter in." Poor Glory. I couldn't watch.

I spent the next 24 hours in a bed next to my little girl, watching her floppy body and listen to her plaintive wails. Sometimes her skin was so hot the room would heat up, her breathing like machine-gun fire. She didn't want to be held, except on the occasions she fell asleep in my arms, exhausted. And there was the matter of her smell. Normally she smells of caramel custard - it's my favourite smell in the whole world. Now she smelt of yeast; sour and anaerobic.

There was an upside to this. I got to lie in bed next to her all day - I didn't want to leave her side anyway - and do nothing, while kind nurses brought me bread rolls and patted me on the shoulder when I was sick. Nausea cures are overrated: but someone to pat your shoulder, silently understanding your moment of misery. I was grateful for that.

A bad night. Then the 2nd dose of antibiotics. Then...an improvement. She woke up a bit and flirted with Antonio, one of the nurses. This was the Glorymouse of old, and it made my heart sing. Then the urine results came back. "E. Coli," said the doc. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the antibiotics to work. "And she needs to drink." She hadn't eaten or drank for two days, so was receiving IV fluids as well. We all took turns - Emma included - offering bottles of milk and apple juice, pleading, cajoling, in Emma's case barking "DRINK THIS, GLORIA!" No joy. Her tongue was covered with a white film and her lips were cracked.

Day three. She slept through the night without a fever. She had a few bites of bread and jam for breakfast, and she followed her sister into the hospital corridor, rather wobbly, but tottering nonetheless. We breathed a sigh of relief - a corner turned. When can we go home? I asked, a bit half-heartedly. I wasn't ready to face the washing up and making my own sandwiches yet. Tomorrow, came the reply. But only if she drinks.

The next few hours were spent waving a bottle or a cup or whatever under her nose. Calm turned to exasperation as she kept refusing. But then, about 5 pm, she whimpered "appur-joose". I gave her the bottle, and she drank 200ml in one go. We were going home.

It's nice to be home. It's still chaos, I'm still sick as a dog, but it's a pleasure to see my girls fight over the dolly pram and play hide and seek. G still gets easily tired, and getting her medecine into her is a twice-daily fight, but I feel a huge relief just to hear her giggle or ask for a bi-cit. Normality, sort of.

Drawing a line

2007-08-16T17:24:00.000+02:00

..under the recent spate of uber-narcissistic, navel-gazing posts.

An earthquake in Peru, devastating global floods, Madeleine McCann still missing. A friend-of-a-friend losing her baby in the 8th month of pregnancy. These things knock my tiny problems into perspective.

Things I am very grateful for today:
- my mummy, amazingly unruffled and patient looking after E and G
- E and G and the bean inside. Totally undeserved little bundles of joy.
- a nice warm flat with no leaks in it.
- Migros latest potato and nut bread. Sounds yuck, tastes yum.
- Vitamin B6. (Potato bread still inside!)

That's all.

Homeoquackery

2007-08-11T11:47:00.000+02:00

In a desperate bid to avoid the workplace for a bit longer, and because moving to another continent we didn't feel was challenge enough, we thought "let's have another baby!". And so we will. I am 10 weeks pregnant.

I am also very sick. Some women have pre-eclampsia; some have difficult births; my specialist pregnancy horror is the first three months.

I've been in bed pretty much for 10 days, with a wonderful army of friends and family looking after Em and Glo. Last night, after throwing up about 5 times in 2 hours, I got so fed up I called the on-call doctor service. They sent me.....a homeopath.

I admit when you say the word 'homeopath', I hear the word 'quack,' despite not knowing anything about it or having tried any homeopathic remedy ever. (I know people rave about Echinacea, but Beecham's Colds and Flu is very effective and more readily available. I guess I've never not had a conventional medicine work for me.)

The good doctor arrived last night, didn't introduce himself, didn't ask any questions other than "you're pregnant, are you?" and didn't examine me or take any observations. I explained I'd also had diarrhoea and a fever, which he didn't seem remotely bothered by. He seemed in quite a hurry. (Perhaps he had parked illegally?) He reassured me it would be over soon, made a quip about how I was 'populating Switzerland!' and wrote out a prescription for homeopathic nausea granules which he assured were 'excellent'. Then he left. Total length of stay: 5 minutes.

Of course the proof of the pudding is in the eating...and if these granules work then I will eat my words, my hat and send a thank you letter to Dr Herbs. Can't help feeling sceptical though..

Emma and Gloria's favourite games

2007-08-08T11:42:00.000+02:00

1. Sack of potatoes. When you pick them up and throw them onto the bed, like a sack of potatoes. Repeat. Result: high-pitched giggling.

2. Flip the pancake. When you pick each child up by the feet and flip them onto the bed, like a pancake. Repeat. Result: giggling, endless cries of "again! again!"Stop if vomiting occurs. (It has.)

3. Search and rescue. Gloria flings Brian and Bernard behind the bed for Emma to find, which involves climbling and squeezing into a tight spot. Result: giggling. Bonus points for low parent involvement.

4. Rat run. Step one: pull sofa about 1 ft away from the wall. Step two: sit back and marvel as girls chase each other through tiny tunnel for hours. Another low parent involvement game.

5. Bumblebee. Emma puts a shiny bead down the neck of my top and has to find where it pops out. She calls the bead 'the bumblebee', hence the name.

6. Lick Mummy's face. Emma chases me round the room sticking her tongue out, trying to lick my face, while I make a big "yuck!" and "urgghh!" song and dance. I don't like this one much.

7. Smear Gloria with cream. Under cover of silence, when parent is preoccupied, take any old cream and smear Gloria with it. Last time it was nappy rash cream - G looked like she was ready to swim the channel. This is not one of my favourites either.

It's fun with two.

2007-07-23T14:21:00.000+02:00

To: CEO, South West Trains
The Rt Hon MP for Emsworth

Dear Sir/Madam,

I am writing to draw your attention to the journey I had on Friday between Emsworth and Gatwick Airport, to highlight the appalling state of our national rail system. It is incomprehensible that as the world's 6th largest economy, we can't do better. I observed the following:

1. The tear-prickingly expensive ticket price: 2 singles, £30, journey time 1hr 10 mins.
2. The crumbling plasterwork and flaking paint.
3. The one piece of hi-techery, the dot matrix display and voice announcement system, helpfully telling me every two minutes that it was broken.
4. The lack of ramp/lift. Not helpful with 2 kids under 3, one pushchair and a large lime green suitcase. (Lime green, yes. No confusion on the carousel for us.) Doesn't this also break some recent disability discrimination legislation?
5.... and perhaps most importantly, no trains. OK there was some "flooding", "a landslide" and a "lightning strike," but instead of saying euphemistically - between announcements that the annoucement machine was broken - that there are "delays", just 'fess up and say "there are no trains for a bit. Get a taxi. Sorry."

On a lighter note - £70 lighter to be precise, thanks to the very reliable Havant Cars - we did make our flight. Apologies to everyone whose toes we trod on (literally) in the stampede to get through security in time.

Mrs ex Pat Rantalot

Grandpa John

2007-07-11T14:48:00.000+02:00

I first met John about 5 and a half years ago. Rob and I were going out, and we liked each other enough that it was time to Meet The Parents.

The first thing I noticed was his big, kind, brown eyes. The same as my boyfriend's, I thought back then. I also thought - in the breathless anticipation of the single girl - I'd quite like my children to look like these people. I'm happy to say my wish came true - uncannily so in Gloria's case. She is her grandfather, only tiny and female.

John was once a Lieutenant Commander in the Navy, and his service days were among the happiest in his life. He never said asmuch, but you could hear the lift in his voice and catch the twinkle in his eye as he spoke of them. The discipline he learnt came back with him to civvy street - he was a man of routine. Little things, like the making of breakfast, were important to John. An egg (always), toast and marmelade (same pot; same place), opera music in the background. Observing these things on the quiet, I found them strangely comforting.

He was a formal man, but not a stuffy one. He didn't mind being clambered on by the grandchildren, and his special knack for calming down toddlers made me envious. His manner with everyone was unfailingly gentle.

He was also shy and reserved, classically British; but he also could speak from the heart. When we celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary at the Basil Street Hotel, he paid tribute to Rosemarie, his wife, and his children as the "best things that have happened to me."

A self-effacing person, he couldn't bear to cause anyone trouble or grief. When he was diagnosed with cancer of the pancreas last August, his first worry was that he was letting his family down. But - a devoted Catholic all his life - he had hope. He faced his illness uncomplainingly and with dignity to the last.

For the past year, we have been telling Emma that Grandpa is "poorly". The other day, we told her that he was going to go and be with Jesus soon. Emma thought about this for a moment. "Will he sit on his lap?" she said.

For my Father's will is that everyone who looks to the Son and believes in him shall have eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day. John 6:40

John went to sit on Jesus' lap on Monday July 9th 2007.

Ice cream girls

2007-07-07T14:52:00.000+02:00

Emma: "You've done something naughty, haven't you Glo? You've got your guilty face on."

Gloria: "It's not my guilty face. It's my manipulate-the-parents-with-cuteness face. I use it to get Daddy to hand over his caramel cone."

Emma: "So that's why Mummy always gets coffee.. she's wised up to your trickery."

Gloria: "You've got a full-size strawberry cornetto I notice."

Emma: "I stare him down with these baby blues and he melts like butter in the sun!"

Gloria: "Are we clever and adorable?"

Emma: "Put it there!"

Guess the insect

2007-06-28T20:51:00.000+02:00

Hello again, sorry again, that is if any of you are still bothering to read this old tosh.

We've had visitors. Lots and lots of them, and rather rude, too. They don't wipe their feet, don't say 'please' or 'thank you', always always bring a friend, several even, and just head straight for the fruit or the sugar without bothering to ask about your day. Rudest of all, they absolutely refuse to die, no matter how much boiling water I pour on them or however strategically I place the stupid traps.

I did have something of a hissy fit a few days ago when I realised the tourists had taken up full citizenship. But I've mellowed in my old age, and no longer bat an eyelid when I behold the dustbin lid alive with tiny, crawling...

.....wasps*

(*not really. It's ants. But gee, let me create some drama, just occasionally)

I was joking about the cane.

2007-06-15T13:20:00.000+02:00

I am in a happy place at the moment. In this place, I am watching an African sunset and the wind is rustling the jasmine flowers while Emma and Gloria play peacefully under the avocado tree. They have made friends, found a nice playgroup, some good toys and a taste for goat meat. I have also made friends, found a worthwhile project to get stuck into, learnt some of the local language and have perfectly-toned abdominals. This lovely place is called Denial, down the road from Lazytown and twinned with Fiddling-while-Romeburns.

Orderliness is not my strong suit. The Switzergent is different in this regard. He likes order; neat piles; sticky labels; everything in its place. I don't mind chaos, as I have pretty good object locator memory (e.g."Where are my keys?" "Under the socks in the corner." ) After a while, bits of junk look like they were just meant to be there. I never get the itch to sort through it.. or perhaps the itch is there, but the itch to watch clips of Britain's Got Talent on YouTube is more scratchworthy. Meanwhile, stuff builds up, dust covers the stuff, and we are moving country in less than 12 weeks.

I must stop procrastinating.

But let me make some tea first.

Grasping the nettle

2007-06-13T14:42:00.000+02:00

Emma has discovered the word merde.

She first said it a couple of weeks back in the evening after I left her all day with the nice but-still-not-sure-I-completely-trust-her babysitter. "Oh merde!" she exclaimed, joyfully over her pasta and broccoli, apropos of nothing much. She got a telling off (which made her less joyful) and so did the babysitter, who told me the TV repair man said it when he dropped the TV at her apartment. (My first thought was yeah, right! But I gave her the benefit of the doubt.)

She quickly cottoned on that the m word was terrific fun and an excellent way of getting a rise out of Mum and Dad. There were tears and M and D arguing and handwringing over How to Discipline Our Potty-Mouthed Three Year Old Child. Now that's entertainment! Way better than watching the Andy Pandy DVD.

She didn't say it again until yesterday, when out it popped 2 or 3 times, each time E obviously looking for a reaction. As we were out and about with no naughty corner to send her to, I just put on my scary face - it's pretty good - and my stern, scary voice and warned of no choc ices later. But then she was sweet and there were choc ices later.

Today at lunchtime - cheesey toast, thanks for asking - she said it again, loud and clear. But I was tired and I had had enough. So she got sent to her room and Gloria got the remains of her lunch. She stayed wailing and protesting behind the babygate (the bars of which make it pleasingly penal-seeming) for a good half an hour. Eventually, through the sobs, came "Mu..mm.yyy I ...want...to...say.soo rrry". But I was still feeling like hard Hitler mother, and sorry didn't cut it, so I made her say sorry and that she wouldn't say it again, unless she wanted BIG TROUBLE.

She's out now, we're friends again and she's now fast asleep in our bed with Brian pressed against one cheek. I am drinking cherry tea and loving being on the computer after a long blog absence. Glory is screaming and fighting sleep, but you can't have everything. I don't feel guilty about being hard with her... I feel it was harsh but fair, but you never know I s'pose.

My next post will be called The Cane - Underrated, Underused?

Chez Mac!

2007-05-30T18:12:00.000+02:00

Having followed her blog for years with grudging and jealous admiration, I took my Ms Mac fandom to a new level by brazenly inviting myself and my entourage to Chateau Mac for lunch as part of our trip. Had I known beforehand that CM is on top of a mountain, I might have suggested a restaurant rather than struggle up it with a 1okg sack of Gloria-shaped potatoes on my back wheel.

The welcome, the impeccably-behaved boys (Happy birthday, Ewan, 10 today), the piles of lasagne and many other lovely touches made it all worth it. And we discussed the alt fn keys and numbers lock! Food, chat and geekiness - what's not to like?

Switzercycle tours, no 2: part 1

2007-05-28T15:56:00.000+02:00

Before we leave at the end of August, one of our aims is to take in all the Swiss lakes by bike. So far we've done Neuchatel; this weekend we went to Lake Zurich. As an experiment, we thought we'd give Schlaf im Stroh a go. Schlaf im Stroh = you sleep in the straw in somebody's barn. That's right. Straw. Blanket. Sleeping bag. Mouse-sized pillow. Night night.

(Lucky Gloria got business class.)

Here's how it went:

2145 Everyone in bed. Emma already fast asleep, after nervously reassuring her that the "doggie's not allowed in." Straw is surprisingly warm and comfy.
2200 Swtizergent fast asleep. Switzerfriend Megan fast asleep. Lizzie wide awake cursing herself for accepting after-dinner coffee offer.
2300 L still wide awake, still unwilling only guest at all night caffeine party.
0000 L freezes in horror as cat and kitten make themselves comfortable at her feet. L imagines worse case scenario: cat jumps on G or E's face and claws at their eyes. L shuts both cats in farmhouse. (L makes alot of noise and gets scratched.) Repeat.
0215 L bored of suffering alone, wakes up Switzergent to complain "I can't sleep."
0230 Cats back on straw.

2145-0600
Cow bells go TING! TING! TING! TING! TING!
Horse next door goes NEIGH! STAMP, STAMP! NEIGH!
Flies and mosquitoes go BUZZ! HUMMM! BUZZY HUM!
0530 Milking machine goes WHIRRRR! WHIRRRR!

If there's a next time, I am getting the best earplugs money can buy.

Part two: why we're going to Uganda

2007-05-22T11:24:00.000+02:00

I hope my last post was reassuring - or a bit more reassuring anyway - that we won't be recklessly endangering either ourselves or our children. I accept, though, that it is nonetheless a big change. I also accept that if not as risky as it sounds, it is still more risky than an office job in a UK town. The other question people have asked is - why? Why leave a perfectly comfortable, functioning country where 8 year old children walk alone to school?

This is not a very easy question to answer, but here goes. Firstly: selfish reasons. We broadly fit the description 'adventurous types'. (Only 'broadly', because we like camping, but not bungee jumping.) Essentially, we are a pair of old hippies who like nipping off somewhere by bike with just a spare pair of underpants and a toothbrush. 'Comfortable' and 'functioning' are OK, but also, well, a bit dull. So it is with Switzerland; it's a place I have taken to my heart and will be sad to leave, but I never thought for a moment I could stay here forever, for the above reason.

More selfish reasons. Our quality of life will probably improve in Kampala. No more cramped apartment for one. We'll be able to buy more for our money; although we have never lacked anything here, we have to be a bit careful. Our children will get an excellent pre-school education. I have no desire to go back to the UK to fight tooth and nail for a nursery place. And didn't it recently top a poll for Most Unhappy Places to Be a Child?

Other -hopefully- less selfish reasons. There is a lot of need. There is a valid debate going on about whether it's the responsibility of rich Westerners or governments to meet the need. Meanwhile (and forgive me for being a bit emotive here, but it's a simple fact) do you leave people to die? The good news about Uganda is that peace is breaking out up North. There is optimism that people will be able to return to their villages, plant crops and get on with life. Then we will be out of a job, and that is a good thing. That is the point.

Another reason: God's call. (I know not everyone will get this; I am not preaching here, just explaining our motives as honestly as possible.) I haven't had a booming voice or a gilt-edged contract from heaven. But I get upset when I watch DVDs about the night commuters. I get excited when I hear people's Africa stories. I can be finishing a perfect three-course meal by the lake, with the silhouette of the Alps marking the evening sky..and I'm haunted by the millions of children in other countries who will never make it to my age, let alone enjoy such luxury. And I'm bothered by this verse: "anyone who knows the good he ought to do and doesn't do it, sins." (James 4:17) We've prayed about this and thought about this for months; and it feels like the right thing to do.

Sorry if any of the above has offended you.

Time to go.

Some background: part one

2007-05-17T10:34:00.000+02:00

Since we let the world know about our Uganda plans, a few people have raised concerns about our going. In my last post, I felt a bit uneasy re-reading the sentence about my children getting tropical disease, when I know there are people reading this (family included) who would be horrified at my flippancy. I think their horror comes from a desire to love and protect us, which I appreciate. So it's only fair to explain a little bit more about what we'll be doing and why we're going in the first place.

What we will be doing? Let me start with the Switzergent. He'll be managing all the Medair programmes in Northern Uganda. In short - very short, you can read more here if you are interested in the context - Northern Uganda is plagued by displacement, violent conflict and poverty. There are refugee camps holding tens of thousands of people who have fled their villages due to these problems. Medair provides water and sanitation and primary health care to the people in these camps. Switzergent will spend 3 weeks out of 4 in Kampala, but for 1 week per month he'll be visiting the camps. Travelling in and around Northern Uganda is dangerous, a fact I am not going to try and gloss over. But it has improved in the last year.

What will I be doing? Pretty much what I'm doing here. 90 per cent of the time I will be changing nappies, reading stories, doing laundry, paying bills, picking things off the floor and trying not to shout. And dodging insects. The other 10 per cent - I'm guessing -I will be doing church-related stuff and some writing. I am not allowed near Northern Uganda, both by Medair and by my conscience. It's a risk I will not take with young children.

What will Kampala be like? I've never been there, but I'm assured by lots of people that it's a modern, pleasant capital city. It's pretty safe to move around, although the driving is a bit reckless. There is broad political stability. There is running water, electricity, shops, restaurants, and the internet (not sure about broadband.) There are occasional power cuts when water levels in Lake Victoria are low.

Where will we live? I've seen a picture of our future house and it looks -well, palatial. We will have a spare bedroom (that's a hint: take it) and my predecessor (hello Sally) has planted a vegetable garden. We will be able to pay someone to help with the kids, cook and clean. If anything I feel embarrassed and a bit uncomfortable by the neo-colonial luxury that awaits us.

And as for tropical disease, Lake Victoria is notorious for bilharzia so I won't be taking Em and Glo for a paddle any time soon. But -and I'm not 100 per cent about this - apparently Kampala is not a malarial area.

I hope you share my view now that it's actually not that risky. If you were thinking aid work was all about throwing oral rehydration sachets from helicopters being shot at by rebels - sorry to disappoint. Or come and see for yourself (second hint. I really mean it.)

Not gidding u

2007-05-10T19:46:00.000+02:00

We really are going to Uganda. We are going at the end of the year. So there is still time to worry about it, and I am getting quite a good head start.

What is at the top of my worry list? It's not 'can I 'do' Africa?' This would be a reasonable worry; I have never been there, and moving there to live with 2 small girls when I don't tan and hate insects is a big deal. As I say; a reasonable worry. But it's not number one. Will my kids be happy and settle in and not succumb to tropical disease? Maybe. Maybe not. I'm worried about that too, but it's not number one.

This week's top worry spot is currently taken by this: given we can't take them all home, how am I going to get rid of at least half Emma's toys without breaking her heart? Do I a) start getting rid of them by stealth, whittling them down over the forthcoming weeks til only the monkey and a few bits of lego remain? She's not stupid. She'd twig. And it feels like lying. Or do I b) explain to her about moving, we can't take all the toys etc, wouldn't it be nice to give some - ok, half - of them away to the kids without any toys? She wouldn't get it. She'd cry. They're her toys. (I'm also rather taken aback by how attached I am to some of them, even if 90% of them are just old plastic tat.)

She says she's looking forward to Uganda. When we go, Emma says, we must 'put our coats on' and 'not have bare bottoms.'

2007-05-08T16:01:00.000+02:00

Lilian passed on this meme to me, so here goes:

Name five things you love about your new country:
1. Nice scenery.
2. Chocolate, obv, though I make an exception for Cadbury's creme egg
3. Perfectly functioning infrastructure
4. Perfectly functioning car sharing scheme that has left us no need for our own motor
5. People generally very polite and civil to each other

Name three things that annoy you about your new country:
1. The Swiss have no idea what to do at roundabouts.
("Do I give way to the right? Hang on, that car is there already. Should I wait a bit? Let me finish this piece of cheese. OK, I'm going, I'm going...I'm off now! Oops, sorry cyclist! Why is she swearing at me in English?")
2. There is no cash back at supermarkets. (Trivial this one, but annoying nonetheless.)
3. People generally very reserved, shy and hard to get to know.

Name one thing I would miss about my new country:
1. All my friends. And miss them I will, because we are leaving Switzerland and going
here.

I am tagging Blogzambique, Ms Mac and Gin and Teutonic on this one.

Here is the evidence!

2007-05-04T16:16:00.000+02:00

Thank you Laura, still a Welsh girl if not in Leeds? Thank you Lopus&Howie, up Pompey. Thank you, Auntie Caroline, and a top auntie you are. Thank you Marie P, school chum AND world-famous author. Thank you, Jukesy, keeping the crims out. Thank you, Muzzie xxxxxx. Thank you, Kaddy, my Tooting Belle. Thank you, Katri, good friend en Suisse. Thank you, Shiona, the Scottish support (house going through?) Thank you, Pedros, all blond 6'4'' of you. Thank you Helen all the way from Oz. Thank you Becca, all the way from Moz! Thank you, Moobs, marathon hero. Thank you, BBH: dearest chum. Thank you, Emma D, ex-pat pal. Thank you globe-trotting, ex UCH Clare. Thank you, Sylv, glad you like the blog. Merci, everyone at Chapelle de Villard - not that you'll read this, but you know anyway. Merci, mums in the park. Thank you, my parents-in-law. Thank you Ina, Susan, Martyn, Anna and Pete for looking after E&G - they find me very dull in comparison. Thank you bro, sis, sarah, lilian and a.n. other for your encouragement. Thank you everyone at Medair.

Thank you to my amazing, wonderful Switzergent, for the support, the patience, the plasters...even though I hate you for running it in 1hr 45. (You're fit.) Thank you God for a body that works, a nice day, a good crowd and wonderful generosity from so many people. Thank you from everyone involved in the Medair Congo programme.

That was a bit like the Oscar's wasn't it?

Consider the running story officially over - normal service resumes from now.

(I might just post that happy dance just for the heck of it.)

Ta-daaa!

2007-04-30T21:58:00.000+02:00

I did it!
In I hour 52 minutes!
I didn't die!
Or break anything!
I'm sooooo happy!
THANK YOU EVERYONE!
Photos coming!
Too many exclamation marks!
It's the adrenalin!
I am sore!

A bag of nerves writes

2007-04-27T14:26:00.000+02:00

The run is tomorrow.

Hooray for me: no more pounding the concrete, no more perspiration issues, no more silly 'Eye of the Tiger' peaked cap, no more blinding people with my bling-bling trainers, no more begging my long-suffering friends to mind the kids, no more teenage mockery, no more injuries, no more lost little boys, no more advances from nice-looking stragers. oh.

Hooray for you: no more posts about running, trainers, toe photos, me, me, me, aren't I fit.

More staying in bed. More junk food. More Desperate Housewife, less Challenge Annika. Once the small matter of tomorrow is over, I am going to zip myself into a giant duvet (with arm and head holes), fetch the remote, find a family bag of Doritos and lock the door.

I'm a chicken

2007-04-25T14:07:00.000+02:00

Whoops!

Did I mention a "happy dance"? I'm sorry: I think I was drunk when I wrote that last entry. Despite having a talent for self-promotion at any cost, I've decided to make you work a little harder before publishing such a ~~humiliating spectacle~~ rare display of artistic physical expression.
In other words, I've moved the goalposts and bumped up my new target to £1500.

I apologise for lying. Here, look at this pleasantly distracting picture:

An offer you can't refuse*

2007-04-23T15:27:00.000+02:00

5 days to go til the race.

We've just been in the UK and consumed an Everest of pies, chocolate and cream cakes. I ran once: it felt like my trainers were filled with concrete.

I am nervous.

My feet are begging to be let off the hook.

The friction burn in my armpit is still apparent.

But I am ready as I'll ever be, so BRING IT ON!

A HUGE thank you to all my sponsors. I am £139 off my target. *If I make my target, I will do my happy dance, video it and post it here.

What we did at the weekend

2007-04-16T17:43:00.000+02:00

Switzergent: Isn't this fun! Here we are at the Morges Tulip Festival. I love flowers and gardens and things. I love doing wholesome things like this and going everywhere by bike!

Switzerlady: Is he trying to kill me? My feet are on fire. There is a friction burn in my armpit. I have a sweat patch the size of Europe on the back of my nice purple top. It is all uphill on the way home. I am going to be sulky and passive aggressive for the rest of the afternoon.*

Emma: I am bored. I want an ice cream.

Gloria: I am bored too. I will steal your ice-cream when your back is turned.

*in reality i may have had a nice time

And now for something really revolting

2007-04-12T14:04:00.000+02:00

If you are reading and eating your lunch at the same time, I suggest you put your sandwich down.

Look at that humungous blister on the side of my hallux. The purplish hue on the other side doesn't bode well, either. I'm not sure how the two middle toes got covered in blood, but the end of my nice white sock looked like it had been dipped in strawberry jam. It reminded me of the last time I had a bloody sock - a leech snuck into my boot on a trekking holiday and tucked into my foot for a tasty snack. I squished him as I walked. I had no idea he was there until I feel a warm liquid gush over my toes. Poor old leech.

I think I'll leave it there.

PS Ran 15km yesterday!

2007-04-10T13:08:00.000+02:00

Here are my Easter bunnies on their Easter egg hunt. They're standing on the ledge of the local bakers, a stone's throw from our place. (If you roll out of bed and aim, you land in a soft, doughy pile of croissants.)

We ended up by the swings in the afternoon sun. Emma got her paws on several large eggs, which Gloria then attacked like a shark. The resulting mess was noteworthy.

Happy days.

Stitt of Liverpool

2007-04-06T13:47:00.000+02:00

Slavery. It is easy to be an old cynic. When I saw pictures of the demonstrators looking glum with T-Shirts reading "so sorry," I felt a mixture of annoyance and toe-curling embarrassment on their behalf. Empty gesture, I thought. It was horrible but a long time ago, I thought. Why not do some real campaigning where slavery still exists, I thought. And if you have time - lose that beard and those sandals.

With the annoyance and embarrassment, though, guilt also crept in. So what if people wanted to say sorry for slavery? Why didn't I think it was that important? Did I think it had nothing to do with me?

Lying in my bed, thinking randomly about this (and other things, like what happens next in Grey's Anatomy) I remembered an 19th century portrait that used to hang in our house when I was a kid. It was of a serious, dark-haired, wealthy looking-man. "Stitt of Liverpool" was his name, and it was my name too until I got married.

(I will pause for a moment to let you get over the high comedy value of the name 'Stitt." Think of what it rhymes with; observe what it reads backwards; fall about laughing. When you have recovered your composure, please continue.)

I didn't know anything about Stitt of Liverpool, other than he surely had to be an ancestor. The only other pair of Stitts in the phone book were relatives, and the fact he had made it as far as our house had to be significant as we lived in London, which is a long way from Liverpool. His portrait hung in the stairwell on a salmon pink wall: it was the seventies. I used to slide down the bannister while he looked on, pursing his lips disapprovingly. (They would purse even more when he saw me drinking Thunderbird with my teenage friends while my parents slept)

The other night it wasn't his lips or the pink wall that bothered me: it was reading earlier how Liverpool had been a port with well-established and flourishing commercial connections to the slave trade. Was Stitt of Liverpool a slave trader? He was obviously wealthy. Did he profit from the slave trade? Had I benefitted from that profit? I felt queasy at the thought, and slightly panic-stricken. And annoyed: I wanted to be asleep, not thinking about all this.

There is no easy end to this story. I looked up SoL on the internet; he was definitely a relative and an iron merchant and a devout Presbyterian. It doesn't mention anything about slavery connections, but that doesn't mean they're not there. And I feel a bit more humble and more disposed towards the demonstrators than I did.

And it's Good Friday today. With the enormity of sin, how much more enormous is the cross of Jesus.

The fox and the hare

2007-04-03T12:51:00.000+02:00

On two of my most recent training runs, guess which of the following things happened to me. Did I
a) get chatted up
or
b) help a very small boy refind his mother?

The answer is both.

~~Improbable as it sounds~~ Unsurprisingly for such a ~~sweating, hairy~~ youthful, attractive mother of two I was approached by a very good-looking, nattily-dressed Brazilian-looking bloke as I was struggling up the last and meanest hill on my usual route.
"Bonjour!" said he. (The fact he was walking and I was 'running' should tell you how fast I am, plus the fact we could have a conversation at all. Paula Radcliffe can sleep easy in her bed.)
Then he said things like 'do you run here often?' and questions of an ilk this ~~clapped out bit of mutton~~ girl hasn't been asked for some years now. I rather enjoyed it, but then told him I was married at which point he disappeared like a wil'o the wisp. Probably just as well.

Yesterday at the lake I saw a boy of about 5, tears and snot streaming down his face behind a tree. "Are you lost?" I said, in the manner of a kindly old lady. "Let's go and find Mummy, shall we?" My heart swelled with goodness and warmth for being such a good citizen. All of 5 minutes later, we found her. I wasn't expecting much, perhaps some tears and my hand clasped weakly in gratitude, followed by Esther Rantzen jumping out from behind a bush as a nearby band played the theme tune from 'Hearts of Gold'. Instead she just looked at the kid and yelled "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!" after which I scarpered in case she thought I had been trying to abduct him.

So you see - never a dull moment.

I am feeling bitter

2007-03-29T20:33:00.000+02:00

Switzergent has gone to Norway for three days. This has its good and bad points.

I can cook food he normally hates e.g. liver (I love liver) good

I can buy bread he normally hates e.g. brown (I love brown bread too) good

I can fiddle on the computer to my heart's content good

But:

I have to put the girls to bed on my own when I am tired and want to kill them bad

I have to look after the plants - more heavy responsibility bad

and worst of all, while I am scraping dried Weetabix off Glory's high chair, Switzergent in Norway gets to go on a nature tour followed by al fresco dinner in the forest, surrounded by elk and beavers and ..*struggles to recall other Norwegian fauna*...stoats. stoats? bad bad BAD.

So I have no choice but to publish this picture:

in the interest of fairness.

2007-03-28T22:14:00.000+02:00

Back to running business.

So big thank you to A.N Other for sponsoring me £50! Only another £950 to go, so please keep it coming.

Of course you can lend your support in other ways. For example
a) come and watch, point and stare, laugh and mock etc etc on the day itself
or
b) run it with me! Yes! What a good idea.. If 20km sounds a bit much you can do 10km or 4km if you've eaten chips all year.

In other news: Gloria is walking! She looks like Frankenstein, only cuter.

Happy birthday Scarlett!

2007-03-26T09:52:00.000+02:00

She's my niece and she's 7 today!

Fancy a bike ride?

2007-03-17T16:08:00.000+01:00

Imagine you have to build a tower out of 70 bags of sugar. Done it? Good. Bit wobbly, but just about standing. Now, knock it down and rebuild it again in a way that you can attach it to the back of your bike. Except pretend it's not sugar, but costly, life-saving drugs, fragile as well, so get rid of the wobbliness, please and come to think of it, wrap it in lots of plastic weave so it doesn't get wet.

Finished? Well, you can't stop for tea because now you have to ride your bike for about 300km to get the medicines to the people that need them. And look - sorry about the roads. And mind your back because there are still people with guns lurking who want to steal the drugs or kill you or both. Watch the -yikes!- snakes, too.

Let us now pause for a moment and look at this guy:

This Conglese guy actually does all that: it's his job. I'm sorry I don't know his real name. I wish I did; I'd like to know more of his story.

What I do know is that Medair supplies his drugs and bought the bicycle on which he makes these perilous journeys to areas that would otherwise be inaccessible. And he is just one of many incredibly brave people doing the same thing in Eastern Congo.

This year I'm running my 20km race for Medair's Congo programme and I want to raise £1000. Will you give me some money please? It's very easy to make a donation from the medair website.

Thanks everyone!

PS If you want to give, please let me know how much by comment or email so I can keep track of the lolly coming in. Merci.

Not only do I jog, I have children too!

2007-03-16T22:02:00.000+01:00

I took this photo on the steps outside our apartment building; it's a nice summary of my golden-haired snow elf and her life at the moment.

Poor child, she probably can't wait to choose her own clothes. For now she's stuck with my rummage-in-the-cupboard, stick-it-on approach to fashion and my weakness for the hooded cardigan. Smart, well-fitting, tasteful, colour-co-ordinated garments really aren't my forte. The pink mac was her choice today, as she was convinced it was "pouring with rain."

But look at the bag! She does at least have an excellent grasp of the value of accessories in a girl's life. When we go for a walk, the bag is this season's must-have. It's stuffed with lego and finger puppets.

The baby pram is also verrrrrry popular right now. The chilly-looking doll is Clara; she has a boy doll called John, who sometimes comes out with us, but mostly lies face down on the floor of our cold basement, wondering what he's done wrong.

In the top right-hand corner you can just catch Glory, travelling business class.

The humiliation continues

2007-03-13T23:09:00.000+01:00

Teenagers. Don't you just love them?

Yesterday I was waiting at the pedestrian crossing in my T shirt and lycra trousers (see? I am getting serious), jumping up and down and dancing, Rocky-style as I waited for the green man. Of course it looked silly, but I was mid-run, pumped, and was afraid that if I stopped suddenly my whole body would seize up and I would fall into a coma.

Along came a gang of youths cat-calling, whooping and making strange, gibbon noises, all directed at me, the strange, bouncing, lycra lady. Did I
a) whip out a can of mace from my sports bra and spray them in the eyes?
b) turn the other cheek, give them a radiant smile and say "I forgive your mockery. Jesus loves you, young scallys!"
or
c)stare straight ahead, turn beetroot and tried to change the lights with the power of my mind?

It was only when I got home that I realised I don't think I've ever seen a group of people in Switzerland get so excited in public.

And the last shall be first

2007-03-08T14:01:00.000+01:00

I have started being a bit more earnest about my training for the 20km in April. On Tuesday I felt earnest enough to attend my friend's running club for the first time.

I arrived chirpy and enthusiastic 10 minutes early for the 7.30pm start. My chirpy enthusiasm ebbed away as I saw the other runners arrive. A sea of Spandex, muscles very Madonna circa Blonde Ambition, and mining torches on their heads. 'Running in the dark - mining torches, why didn't I think of that?', I whispered, fingering my baggy tracksuit bottoms and old jumper. The pack was led by a silver-haired, kindly man of near pensionable age. 'Phew' I thought, 'I'll have an ally in the old boy.'

We 'warmed up'. What I mean is, everyone else galloped off, yet still managed to casually chat to each other, while I lagged 20 metres behind the last pack gasping and wheezing and gulping the air, on my own, in the pitch dark, no mining torch.

Because they were friendly bunch, occasionally someone would come and join me bringing up the rear. "Bonjour!" said one lady, cheerfully, before asking me all about my life. "Oui!.......oui!....j'habite...........*gasp*...ici....*wheeze*" I said, thinking please no more questions, unless you want me to expire right here, right now.

After the 'warm up', we did 1 km sprints, five times. The leaders rattled off a load of numbers which didn't mean anything to me, but I did catch was this: the slowest of you should manage 1km in less than 5 minutes. Excusez moi? Have you lost your mind?

Who was slowest again, by ages? Who got the sympathy cheer at the end? Who thought 'yeah, sweet, but I hate you, you bunch of bastards' about the sympathy cheerers? Who woke up the next day and couldn't move?

Who is going again next week?

It will be worth it.

Another new look

2007-03-05T15:46:00.000+01:00

You hated the green. "Insipid," "slurry-coloured", blah blah blah. Calm down, OK? (enough of the very defensive tone - ed)

Ta-daaa! Baby pink! Bubblegum! Flamingoes! Certain roses! All of Em and Glo's wardrobe!

Well, they'll like it even if you don't. (*slight harrumph*)

Here's another cute photo

2007-02-25T21:00:00.000+01:00

Look at that handsome man! Look at those lovely girls! Go "ooo" and "ahhh" at those matching pink snowsuits!

Yes, we've just been in the mountains for a holiday. You see that patch of snow there? It's about all the snow there is left in the Alps after the mildest winter for a gazillion years.

Notice how both girls are not wearing gloves. I got told off by two sets of cross-country skiers about this. (Maybe they were feeling crabby because of the lack of snow.) For the record, I do try and make them wear gloves, but they always get removed within a few minutes and after that I give up. Perhaps the reason they always have colds is because they are permanently underdressed.

All this mountain heartiness has made me feel a bit more upbeat in my soul, and I have a date with a new English-speaking Mum's group on Wednesday. I will let you know how it goes.

Bellies and bambi

2007-02-20T21:54:00.000+01:00

Let's talk about sport.

One of my rash, regrettable New Year's resolutions (aren't they all) was to run the Lausanne 20km in April. That's right: t-t-t-t-t-wenty k-k-k-k-k-ilometres. My reasoning was thus: I've done the 10km twice now (yes I am showing off) and it's good to aim high.

Things have got off to a good start. Early on Saturday mornings I go running in a lovely bit of forest just north of the city. Huge, cool pine trees, mossy banks, tiny, trickling streams, it is totally deserted apart from the occasional deer peeking out between the branches. And being Switzerland, it is replete with well-signposted, immaculately-maintained running track. Just an hour in this glorious wilderness cheers me up no end and I look forward to my date with Bambi all week.

There is one problem. One run a week of 7.5km (it takes me a laughable 51 minutes) will not make me fit enough for the twenty. Not to mention the toneless tummy that wobbles and bounces and frankly ruins my aerodynamics. Time to crank up the training.

My other New Year's Resolution was to get rid of the Easyjet orange template. One out of three...

Poor diddums

2007-02-06T13:01:00.000+01:00

There are some days when I look at the lake and the mountains and think "Wow! Lucky me! Isn't this terrific!", and there are other days when I would give anything to be sitting in the Gordon Bennett sipping a warm lager shandy and watching hoodies assault each other on a plastic-bag strewn Tooting High Street.

The friends hunt has still not yielded any results. There was promise with a nice Australian lady who lives around the corner - but she has had the nerve to go back to Australia. Doesn't she know about the drought, that she'll be forced to drink recycled sewage? So what if you can't get Vegemite here?

The girls are both poorly with ear infections and strep throat. The bad news: forcing them to take medicine three times a day (it's banana-flavoured and smells yum, but still, they hate it.) The good news: they both sleep a lot more. Yippee!

And it's raining.

No friends; in quarantine; raining.

Someone pass me a violin, now.

Beware of the stalker

2007-01-29T17:20:00.000+01:00

The friends' drought is really beginning to bite. So I've taken to hanging out in the Church Of the Lonely Ex-Patriate (Starbucks) hoping to land some new ones. So far I've had no biters. Usually the COLE is full of wistful-looking English speaking females but now I'm beginning to think they've all gone home. There are a lot of Dutch people though.

I know we're all meant to hate Starbucks, it being a global company that displaces local enterprise etc, etc, but when it opened in Lausanne I rejoiced: out went the tea shop with fluorescent strip lighting and orange plastic chairs, in came the leather sofas and lounge tunes. Now I have a nice warm place to park my sleeping Glorymouse in the afternoons (it's about the only time and place you can actually find her asleep) and a hot, caffeinated mug of froth to keep me from total collapse. Shame it's so expensive, but some things are worth stumping up for...and if it brings me a new pal then it will have been a good investment.

No friends yet, unless of course I learn some Dutch. And that would make my head explode.

Time differences

2007-01-26T13:54:00.000+01:00

Welcome back, bad old days.

This time two weeks ago, Glorymouse slept through the night* and then slept like a normal human being**, two nights in a row. Rob and I looked at each other, full of joy and wonder. Was this it? Had she finally got it? Could we start going to bed at 10pm again?***

Guess what? No, No and No! After experiencing the joys of 10 hours uninterrupted shut-eye G thought, where's the fun in that? So for the past week she's been waking up 3 times a night, needing an hour or two of holding / soothing / leaving to scream before she goes down again.

In fact I left her to scream so much last night she was hoarse this morning. Are you reading this, Gina Ford?

Still, her little round face and rosy cheeks and special way of smearing banana into the furniture... when morning comes around she melts me every time. (Especially after a strong cup of tea.)

Glory would also like to say a big THANK YOU to everyone for wishing her a happy birthday.

* 7.30-5am
**7.30-6.45am
*** beyond 9.30 has hitherto been considered 'too late'. Rock 'n' roll!

Happy birthday Glorymouse!

2007-01-20T15:41:00.000+01:00

Yes! She was 1 on 11th January.

We had a party. We played Stick The Tail On The Donkey, which turned into a frenzy of ugly competitiveness (and that's just the adults.) We had pass-the-parcel; I didn't win, and sulked until I realised I'm 33. I tried my best to get all the toddlers to sing and do the actions to lots of kiddie songs; Emma refused, watching from the sidelines with utter contempt. The cake - made by Switzergent, fruit, cream-cheese icing - lasted about 20 seconds. And afterwards I had to lie down in a darkened room, muttering to myself 'stressful', 'chaos', 'never again' and 'wine please.' Of course we will do it again - Emma is 3 in two months time - and my whinging is just pretend really, it was good fun.

Potty training: how it works

2007-01-08T15:30:00.000+01:00

Me: Emma, you know how you've been going on the potty...how about wearing big girl's knickers today?

Emma: No thanks, Mummy. Wear nappy today.

Me: But Emma, you're soo good at doing wees on the potty, why not real pants like a great, big, clever girl?

Emma: (thinks for a moment.) No, Mummy. Want a nappy.

Me: But Emma (tries to keep desperation out of voice), wouldn't it feel nice not to have a nappy on your bottom, to be all clean and....(searches for right word)...free?

Emma: (shouts) WANT A NAPPY MUMMY!

Me: But...but

Emma: (as if world is about to end) WANT NAPPY! WANT A NAPPY MUMMY! WAAAAHHHH!

Me: Okay! Okay! (puts nappy on bottom to avoid impending metldown.)

(heavy sigh)

Happy New Year

2007-01-03T21:14:00.000+01:00

Here are my New Year's Resolutions.

Number 1. I am never travelling on an aeroplane with young children ever, ever, ever, ever again, at least not without a tranquiliser gun about my person.

Number 2. I am going to give this blog a makeover. I am sick of Easyjet orange. It makes my eyes hurt.

Number 3. I am going to make the concierge love me. I will take my washing out in a timely fashion; I will invite him to parties at our flat; I will serenade him with a kareoke machine outside his front door if I have to. Anything for a quiet life.

Number 4. This April I shall run 20km instead of the usual 10km. Gaaahhh. If I've written it, that means I have to do it.

Number 5. I will buy a piano and play it. I was quite good once. Though I wonder if this will hinder progress with Number 3.

(plus be nicer, more eco, eat less lard, give up smacking blah blah blah. )

Off we go!

Perspective

2006-12-22T08:30:00.000+01:00

Ahhh, Christmas.

The packing. The presents. The wrapping. The tree. The decorations! The removal (the children.) The train. The mobile - left on the train. The swearing. The plane. The delays. The screaming. The concession - the lollipop.

The family. The cousins! The food. The turkey! The sprouts. (The farting.) The games. The treats. The telly!

The mother. Her fiancee. The journey. The cold. The tiredness. The backache. The contractions. The overcrowding. The stable. The animals. The SMELL.

The blood. The baby. The hope of the world. The reason for the season.

Happy Christmas everyone
xx

Guilt and shame and shame and guilt

2006-12-12T16:35:00.000+01:00

Today I smacked Emma hard on the bottom. I am feeling horrible on a number of levels.

Level number one (this is not in order of importance); our official policy is No Smacking, and I breached official policy.
Level number two; it goes against everything I believe in, tambourine-bashing full-on born again Christian that I am.
Level number three; I am shocked about just how angry I was at the time.
Level number four; I am shocked at how I didn't just act like a grown-up and rein it in.
Level number five; it obviously hurt her.
Level number six; it didn't even work.

I told her I was sorry and we had a cuddle. Then I asked her nicely if she please wouldn't be quite so naughty. But I am very remorseful and worry that I might have scarred her for life.

Ex pat reality

2006-12-05T13:03:00.000+01:00

Friends are precious commodities when you are an ex pat. You are thrown together with people you might not normally be friends with, but because you are both johnny foreigners together you work harder than normal at the relationship. You tend to see more of each other than on home turf and it forces you to get over some of your natural prejudice - all of which I think is a good thing. Then the person, who along the way has become rather dear to you, leaves.

So it is with my friend Sarah. I met her in the supermarket about a year ago, cold meat section. She had just arrived, and had two girls in tow - Emma and Gloria's ages exactly, give or take a month.

I think we were a bit suspicious of each other at first; there was a bit of a North/South divide, some mating differences (my husband: cash-strapped NGO worker. Her husband: already successful business person doing MBA), some personality glitches (me: relaxed almost to point of oblivion with children, her: gets anxious about a lot of things.) But over the past year we have become- I think - real pals.

We have spent at least 2 mornings a week in each others' company. The girls spent their time fighting over the dolly buggy or bouncing on the sofa in just nappies squealing for joy, while we sat drinking cups of proper builders's tea and comparing who had the least amount of sleep the night before. (Gloria made sure I always won.) We started off doing that subtle competitive thing that all mums do ("Is Emma interested in the potty?" etc), but it gradually became more tongue-in-cheek ("I'll potty train her when she's a teenager" etc). She used to tick me off about not being more vigilant with Emma by the road and I used to tick her off about worrying if her children's clothes were matching. She is warm and kind and extremely funny, and she leaves today.

I explained to Emma that from tomorrow she wouldn't be seeing Eleanor and Alice for a while, but that we would visit from time to time. As I said this, I had rather a large lump in my throat. Just as well Emma couldn't have cared less: "Ssssh, Mummy, Brian's sleeping!" she replied.

Trip to Basel

2006-12-03T21:07:00.000+01:00

It's not often we get to German-speaking Switzerland. Maybe it's the travelling with 2 small children thing; maybe it's the nausea-inducing tilty train thing; maybe it's just the laziness and apathy when you can get stollen and sauerkraut in your local supermarket. All that aside, we managed to -for once- see a bit of Switzerland.

In short, Basel gets a thumbs up from the Switzerjudges.

The bronze medal goes to the lovely cafe, size of an aircraft hangar, looks like a 1950s railway waiting room - lots of space for Emma to gallop around in circles and creamy lattes in pleasingly large glasses with spoons for the froth.

The silver medal goes to the Art Gallery; Picasso, Degas, Paul Klee all nice to look at interspersed with odd, ugly mermaid fight scenes by local (old, dead) artist Bocklein.

But it's the Sprungli chocolate emporium at Basel station that takes gold; creamy, dreamy, nougat-y, heart-stoppingly expensive heaven. (Also a rather predictable winner from Ms Switzerlady.)

The wooden spoon goes to the old biddies on trams. Normally I love trams, but the hissing and tutting and clucking and sucking about the pram , the position of the pram, the children, was that coat warm enough? etc etc made me more resolute about walking everywhere (and I have some calories to burn after my rampage in the Sprungli shop.)

Another slow winter's day

2006-11-29T16:01:00.000+01:00

It is dark and drizzly outside. But Gloria and Emma are both still asleep, after one hour! What an amazingly rare treat, like seeing a panda in the wild. This good news is offset by the fact I haven't had any running water since 9.30 this morning. Because I can't do any laundry or make a cup of tea I've just been indulging in one of my secret fetishes to cheer myself up: reading cook books in bed. (Today it's Nigel Slater: the kitchen diaries.) Damson crumble; roast goose; unpronounceable South East Asian sauces - welcome to my inner life.

Isn't she lovely?

2006-11-15T19:50:00.000+01:00

Night of the long cries

2006-11-15T13:48:00.000+01:00

Something has gone crazily wrong with Emma's sleep.

She used to be a great little sleeper; cymbals clashing next to her head, sonic booms booming, Gloria doing her best Maria Callas impression - nothing had the power to wake her up. Even waking her from daytime naps I used to have to put some loud rock music on, take her covers off and wait 15 minutes before she stirred.

But since last week all that has changed. Now at the first murmur from Gloria, Emma wakes up and scuttles into our bed. This is OK for about 5 minutes; then she snorts and snuffles and kicks like a mule. During this time one of us is calming G down, which takes a good hour in itself - she still hasn't learnt to settle herself back to sleep. It's the subject of much anguish and desperate strategising at Chateau Scho.

When G is asleep, and Emma has dropped off, we carry her back to her bed. She wakes up immediately. We have the following conversation:
E: "Stay here, Mummy!"
me:"No darling, it's night time and I'm going back to bed. Go to sleep."
E: (louder) "STAY MUMMY!"
me: (frightened the Gloria will wake up) "OK, ok! Sssshhhhhh!"
E:"Hold hands."

So I (or R) sit next to her bed on the floor (fiendlishly uncomfortable) holding hands, until she goes to sleep. Just when you think she's off or you attempt to move your dead leg she squeezes tighter: "STAY HERE MUMMY!".

A couple of nights ago we tried to shut the door and ignore her. The result? An hour or more of "M-M-M-MU..(sob) MMY! DA (sob)..DDY!" at 1.30am at the top of her voice, furious banging from the concierge, and yes, Gloria woke up and we had Maria Callas all over again. Between us we have done tears, rage, pleading, punishment, disinterest, capitulation and now...just exhaustion.

So now she just comes into our bed. We sleep badly and live with it. And it goes against all my childrearing principles. (Still better than the wrath of the concierge, though.)

Morbid thoughts

2006-11-10T21:14:00.000+01:00

Home alone, apart from Gloria who is asleep.

What I ate for my supper: leftover rice, tomato lentilly thing with broccoli, 2 clementines and 2 squares 74% dark chocolate. Yum yum.

What I have been doing for the past couple of hours: staring at the Internet, blissfully chatting to my best friend, pacing the flat slightly aimlessly, wishing the DVD player wasn't broken, wondering what will eventually finish me off.

What I think will eventually finish me off: it's either heart disease or skin cancer. Heart disease because I LOVE dairy products - cheese, butter, full-fat milk, cream, clotted cream, all of it. Skin cancer because I am very pale with large moles. I am the awkward lady with the big hat and the pained expression on the beach. Thank God for winter, at least everyone else is covered up too. Then again winter = covered up = no one minds you being fat = brandy butter, please.

Heart disease wins.

More grossness in the kitchen

2006-10-25T12:45:00.000+02:00

We have moths.
In our kitchen cupboards.

How did I discover them? I was reaching for a packet of brown rice that had not been used for some time. (Let's just say it was a healthy eating phase that didn't work out.) What's that in there? I thought. I shook the packet about a bit. And flitter, flutter....out came a handful of moths. They left behind little moth cocoons and moth droppings.

After a moment's retching and queasiness, I investigated some more. Cocoons, droppings (they might not be droppings, but I am in no mood to speculate, only to think the worst) everywhere, in lasagne packets, bags of flour, nasty nests in the meringue nests.

I have tried to purge what I can, but this morning I saw another one, flying out of the cupboard but beyond that I have been unable to locate the hostile's address.

It's like that Alfred Hitchcock film, The Moths.*

*I mean The Birds, don't I?

Emma does an impression of a sea-lion

2006-10-12T09:09:00.000+02:00

Fish for supper night before last at Chateau Scho.

In the middle of the table is a dish for detritus - skin and bones and that.

Having eaten the meaty bit (it was trout), Emma reaches into the detritus plate, picks out the fish heads and pops them in her mouth. Munch, crunch, munch, crunch. She pauses to spit out the eyes.

Then she picks up the slimey scaley skin and in it goes. Chew, chew, chew, gulp.

Yummy!

tum-ti-tum

2006-10-05T12:29:00.000+02:00

OK, what shall I write about today?

Well, congratulations, struggling author on getting a publisher for her book. If the quality of the book matched the quality of the blog, then it's about time. It has made me think of titles for the book I may one day write. So far I have come up with Picking Things Off the Floor and I don't want to look like Crystal Carrington: my hair and I.

Gloria is much better. Let's take a look.

Emma likes to look at people and call them either "man!" or "lady!" It can be sweet, except for yesterday when she pointed at someone and said "man!" when it was actually umm, a "lady!"

Last night I made a horrid-tasting pumpkin soup. Oh pumpkin, how I hate thee. You won't taste nice whatever herbs I chuck at you. (Though you make nice puree, which G wolfs down.)

That's all.

Non-news story

2006-09-22T16:59:00.000+02:00

Gloria has another cold. Yipidee-doo-dah. Once again my smily chubby little cherub has turned into an inconsolable, snotty, coughing ball of misery. Add to that a new tooth on its way and you have someone very angry with the world. She is screaming as I write this - I am hoping she will go to sleep (she's also been up since 5am, which by my calculation, would make her tired. It's now 5 pm.)

I am annoyed for two reasons. One: she has had a cold on average, every 3 weeks since she was born and it seems rather unfair for her to have another one. Two: why is she so poorly when she is still being exclusively breastfed?

(Screaming update: still going strong. Action: nothing. Not yet.)

Every book I have read on the subject is very pro-breast. Some people would have you believe that breastfed babies are more likely to eat their greens, go to university, help old ladies across the road and generally heal the world. I think this is bonkers. But even the non-bonkers experts maintain that it gives babies some extra help with their immunity.

(Screaming update: waaah, waaah, waaah. Action: nothing. But wobbly.)

So why is Gloria's immune system so rubbish? She picks up everything that's going. In my mind it can either mean a) breastfeeding is overrated or b) my breastmilk is rubbish because it is actually Tizer in disguise. (This would also explain while she won't sleep at night.)

(Screaming update: see above. Action: sweaty palms. will go in a minute.)

I am wondering if there is something more serious wrong with her. One of R's doctor colleagues suggested getting her tested for cystic fibrosis, but I am 99.9% sure she doesn't have it as there is no family history on either side. But could she have something else? Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me and I am just sick of her being (ordinairily) sick.

(Screaming update: full metal jacket. Action: I'm off to give her a kiss and a squeeze.)

The Switzergent

2006-09-18T22:26:00.000+02:00

Rob is going to be 40 tomorrow.

I have made him a card. I have bought him a present. The girls have too, and I am about to wrap all three. Emma and I have made him a birthday banner and stuck it all over with stickers and lentils and pasta. There is a birthday cheesecake chilling in the fridge and special breakfast - fancy muesli plus goodies from the bakery. I bought lilies on Saturday that I hope will stop being stubborn and open in the next 8 hours. I need to fiddle around with bluetak and pins and things and I am too excited to go to bed.

He is too many things to sum up, but I will have a go. He is my driver. My chef. My organic gardener. My personal stylist. My loyal morning tea maker. Handyman. Therapist. Artist. Computing trouble shooter. Sounding board. Bodyguard. Singing and dancing partner. Silly accent impersonator. Hot water bottle. Breadwinner. Best daddy of girls. Best friend. Endurance champion, as he is stuck with me until one of us is dead.

I am sorry I have only known him for 5 of the last forty years. I hope there is another forty in us both.

(Yes, yes it's all a bit Steve-Wright-in-the-afternoon, pass the sick bag etc etc but get over it, ok? Normal service will resume the day after tomorrow.)

Dramatic goings-on in the supermarket

2006-09-13T14:09:00.000+02:00

I go to the supermarket every day with Emma and Gloria. It is usually a fun trip in a totally nightmareish sort of way. Fun for Emma, who saunters up and down the aisles filling her baby trolley with whatever she can reach; and a total nightmare for me, who puffs and pants after her getting very shouty and exasperated by the time we reach the till.

Today's trip started like any other. Emma playing with the nicely-reachable, perilously-sharp bread tongs, lugging around 1kg of polenta just 'because' and re-arranging all the packet soups. We got hissed by an elderly man when she left a 4 pack of yoghurt on the floor. (Usually there is more hissing than this. I am the only person I know who lets a 2 year old unleashed on the shop floor. I don't think it is a very Swiss thing to do.)

After casually discarding the polenta, the 7 concealer sticks, the plastic necklaces and 3 pack of men's briefs, we paid for our goods and prepared to go. I turned my back for a second: Emma was gone. "Emma!", I said in a voice that was firm, friendly and sort of loud. No response. I scanned the area - no Emma.

My throat went dry. I abandoned Glorymouse and the shopping and dived back into the supermarket, running up and down the aisles. I called out "Emma!" over and over again, loudly. Nothing. I came back, my heart racing: then ran into the opticians and the pharmacy next door. No Emma. She's under a car. She's been abducted.

By this time I was getting stared at by everyone, but wasn't in the mood for being culturally sensitive. I went into the other supermarket over the road and ran up and down the aisles shouting her name like a lunatic, and starting to cry. No Emma. When I got to the entrance, a kind person came up to me and said "Madame! We've found her." I rushed back to the original supermarket. There, in the arms of a buxom and friendly-looking lady, was my errant girl. She seemed very happy to be there, and rather upset that I had come to take her away from her new friend.

"She was in the restaurant, sitting quietly at a table waiting to be served," said the lady.
"Merci, merci" I mumbled, having suddenly recovered all my cultural sensitivity and wishing the ground would swallow me up. Emma was deposited into my arms. "Don't ever do that again," I said, or something like it trying to be very stern though my voice was wobbly. She had been gone for a maximum of about 10 minutes.

I left in a hurry - only to have to go back again, blushing and muttering. Little fingers had stashed away undesired and unpaid for items under the pram. (A packet of olives and a large cheese.)

The next time I go to the supermarket I will wear dark glasses and a large hat.

Things I am struggling with today

2006-09-11T13:16:00.000+02:00

1. Staying awake
After a few happy moments this summer when Gloria slept through the night, she is now convinced at 8 months old that she is a newborn again and wants to be fed 2-3 times a night. I think she's teething. Whatever her excuse is, it'd better be good.
Emma also likes to rise at 5.30 and climb into bed with us - she always goes to Daddy so at least I can pretend it's not happening for a bit. After 10 minutes she gets bored and starts shouting "Breakfast."

2. Overeating
Partly because I can't stand wasted food but mainly because I am a greedy pig, I like to hoover up my children's plates as well as my own, usually before they've had a chance to eat it themselves. It was tuna/sweetorn/mayonnnaise baked potatoes today, slathered with butter. I think I ate about 5. This rampant over-consumption is all taken care of by breastfeeding for now, but when Glory tires of her special dairy products, those extra cals will pile on like an avalanche. Let's not talk about my sour cream and chocolate birthday cake, either.

3. Laziness
I have a week's worth of laundry to do and I'm not doing any of it. I have an in-tray bulging with tough decisions for which I have to unearth my ancient reading, writing and arithmetic skills and I'm not doing any of it. And the tax man is knocking, but I am not in: not today.

4. Daydreaming
I'd love to watch How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria. I love 24 but I don't think Kiefer Sutherland can act. What would Emma look like if I cut her fringe on the bias. How many calories are there in a baked potato.

5. Being shallow and inane.

2006-09-08T20:12:00.000+02:00

It is my birthday this Sunday. I am going to be thirty-three. I would love to be more excited about it than I am, but after 21 I am not convinced they are that fun any more.

I have more than plenty of reasons to be cheerful, though: 2 x small, gorgeous female reasons and 1 x tomato-growing, floral-crown-making male reason being the main ones. As I write he is furiously mixing ingredients for my birthday cake. (I am not sure why he isn't gay.)

Tomorrow I am being whisked away on a day trip, just the two of us. This is the first time I will have been away from my princesses since Glorymouse was born. I am a bit nervous but very excited about it. But I have a sneaking suspicion they will be fine.

It's Patsy from Ab Fab

2006-09-03T13:30:00.000+02:00

Good grief.

Did I look that rough? Did I look that old? Did I look that posh and horsey? (OK, I am quite posh - but not horsey. I like horses, but they scare me with their big teeth and hooves.)

This was taken at my best and oldest friend's wedding. I was her best woman, and Emma her bridesmaid. Brian - publicity-hogging little monkey - is obscuring her pretty white dress. There was a floral crown that went with it, made by her father who is a consummate flower arranger. Shame it stayed on her head for only two seconds. Meanwhile Gloria is eating her own cardigan. It was a brilliant day, the highlight of our summer holiday.

We went to London, to Portsmouth, to Dorset, to Devon; we saw friends, friends' babies, family babies and about 50 prize-winning rabbits; we picked blackberries; we watched hours of telly. We gorged ourselves on things unavailable in Switzerland - clotted cream, nice tea, nice toast, nice wine, Marmite, bacon. It was strange and comforting to hear everyone else speaking English.

There were some lows: my father-in-law's illness, our plane being cancelled, our mothership-sized suitcase breaking, getting scolded over the tannoy at Bristol airport, Emma undoing my halter-top dress seconds before I was meant to do a reading in church.

But it's nice to be back and to have things where I can find them. And if I risk any more Judy Finnegan moments, at least it's in the privacy of my own home.

Switzerlady "not dead"

2006-08-30T12:25:00.000+02:00

Switzerlady is 100 per cent, definitely "not dead," say sources close to the haggard-and-glamourous-all-at-the-same-time mother of two.

Despite a postage drought, a friend close to the star said everything was OK, but that she had been on "holiday". As a result of the "holiday" she is suffering "nervous exhaustion" and "absolutley, positively not dead at all" continues the source.

Ladybird (see links opposite) says "I met up with her in London's fashionable Tootingavia, and she didn't seem dead to me.. she was a bit vacant but she's always been like that."

Switzerlady would like to tell her fans how much she loves them, and she will be back to full postage strength after a few days with sedatives in a dark, quiet place.

A pox on our house (still)

2006-08-05T19:54:00.000+02:00

Now Glorymouse has pox, a fever and won't sleep. This is hard, as she has never been a great sleeper at the best of times and it is reminiscent of the bad old days of endless colds, 24 hour wake-a-thons and a river of tears - mine, mostly.

I am also having a sense of humour failure with the whole quarentine thing. I know it is sensible and reasonable not to want your kid to get chicken pox etc, etc. But c'mon: it's chicken pox, not the Ebola virus.* Also it's good to get it over and done because it's much grimmer to have it as an adult.* What happened to the Pox parties that I went to when I was very young, the point of which was to pass it on to as many children as possible?*

*all this can be translated as "What about me, me MEEE? I'm BORED with staying in the house, DOING MY NUT with 2 small children to entertain and I'm sulking because none of my mum friends want me to come round, soothe me with tea and biscuits and tell me how wonderful and heroic I am for bearing up under the circumstances.

It's a cultural thing

2006-07-30T08:22:00.000+02:00

I had this conversation yesterday.

Switzerlady : "Hello! Oh you've got a little girl about Emma's age! Sweet! What a pretty, flowery hat! And such a lovely necklace. Those blonde curls are just gorgeous. What's her name?"

Lady at the paddling pool: "Samuel."

I am making lots of friends here.

Recipe for disaster

2006-07-21T13:13:00.000+02:00

Take one 2 year-old.
Give her chicken pox.
Ostracise her from playgroup for the last week before summer break.
Sprinkle her with a niggling fever, and smear her all over her baby sister.

Take one 2 year old's mother.
Turn her into a neighbourhood pariah (no-one wants their children to get chicken pox before they go on holiday.)
Add a generous dollop of self-pity.

Give both mother and daughter some very high-waisted grumpy trousers to wear and turn the oven up to 34 degrees, until everyone is completely fried.

Serves: no-one.

He was always a ladies man

2006-07-03T13:40:00.000+02:00

This photo is rated R (contains nudity.)

Seriously, though, look at those yummy rolls of baby flesh on my Glorymouse! I want to gobble her up for breakfast!

First "ticks", then what?

2006-07-02T13:58:00.000+02:00

Tidying up the flat yesterday, I heard Emma twittering from the living room.

"Jam! Jam!" she said.

Grrrr. Not jammy fingers on my upholstery. Not jammy fingers on my computer. Jam stays in the kitchen, you little tike.

Muttering in this fashion I sauntered next door to find Emma, her hand covered in not jam, but er, blood. She had been rummaging through the recycling and cut her finger rather nastily on a tin.

One day I will find a happy medium between blind panic and criminal negligence.

2006-07-02T08:23:00.000+02:00

I told you so.

The embarrassment.

2006-06-25T20:10:00.000+02:00

This morning, I saw a strange, dark looking crust on Emma's head.

I know what that is, I thought. It's a tick. My friend's son had one: they are sort of crusty-looking, she said. You get them in forests, she said. You must go to the hospital to get them specially removed. Otherwise they leave their jaws in and get infected, she said. And they can give you Lyme's disease for which there is no cure.

*brain goes click click whirrrrrrrr*

We were under some trees yesterday.
There is a tick on Emma's head.
She has got Lyme's disease.
She is going to die.

We went to the hospital. We waited 2 hours in casualty. We saw the doctor.

It was just a scab.

Struggling to think of something interesting

2006-06-22T11:56:00.000+02:00

Ho-hum, I am having a dry spell.

Anyway, here it is, the 11.54am news from family Scho:

Gloria starts solid food! Banana (yum), papaya (yum), carrot (not sure), potato (bit constipating.)
Emma says "mine!" alot! "My towel!" (yes it is yours, dear) "My bed!" (well, technically it's Mummy and Daddy's, but I'll let it go) "My knife!" (ARRGHHH! NONONO!! PUT IT BACK!")
Switzergent is fretting that he has over-watered his chard (that is not a euphemism for anything rude)
I have pulled a muscle in my neck and can't turn my head properly.
It's hot
I have a soft spot for Peter Crouch. The French commentators call him Peeeteerr Crotch.
That's all. Told you it was dry.

Well, I'll be Amsterdam'd!*

2006-06-07T14:18:00.000+02:00

Here we are in de Nederlandsh! Well, here is Emma at least, sitting on the shoulders of her Dutch uncle, Pete. In truth, he is neither Dutch, nor her uncle. But he could be either seeing as a) he is very tall, like the Dutch and b) er...he's just a great friend and might as well be an uncle too.

What we did:
- played by de canaalsh!
- drank de coffee in cafeesh!
- went to de Van Gogh museum! (Rembrandt and Caravaggio exhibition. Paintings fantastic, but a bit of a bun fight)
- ate baacon paancaakes and watched the raain go splish-splaash!

Pete and his sweet, kindly mother were unforgivably horrible to us all weekend, giving us nothing but dry breadcrusts to eat. Can't think why as a result, my jeans would'nt do up and we laughed most of the way home.

Now, about yesterday's test. You'll notice that to every question, the answer was 'yes', apart from question 7, where the answer was 'no'. Though she might have thought something like that, Emma didn't actually express it as such because she is only two. It was a trick question!

*groan

End-of-term exam time

2006-06-06T20:37:00.000+02:00

Please answer ALL the questions below. No talking. No mobile phones. No eye contact. No hand gestures.
Time allowed: 1 minute.

Question 1: Is the Pope Catholic?

Question 2: Do bears perform their ablutions in the woods?

Question 3: Will England exit the World Cup after a penalty shoot-out in the quarter finals?

Question 4: Does Gloria have another cold?

Question 5: Is Switzerlady exhausted after getting up 5 times a night for a week to tend to her?

Question 6: Did Emma fling Brian across the room instead of taking him to bed?

Question 7: Was she also heard to remark "This is not my monkey, this is an impostor"?

Anyone achieving less than 100% will stay down a year. Results to be published tomorrow.

New arrival

2006-06-02T16:36:00.000+02:00

Guess who arrived today, all the way from Scotland?

Everyone, meet Brian: Brian, everyone.

Doesn't he bear a striking resemblance to you-know-who?

I got a message from the Lost Objects today, saying no results. I think that means original monkey is no longer just M.I.A but D.E.A.D.

I hope Emma and Brian get on.

Another loss, but planned at least

2006-06-01T15:50:00.000+02:00

Yesterday I wrapped up the dress in this photo in brown paper and gaffer tape and sent it, courtesy of R, to an address in Kent. Its final destination (if it makes it, that is): Burundi, central Africa, to a wedding dress rental shop in need of stock.

I'd been rather a slack wedding dress shopper. There was too much flounce, too much choice, too many gleeful shopping assistants camping it up. I'd had fun trying some on, but always ended up in the department store cafe, dressless, guzzling another cappucino and the clock ticking.

So I asked my designer friend Jeanne to make me one. "What did you have in mind?" she asked, looking me (rather rudely) up and down.
"Umm. Something simple but classy. Not shoulder-less. Something that doesn't make my bum look big."

Soon after that I came to her flat with my arms full of oyster-coloured Duchess satin from John Lewis. (I had learnt that no-one really gets married in white, it's always not-quite-white: hence oyster, pearl, etc.) And some properly white, Maribou feathers. "How about this for the trim?" I gushed. "You'll look like one of Santa's little helpers," she replied waspishly. As the fittings progressed I discovered that she wasn't deliberately rude or blunt - she just had an instinct for what looked good and she wasn't afraid to tell the truth. I was grateful for that instinct. Still, like a truly neurotic bride-to-be, I burst into tears.

Not only did I scrub up quite well, but Jeanne added some flourishes of genius: there were little built-in hooks to hide bra straps, an invisible zip, and because it was December, the whole thing was heavily lined and very cosy indeed. (That might be a problem in Burundi, come to think of it.)

We had a wonderful day, and I loved the chance to wear such a beautiful frock. But that was 3 and a half years ago, and though precious and lovely it was still just a frock, mouldering in an attic. I feel much happier about it ending its days working for a living. I just hope it's to the taste of some small-chested, big-bummed Burundian ladies.

The monkey saga continues, though the news isn't good. More later.

From sad to worse

2006-05-29T20:29:00.000+02:00

Emma woke up today at 6.30. No usual twittering, she just asked "Monkey home?" in a sad little voice.

So at 6.31 and already feeling wobbly I phoned the £1000-a-minute 24 hour railway helpline. A nice-sounding lady gave me the number of Biel/Bienne station.

At 9 I phoned them up. No monkey. Fill in a lost property form on the internet, madame.

At 9.05, with Emma usefully distracted with shelf-emptying, I filled out the form.
Please describe lost item: one light brown, soft cloth monkey, 14cm tall, 8 cm wide (approx). Well loved.

11.30. Emma's nap time. "Monkey?" she said, as I put her in her cot. "He's not here, my love. I'm so sorry." She bursts into uncontrollable sobbing. "Mon-KEY!" I take her out of bed and she clings on to me sobbing and gulping. I stroke her little soft head and tell her she is very brave. Then Gloria starts crying and suddenly we are all at it.

Both girls eventually go to sleep.

2pm Purchase replica Monkey from shop in St Andrews. Should be here by the end of the week.

4pm. Go to friend's house for tea. Glorymouse much more cheerful, but E still a bit subdued.

Bedtime. "Monkey?" says Emma as R gets her into her pyjamas, but it's not really a question. She knows he's gone.

We are never getting guinea pigs.

A sad day

2006-05-28T20:14:00.000+02:00

We've just come back from a long weekend in Amsterdam, and I was mentally preparing a very chatty post about it when disaster struck on the way back.

Two stops from home - and we'd been on a train for 8 hours - Emma was grumpy (as I say, we'd been on a train for 8 hours) and I did a casual hunt for Monkey to calm her down.

Let me backtrack a moment: anyone who has ever met Emma has also met Monkey. To most of the questions in Emma's life, Monkey is the answer. Tired? Monkey. Teething? Monkey. He has been her companion at every single bed and nap time since she was born.

I last saw her idly holding Monkey's hand by the train door as people were getting off at Biel/Bienne station. I actually thought to myself "it would be awful if he fell out now." Less than 10 minutes later, it became apparent that he was missing from the train. Did he jump? Did he fall? Was he pushed? Was he enraptured up to the big banana plantation in the sky?

Like idiots, we never got round to buying a duplicate. We saw an identical Monkey in a shop once, and waved it in E's face going "look who it is!" - and she saw through the duplicity straight away. Of course he wasn't Monkey: he was much too fluffy, didn't smell and didn't crackle with 2 years' worth of baby body fluids clogging up fur. (I think he made it to the washing machine only 3 or 4 times, but please: no hygiene lectures. I'm grieving.) I knew the risks of him getting lost were great, so he was never allowed to leave the house unless we were staying overnight.

I cried all the way home. "Mummy crying!" said Emma, which made Mummy cry some more. R explained to her that Monkey had gone on holiday and he was unlikely to be back. As we walked back to our flat, I imagined a large part of her little world falling apart and having to deal with loss for the first time and my heart broke for her. Plus he was a very sweet little toy, a present from the matron on my old ward when I went on maternity leave. A job that I thought I'd go back to, but now won't.

We ate with heavy hearts, dreading the Monkeyless bed time routine. I fed Glorymouse while R put Emma to bed. "Would you like to sleep with doggy/teddy/Sean the Scorpion?" (Sean might actually be a lobster, we're not sure.) One by one, each replacement animal was thrown from the cot. Emma whimpered "Monkey!" two or three times. Then she started playing with a small, plastic lion and chatting to herself. And now she's asleep. No tears, no trauma. At least not for her.

So there you go: adaptable little so-and-so's, kids, more than we give them credit for.

But I haven't given up on Monkey quite yet. I am phoning the station tomorrow, and will keep you posted.

What now?

2006-05-18T15:44:00.000+02:00

So now that I'm practically a Swiss citizen, what shall I do now? Pick some Edelweiss? Book a yodelling class? Try one of the rust-coloured anatomical-looking local sausages? (I've managed to avoid this one in particular for the last year and a half. I can stall some more.)

Meanwhile, R has been to the dentist and come back evangelising about oral hygiene.
E.g:
R: "We must start flossing regularly!"
Slady: "Oh."
or
R: "Have you flossed today?"
Slady: "No."
or
R: "Now that I floss regularly, my gums have stopped bleeding!"
Slady: "Oh!"

Is he trying to tell me something?

I've always been avoidant of the dentist. My non-attendance record is four years. I prefer to give my teeth a light dust now and then, and act surprised when they all need extracting. But dental floss? C'mon! It's just a bit of waxy thread, and the temptation to dispose of it by wiping it on a clean surface is very great.

So flossing: is it optional (5 a day), compulsory (giving up smoking) or Compulsory (washing your hands after you go to the loo)?

(It's raining and my mind has wandered.)

Should I stay or should I go?

2006-05-12T11:29:00.000+02:00

We're staying.

Although work was calling me back, it wasn't shouting loud enough for me to pay it any attention. Although our lovely house with its lovely garden was whispering tenderly, I know that both are being beautifully looked after by our model tenants. Although I find it very hard not to see friends and family in the flesh, I follow a lot of people's life minutiae via other blogs/emails and sometimes it feels like I'm there in the same sitting room with a cup of tea, putting the world to rights.

Here is the deal. We are in Suisse for at least another year. I am letting my UK nursing registration expire and I have no plans to get a job here. Which means I am officially a full-time mum (as opposed to being on a career break.) We did a lot of thinking about all this, and now that the decision has been made it all feels very good.

I'm very grateful that we don't need two incomes to make ends meet. And though a lie-in would be nice, rolling around the bed with my two gorgeous girls at 6am makes me feel like the luckiest person alive.

Another (excellent) reason to stay: if I fall out of bed the right side, I pretty much land in a bakery with dreamiest, flakiest pain au chocolat in the world.

So that means Switzerlady is here to stay, too. (Though for the record, I did consider Tooting Birdway.)

2006-05-09T11:54:00.000+02:00

Sorry I'm late (again.) There is nothing like a 2 year old hammering little fists on the computer keyboard and a constantly ill and screaming Glorymouse for mucking about with one's creative muse.

Besides, I have run out of things to say, possibly for ever. Here is my day: feed baby, dress baby, feed toddler, dress toddler, laundry, cuddle baby, comfort eat, cuddle toddler. laundry, shopping, cook, comfort eat etc etc (Desperate Housewives has finished, during which all the above activities were suspended.) I'm not complaining - OK, yes I am - but I am struggling to get good bloggage out of life at the moment.

I've also been a bit distracted as we wrestle with the question of whether or not to stay in Switzerland. It will be 2 years in August since we moved, and we said we'd give it no more than 2 years initially. There are a lot of factors at play, but expect an announcement by the end of the week. Going back home means no more Switzerlady, obviously - Tootinglady just doesn't have the same je ne sais quoi. But it's been fun, eh?

Sprinterlady

2006-04-29T09:47:00.000+02:00

Last weekend was a big one. As well as the run - hello, big-haired, tomato-faced girl! -there was Emma's birthday party.

There is something about preparing a child's party that has me reaching for the gin bottle. It plays havoc with my normally horizontally-laid-back tendencies: the cake must be home made, Emma must look clean and wear a party dress, the place must be tidy. Even though it's the Switzergent that actually cleans the house, bathes the girl, wears the party dress (eh?) it's still enough to turn me into a nervous wreck.

At least it was a good laugh when it got going. Emma wore vintage 70s pink smocking. There was over-consumption of chocolate cake, followed by the usual sugar-related ADHD - and that was just the adults, chortle! Here we are.

Then on Sunday we had a dedication service for the Glorymouse at our church. The weather was perfect, G was so busy scoffing that she nearly missed her big moment and I made a little speech in very ropey French. Here she is with all her godparents.

After such a flurry of activity, this weekend the Scho family is enjoying a total system shutdown for essential maintenance and repairs.*

*aka watching DH and lounging around in bed

Runner beans

2006-04-26T20:18:00.000+02:00

Thank you very much for sponsoring my running efforts. I crossed the finish line without ending up in intensive care.

My final time was 1 hr 5mins, a full shameful 10 minutes slower than last year. The Switzergent sailed through 13 minutes ahead of me, and it will be a while before I wipe the smirk off his smug, smug face.

I was also overtaken a lot - the runners in novelty costume, the pensioners, people fatter than me - I ate all their dust. On the bright side, at least I overtook the Jim Belushi Blues Brother with the full suit and a pillow down his front.

But given that I only gave birth to a Glorymouse three months ago, I am feeling very chuffed just to have finished at all. Hurray!

Photos of me looking like a big tomato to follow soon...

2006-04-21T20:51:00.000+02:00

Guess who turned two today...

2006-04-21T20:49:00.000+02:00

..and someone wore very high-waisted trousers

A recipe for disaster

2006-04-19T09:22:00.000+02:00

1. Take one large chocolate bunny rabbit.
2. Put children to bed.
2. Put Desperate Housewives on.
3. Play mind games, for example:

You gave up chocolate for Lent, now its Easter. Tuck in!
Bye Bye, bunny ears.
You're breastfeeding, it's ok!
Down the hatch, bunny face.
You're running 10km on Saturday!
Yum yum, bunny arms and torso.
Gloria screamed for an hour today! Treat yourself!
Scoff scoff, bunny tummy, legs, paws, little cotton tail, everything.
Nice, isn't it?
Roam house drooling like a goon, looking for anything containing sugar.

Blubberous Overhang: Hi! Sorry to interrupt!! Where shall I put my things?

Serves One.

PS Happy Easter everyone

Eye need*

2006-04-11T12:51:00.000+02:00

Yes, hello, it's begging time again!

As I think I've already mentioned, I'm doing a 10km run on 22nd April in Lausanne. This year I'm trying to raise cash for the Medair Angola programme, also known as the Switzerlady Blubber Removal Programme. That said, would you now please consider

a) giving some money via the Medair website (click on 'Angola')
b) coming to Lausanne to point and laugh as I lie face down in the mud, being trampled on by the competition

Helping thousands of Angolans and one British middle-class fatty, what's not to like?

*thanks to Heather for inspiring today's title

Don't mention the sledging

2006-04-07T09:03:00.000+02:00

...see what I mean?

Look! We went up a mountain!

2006-04-04T20:58:00.000+02:00

Yes, that's us, the idiots in cycling gear! His 'n' hers! (Actually, the non-breathable plastic makes it very warm, if a bit unhygienic...and it's loads cheaper than actual skiwear!)

We made it to the snow at last. Too logistically impossible and expensive to ski, but we thought let's sledge! Emma would love that!

I don't think so! said Emma. We put her on a sledge where she screamed and screamed until we got back to the nice warm restaurant, a glass of Rivella and a plastic straw - brilliant!

She could have bathed in a gold-tiled swimming pool of Rivella for the same price as the cable car up the mountain, but never mind: the views were spectacular and it was great to be out.

Glorymouse only woke up once a night for 3 nights in a row, too! Hurray for mountain air!

Has this post got too many exclamation marks in it?! I don't know what's come over me!

30 things to do on a rainy day in Lausanne

2006-03-30T20:05:00.000+02:00

1. Stare out of window.
2. Put lego back in box.
3. Watch Emma tip lego onto floor.
4. Hold dummy in Gloria's mouth.
5. Breastfeed.
6. Hold power shower over faeces-encrusted clothes.
7. Hand wash faeces-encrusted bouncy chair.
8. Contemplate going to basement to use washing-machine.
9. Ditch the idea.
9. Wonder if I am like Bree van der Kamp.
10. Drink tea.
11. Wash up.
12. Stare at contents of fridge.
13. Wonder if I can make a lunch out of leftover rice and tomato puree.
14. Ditch the idea.
15. Read The Gruffalo three times.
16. Change nappies.
17. Make lunch: tomato and rice surprise!
18. Think I am probably not like Bree van der Kamp.
19. Put Gloria down for a sleep.
20. Listen to Gloria scream.
21. See no.4
22. Plead with Emma to eat lunch. ("But it's tomato and rice surprise!")
23. Look at clock: panic.
24 Rush around like headless chicken getting Emma ready for nursery
25 Take E to nursery.
26 Come back.
27. Remove wet clothes. Snuggle up in bed with Glorymouse and read Private Eye.
28. Drink tea. Stare.
29. See no 4. Wonder if Bree would approve of dummies.
30. Count minutes til R gets home.

Buff husband

2006-03-27T20:05:00.000+02:00

Sheesh, I'm sorry, that was another long pause.

But it's all good. Gloria only woke up once last night! Emma nearly has all her teeth! Spring has sprung! Ah, happiness.

Now, about the title. R, the Switzergent, has always cycled to work, but now in a fit of spring enthusiasm, he has also started jogging at lunchtimes. He has lost about half a stone, and in short, he is looking a bit buff, a bit phwoar.

Wish I could say the same about me. I know I only had a baby 2 months ago, yadda yadda yeah whatever, but I am annoyed that I am still in my transitional jeans. (You know - pregnancy, jeans, normal jeans, and in the middle, obviously, transitional jeans.) What's more, I can't do the top button up. There is a lip of white blubberous overhang that won't shift, even when I'm sucking my belly in so hard my face has gone purple.

What do I doooo? Please don't say 'go on a diet.'* They are so rubbish. You may whisper 'exercise', especially as I am signed up for the 10km run again this year about which I am in a state of denial. Please, whatever you do don't suggest going back to my pregnancy jeans: I will burst into tears and never blog again, even though I suspect it might be a good suggestion.

* Unless it's the Binge-yourself-thin-on-dairy-milk type of diet.

Back in the headmistress' office

2006-03-19T15:33:00.000+01:00

Headmistress: (sighs heavily). So. Back here again, Switzerlady. Would you like to explain why?
SL: No posts for over 10 days.
Headmistress: What was that? Speak up!
SL: No posts for over 10 days.
Headmistress: And why's that?
SL: Well, I admit Gloria is thriving now, she only wakes up twice a night and everyone here is in a much better mood. Now instead of screaming she likes to lie and stare and kick and gurgle, like a sweet baby from an advert..
HM: (interrupting) None of which explains your truancy, Switzerlady
SL: ..I was getting to that, um, you see the problem with all this sleep is that her bed is in the sitting room. Where the computer is.
HM: And?
SL: I can't be on the computer when she's asleep. It's um, ..too noisy.
HM: Too noisy? Finger tapping? Too noisy? It's hardly thrash metal, is it? Very well, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. However I'm sure there is plenty of time during the day when she's not asleep.
SL: I know, but Emma hates it when I do stuff on the computer. When I sit down to type she screams and pulls at my clothes until I leave it and do things with her instead..
HM: ..oh diddums. Enough. (Rustles paper in a menacing way.) Frankly I think it's sick that you think it fit to use your children as an excuse for your own inadequacy. 100 lines, please: Lazy Posters Will Be Drowned In Custard.
SL: (shuffles from foot to foot) Can I go to the loo, please?
HM: Get out.

Pros and cons

2006-03-08T12:56:00.000+01:00

Hello, I'm back from my holiday to the dark side. I think. Things are still quite tough but I feel quite a bit better for the following reasons 1. Glorymouse came out of hospital, several tonnes of snot lighter and more settled generally. 2 Emma now thinks that talking is the new black. She sits in her cot and twitters things like "wow!" and "oh no!" and "yes!". 3. It's been snowing which makes everything look like it's covered in fabulous royal icing and the view from my bedroom is breathtaking. 4. My mummy who came on a mercy dash on Monday and has been so helpful I could cry.

On the other hand, Glorymouse is getting congested again and still wakes up at least four times a night, nor does she nap for longer than 20 mins at a time during the day and when she is awake, she is quite fretful. 2. So I spend alot of time with her, worrying that Emma is being neglected. 3. It's been snowing and not ideal conditions to be hauling newborns around in. Besides, babies are rubbish at winter sports. 4. I have just realised that my mummy is thinner and more glamourous than me.

2006-03-03T11:16:00.000+01:00

Good news: Gloria came out of hospital yesterday, her pipes noticeably clearer. She woke twice the night before last, and got back to sleep within half an hour both times.
Bad news: Today her breathing is very rattly (again), and last night she was awake at least half the night. No fever though.

I am trying to resist the urge to beg the hospital to keep her in until Spring.

And I've decided on a blog holiday until things improve. This situation is getting me down enough as it is - I can't face writing about it any more.

Bonnes Vacances.

Here's a nice picture to cheer us all up

2006-03-02T08:17:00.000+01:00

The Adventures of Glorymouse

2006-02-28T16:50:00.000+01:00

The last week has easily been the most traumatic of our little Gloria's life, all six-and-a-half weeks of it. Despite gorging ourselves on Gina Ford, all our attempts at establishing a routine failed miserably. Night after night, Glorymouse would sleep for 2 hours at a stretch - if we were lucky - and then scream and wail or feed until dawn. I was totally stumped as to what the matter was. Was she hungry? Was it colic? Was she too hot or too cold? She was overtired of course - she had to be with so little sleep. Was it my diet? Out went onions (boo!) and cabbage (whoppee!) and in came the wretched fennel tea (gaaah!) . She had a cold, we knew that, so out came the baby snotsucker. We elevated the cot. We gave her decongestant drops. No change. Nothing.

After 5 consecutive nights of this, I completely lost it. On Monday at 7am, having lain in bed holding a dummy in her mouth since exactly 4.33, I started sobbing and didn't stop all day. I was totally exhausted and convinced it was all my fault that she was like this. Thank God for my lovely friend Anna (the New Yorker) who came and took charge in the morning.

I made an appointment with the paediatrician for the afternoon. After leaving Emma napping with the neighbour - another blessing as it turned out - I stumbled down the hill with Gloria. I knew she had a cold, I knew we were doing everything we could already, I just wanted a calm, professional voice to say something reassuring and stop me going loopity loop.

We got there. I undressed her and sat weeping and mute in a chair while the dr examined her. "How long has she had this?" she said, pointing to a depression in her chest, moving up and down. I said I didn't know: I hadn't been looking. "She's hot," said the dr. I touched her skin: she was. Again, I hadn't noticed. I was so desperate for her (and me) to sleep, it hadn't occured to me she might actually be unwell.
"She might have a chest infection, I'd like her to go to the hospital straight away" said the doctor.
I blinked. "Can I go and get some things first? I only live 5 minutes up the road. And I've got to call my husband" I said.
"No, I'd rather you went immediately," she replied, trying to sound nonchalant. She was rubbish at sounding nonchalant. "You can call your husband from here."

We got to the hospital, where various doctors prodded and poked the Glorymouse, who responded by smiling at the handsome ones (not that sick, then.) Her condition wasn't as serious as we first thought. "She's very bunged up, and it could get nasty. Let's keep her in overnight and suction her, and you can probably go home tomorrow" said the handsome, young-looking doctor. (Everyone is young-looking these days, maybe because I feel so old and haggard.)

She has her own room at the hospital, and lots of nurses cooing over her. They also regularly suck out frightening amounts of mucus from my little girl, with their high-tech, electric snotsucker de luxe. No wonder she couldn't sleep.

But the best thing of all, is that last night, they suggested I go home and sleep while they look after her. I fretted for a moment; that meant giving her formula milk, right? I had a chat with a lady yesterday who warned me very strongly against it; that just one formula feed would be enough to start the breastmilk drying up. Rubbish, said the nurse. Just express tomorrow morning in case you have to stay another night.

So I went home, feeling guilty for about a nanosecond that I was leaving my baby. Then I slept FOR SEVEN HOURS. SE-VE-N. H-O-U-R-S. Do you have any idea how good that feels? They are keeping her in tonight as well, and today I've had lots of liberty to nip back home between feeds (we only live 5 minutes away) and why I am able to write a monster post. When I go to bed tonight, I won't feel guilty, just very, very grateful and very relieved that there was an identifiable cause at least to poor Gloria's misery. The only thing I do feel terrible about was losing my patience with her more than once in the night - telling her harshly to shut up, stuff like that. I said sorry to her, and she gave me a little gurgle before resuming her rather serious we-need-to-discuss-your-overdraft look. I hope that means she forgives me.

Emma, meanwhile, has been extremely cute, trying to kiss Gor-wee-ah better - then pinching her to see if that'll help. Last night she kept asking for mumm-ee which was rather gratifying, and we had a good game of hide and seek in the park this morning. Things are getting back to normal.

2006-02-25T13:57:00.000+01:00

My chirpy happiness has evaporated. We have been trying hard to get GM into a routine, but in short, despite getting 5 good feeds during the day she rarely sleeps at night for longer than 2 hour stretches and it is beginning to take its toll. I am starting to wonder how I long I can carry on breastfeeding.

She is putting on weight, so I know I am producing enough milk, but I am at a real loss as to why she won't sleep very long. I am pretty certain that it's hunger waking her up, because the dummy just seems to upset her more, and to be honest I don't feel like persevering with it much as I know the breast is guarenteed to at least calm her down and then I can go back to bed. Each feed takes a good half hour, much of which is spent with me tickling her and taking layers of clothing off to encourage her to feed. I am trying to get in the habit of expressing a bottle in the mornings to top her up with at night, but I don't have much milk then as I've spent half the night feeding. This makes me feel very stressed, which doesn't help the milk supply either. So I've started on the fennel tea, which the Swiss are very keen on. (I got given a thermos of it every day I was in hospital.) As well as "promoting digestion" and "relieving colic" - they give colicy babies bottles of it - it's meant to stimulate the production of prolactin, the breastmilk hormone. I've been drinking it by the bucketload, it tastes filthy and I can't say I've (yet) been convinced by the results.

I am wondering whether to give her a bottle of formula at night, just to get her to sleep at bit more, but I don't know if that means I'll produce less milk and then I'll have no choice but to stop breastfeeding altogether. Or maybe I should start giving her fennel tea? She is quite gassy, which might be making her uncomfortable and waking her up. But the thought of boiling up tea in the middle of the night doesn't exactly do it for me, either.

Another concern is the neighbours. We live above the concierge whose ears can pick up frequencies usually only registered by dogs and bats, and have been told off so many times about noise ("Madame, on Sunday we were disturbed by a tapping sound") that having a baby whose screams could startle the deaf and wake the dead must be his worst nightmare. I suspect as much, after I met his daughter on the stairs and apologised to her about the disturbed nights: "Yes, thank you" she said, when written all over her face was "you and your screaming children are making my life hell." And I need to keep the concierge onside, because his wife is the Guardian of the (communal) Washing Machine and she has been very generous about how often we use it.

On the up side, the GM is so sweet, her sister is being totally adorable, and R took both of them to the shops this morning just so I could lie in bed and stare.