I just walked into the large family bathroom of our new home and lo and behold the floor is flooded in about an inch of water.
"Egg, what's going on! What did you do?" I ask…
"It's the 'bum-bum' water Mama. I turned on the bum-bum water and it made a big mess!" he declares gleefully.
Egg is of course referring to the bidet (which is fitted in two out of three of our bathrooms and which I never even imagined would be a problem. How could I not have foreseen the potential disaster of a would-be water fountain on tap? Dumpie too has cleverly sussed the operation and now I know for certain that we are doomed and that flooding shall be a regular occurance in this household. I'm too horrified to even be questioning Egg's understanding of the bidet and wonder vaguely whether Jay might be responsible…
So as you can no doubt gather we are firmly ensconced in our new home and after only two days it feels like a real home. This is due mostly to me and my obsessive compulsive nesting instinct which has seen me almost break myself trying to unpack the 70-odd boxes we moved with, and scour every inch of this not exactly tiny new abode to within an inch of its life.
Yesterday I clocked 16 hours of solid multi-tasking frenzied cleaning/unpacking, and this was on only six hours of unrestful, jet-lagged sleep…with both boys in our bed kicking, fidgeting and demanding more covers. This morning our poorly time-adjusted three-year old woke us at 3:48 a.m. demanding cereal and telling us it was daytime and to get out of bed. (Jay had been out till midnight at his work xmas party and was comatose and oblivious. My mother guilt bade me to wait until the slightly less ungodly hour of 4:30 a.m. at which point I got up and made toast and cereal for my rather too-chirpy toddler, and sat with my head in my hands contemplating putting my head in the smashing new oven. I am NOT a morning person. Never will be.)
At any rate, my current dilemma involves Christmas in only one week, no internet connection set up at home yet, no home phone line, a missing mobile phone, and no way of communicating with the outside world. Add to that a list of urgent tasks a mile long, a sofa which is stuck in Yorkshire and now, I'm told, won't be delivered before the New Year, and you can see why I'm just a teensy bit stressed out today.
On a positive note, I'm really pleased with the new place and am 100% sure we did the right thing in buying it – even if we did pay top dollar for it. If I can ignore the hundreds of empty boxes and miles of bubble wrap which litter the place, I can even imagine how wonderful it's going to be when everything is unpacked.
After a hellish 10 hour flight home from India on Sunday (I wanted to die) we marched straight out and bought a lovely six foot Christmas tree. Then, whilst hallucinating and seeing bright yellow spots in front of my eyes (whether this was from extreme sleep-deprivation, delerium, or merely the bottle of celebratory champagne we'd just polished off) I proceeded to decorate the tree well into the night with the many gorgeous decorations my darling mom has furnished me with over the years (thanks ma – if it were up to me it would be a bare, 'Charley Brown' tree!)
At any rate, Egg is rather taken with the tree and lovingly 'redecorates' it daily, adjusting the chocolate santa's, candy canes and brightly coloured baubles until he is content. I'm just waiting for the whole thing to topple over one of these days.
Dumpie has mastered the stairs already and has discovered that by rolling over onto his rather ample tummy and pushing off, he can travel down three stories in seconds flat by adopting a reverse Jamaican bobsledding manouvre which has him giggling and me covering my eyes in terror.
I swear, if I don't have grey hair now, it's only a matter of weeks. These boys are hardcore. I'm serious
Wednesday, 19 December 2007
Friday, 14 December 2007
"Pseudo-Celebrity Babies"
So we're officially 'grubby' now. Our babies are sandy and brown (in the case of Dumpie), and covered in facial welts and biscuit crumbs (Egg). We've noticed a hilarious trend which pertains to our offspring. Everytime we set foot on the beach, we are beset with Indian tourists clamouring for photo's with the boys. The popular shot has thus far been little Egg building sand castles with his bright yellow plastic bucket and spade – clad in a camoflauge hat and red bathing trunks. However today, with the addition of three angry red welts on his face (likely bites of some sort) and the unwelcome addition of a sty in his left eye (possibly due to the flea-ridden kitten who's taken up residence on our balcony?) he has fallen in the photo stakes and it is Dumpie with his flaxen curls and huge toothy grin who is most in demand for 'souvenir photo sir'.
Jay finally had to appease his curiosity today, and with a mixture of broken English and bit-part Hindi, was able to ascertain that the Indian tourists simply find the boys 'very cute'. We wouldn't mind so much except that with each gaggle of tourists comes the necessity that each and every one strike a pose with the baby, and this is not only time consuming but irritates Egg and Dumps after a time, and invariably leads to tears.
Today we took a taxi to hippie enclave 'Vagator' and set up camp on the end of the beach where we were pleasantly harrassed by various beach hawkers and a rogue German tourist who was both nerdy and perverted. He spent the afternoon 'collecting' pretty young female sellers on the beach, buying cheap bits of tat from them to keep them hovering within arms reach, supplying them with bottles of Coke, and taking photo's of himself in various poses with them on his camera. Most amusing. Just when it couldn't get anymore ridiculous, he took up position on the beach and proceeded to do the 'hippie twirl' to a vast audience (a practise seen at festivals the world over whereby in the manner of rhythmic gymnasts two balls at the end of long strings are swirled recklessly through the air in figure eights and in all matter of intricate motions). This would have been merely amusing had it been ten or fifteen years ago, and had he possessed any manner of grace or rhythm. Unfortunately, this frizzy-haired would-be lothario, with his too-short legs and leering grin, possessed all the grace of a baby elephant and the exercise was nothing short of tragic.
Presently we're being eaten alive by mosquitos, it's time for dinner, and I've gotten sand all over our clean sheets. It's time to sign off.
You'll be pleased to know that my tailor and I arrived at the only logical conclusion given our seven days of recent shenanigans and disappointing 'fittings'. I am to pay him 400 rupees tonight (£5…or $10), take the black leather skirt, forget about any alterations on the original skirt I brought in (which shall be binned I imagine or sold to another hapless tourist this season), and basically bugger off. He is not interested in making anything further for me, and I am not interested in salvaging my original piece.
We shall leave each other in peace to pursue other business arrangements and take this particular one no further. I am happy. He is happy. The skirt is merely an amusing souvenir which will no doubt make me smile for some months to come. Whether I look like a cheap hooker in it shall be ascertained at a later date I imagine.
Jay finally had to appease his curiosity today, and with a mixture of broken English and bit-part Hindi, was able to ascertain that the Indian tourists simply find the boys 'very cute'. We wouldn't mind so much except that with each gaggle of tourists comes the necessity that each and every one strike a pose with the baby, and this is not only time consuming but irritates Egg and Dumps after a time, and invariably leads to tears.
Today we took a taxi to hippie enclave 'Vagator' and set up camp on the end of the beach where we were pleasantly harrassed by various beach hawkers and a rogue German tourist who was both nerdy and perverted. He spent the afternoon 'collecting' pretty young female sellers on the beach, buying cheap bits of tat from them to keep them hovering within arms reach, supplying them with bottles of Coke, and taking photo's of himself in various poses with them on his camera. Most amusing. Just when it couldn't get anymore ridiculous, he took up position on the beach and proceeded to do the 'hippie twirl' to a vast audience (a practise seen at festivals the world over whereby in the manner of rhythmic gymnasts two balls at the end of long strings are swirled recklessly through the air in figure eights and in all matter of intricate motions). This would have been merely amusing had it been ten or fifteen years ago, and had he possessed any manner of grace or rhythm. Unfortunately, this frizzy-haired would-be lothario, with his too-short legs and leering grin, possessed all the grace of a baby elephant and the exercise was nothing short of tragic.
Presently we're being eaten alive by mosquitos, it's time for dinner, and I've gotten sand all over our clean sheets. It's time to sign off.
You'll be pleased to know that my tailor and I arrived at the only logical conclusion given our seven days of recent shenanigans and disappointing 'fittings'. I am to pay him 400 rupees tonight (£5…or $10), take the black leather skirt, forget about any alterations on the original skirt I brought in (which shall be binned I imagine or sold to another hapless tourist this season), and basically bugger off. He is not interested in making anything further for me, and I am not interested in salvaging my original piece.
We shall leave each other in peace to pursue other business arrangements and take this particular one no further. I am happy. He is happy. The skirt is merely an amusing souvenir which will no doubt make me smile for some months to come. Whether I look like a cheap hooker in it shall be ascertained at a later date I imagine.
Saturday, 8 December 2007
Pret-a-Porter
Things have definately soured with my tailor. Every year when i come to Goa I go to my 'tailor' (a fellow i have handpicked for no other reason than i like some of the wares he has on display) and I enter into a convoluted process of trying to get a piece made for myself. This year it is the leather (mini)skirt. Before you start on about how a mother of two should not be caught dead in a black leather mini skirt unless she's a lady of the night (which i actually happen to be, only not the exciting elicit type but the forlorn downtrodden up-all-night-with-a-cranky-baby kind).
Anyway, I custom designed it with him, and whether it was me thinking he knew English perfectly, or he being more interested in my breasts popping out of my bathing suit top I cannot tell. But for whatever reason, for the past week now we've found ourselves on a highway to fashion hell with the results going decidedly down the past few days.
I should know better. I really should. There have been 'incidents' in the past with local tailors involving Jay and several custom made shirts which ended just below his belly button and involved waking said tailors up in middle of the night before we flew in an attempt to get them to do the impossible and make extra fabric appear where there was none.
Much is the case with this skirt. The metal snaps do not only not align, but they pop open just breathing on them....a thought which fills me with dread were I ever to attempt to wear the finished product in public. However we have both gone too far now to stop - although halting this miserable affair would be the wisest and kindest for both of us. Instead, after my latest fitting moments ago, my depressed tailor (who has lost his joie de vivre the past few days after my visits) just nodded his assent at my latest instructions for righting the manufacturing wrongs, and told me to come back tomorrow.
I don't hold out a lot of hope. In fact I may just end up donating the skirt to Oxfam on my return, where some unfortunate soul will find themselves the proud owner of a fine piece of black leather which resembles a skirt, feels like a skirt, but simply hangs in such a wonky fashion that it shall leave her feeling that her body is odd and badly put together.
Lesson? Spend your money in India on MASSAGE, BEER, and FOOD. You can't really go wrong being a lazy sloth-ridden pig, but you can when you venture into fine jewellry, clothes design and trinket-mania.. Off I pop for said massage. Cheerio.
Anyway, I custom designed it with him, and whether it was me thinking he knew English perfectly, or he being more interested in my breasts popping out of my bathing suit top I cannot tell. But for whatever reason, for the past week now we've found ourselves on a highway to fashion hell with the results going decidedly down the past few days.
I should know better. I really should. There have been 'incidents' in the past with local tailors involving Jay and several custom made shirts which ended just below his belly button and involved waking said tailors up in middle of the night before we flew in an attempt to get them to do the impossible and make extra fabric appear where there was none.
Much is the case with this skirt. The metal snaps do not only not align, but they pop open just breathing on them....a thought which fills me with dread were I ever to attempt to wear the finished product in public. However we have both gone too far now to stop - although halting this miserable affair would be the wisest and kindest for both of us. Instead, after my latest fitting moments ago, my depressed tailor (who has lost his joie de vivre the past few days after my visits) just nodded his assent at my latest instructions for righting the manufacturing wrongs, and told me to come back tomorrow.
I don't hold out a lot of hope. In fact I may just end up donating the skirt to Oxfam on my return, where some unfortunate soul will find themselves the proud owner of a fine piece of black leather which resembles a skirt, feels like a skirt, but simply hangs in such a wonky fashion that it shall leave her feeling that her body is odd and badly put together.
Lesson? Spend your money in India on MASSAGE, BEER, and FOOD. You can't really go wrong being a lazy sloth-ridden pig, but you can when you venture into fine jewellry, clothes design and trinket-mania.. Off I pop for said massage. Cheerio.
Friday, 7 December 2007
Nothing Stays The Same
Friday 7th December
This morning over breakfast Jay asked me,
"Nis, do you feel our big India dream is a bit deflated?"
I thought for a moment then answered truthfully that it wasn't so much deflated as needed to be dreamt up again…but slightly differently.
You see, having not been here for two and a half years, the changes are very evident to us, and not at all favourable. For starters, our cozy seaside hotel has seen a rise in room rates by almost threefold. This may be due to the fact that opposite now stands a horrid large wannabe posh Indian hotel which is an offensive eyesore.
We chose the same room as last time since we were in love with the view from our balcony (which overlooked a giant field where bullocks roamed, elephants often tread and women could be seen carrying baskets to and fro in the lazy afternoon sunshine). Much to our horror, when we first stepped outside this time, we saw that a brand spanking new motorway had been fashioned diagonally across it! So much for our tranquil setting. In the words of Joni Mitchell (who let's face it new a thing or two about such monstrosities) "they tore paradise and put up a parking lot".
Today we took an hour long taxi ride to our beloved 'Arambol Beach' where there is a 'sweet water lake' (which in local Indian vernacular often sounds like 'sweat water lake' – not far from the truth given the number of tourists who sit like grounded hippo's on the banks, baking in the boiling sun, submerging bright white cellulite-ridden legs and hairy beer bellies in the gloriously warm but stagnant shallow waters).
This time, instead of the majority of tourists being Brits and Israeli's, there seems to be a crazy influx of Russians who are apparently pissing off all the fruit/trinket/lungi sellers because of their rude arrogant ways and tight-fistedness with the rupees. We witnessed such a spectacle this afternoon whereby a hapless young girl hawking bedspreads was mocked and scorned by a Russian foursome spouting gutteral invectives – the men clad in revealing speedo's and the ladies puffing on cheap cigarettes, their bleached blond hair held back by 'scrunchies'.
There is the dawning reality that Jay and I are no longer part of the hippie/backpack brigade (thank GOD for that) and thus do not 'fit in' anymore. Where once we clad ourselves in woven bracelets, decorated cotton rags, haggling over 50p a night rooms and boomed around the country on a motorcycle feeling free as the wind, we now find ourselves chained (and I do mean CHAINED) to the here and now with our two little men.
Jay has nicknamed our youngest 'Bee-elza-dumps' this holiday as he rules our family with a fist of iron. One blood-curdling cry and we'll do pretty much anything the little prince demands, be it leave our newly served dinners to walk him around tables as he smiles and shouts out to fellow diners, or serve him up chocolate wafer after chocolate wafer to keep him from flinging bits of chicken and rice across the table and into strangers hair. Then of course there is his constant demand for breast. As I mentioned it is no longer a case of need but want, and he fancies it at least once an hour it seems. Nightmare. I don't think there are many locals who haven't glimpsed a bit of my bits recently.
At any rate, Jay and the boys have just walked in from dinner. I begged off for a shower and some peace and quiet. Given that Jay has been allowed to ride around on his motorcycle while the boys and I cruise about in a tourist taxi has made him rather sympathetic towards 'Mama's needs'. In a minute I'm going to take off, find an internet café and upload this. Then I'm off to a tailor for more comedic alterations on a skirt which is becoming more ridiculous with each stitch. But more on that later. In fact tomorrow I shall tell you all about 'Pramesh' from 'Leather World' and the whole soap opera which is ensuing. Bet you can't wait ?
This morning over breakfast Jay asked me,
"Nis, do you feel our big India dream is a bit deflated?"
I thought for a moment then answered truthfully that it wasn't so much deflated as needed to be dreamt up again…but slightly differently.
You see, having not been here for two and a half years, the changes are very evident to us, and not at all favourable. For starters, our cozy seaside hotel has seen a rise in room rates by almost threefold. This may be due to the fact that opposite now stands a horrid large wannabe posh Indian hotel which is an offensive eyesore.
We chose the same room as last time since we were in love with the view from our balcony (which overlooked a giant field where bullocks roamed, elephants often tread and women could be seen carrying baskets to and fro in the lazy afternoon sunshine). Much to our horror, when we first stepped outside this time, we saw that a brand spanking new motorway had been fashioned diagonally across it! So much for our tranquil setting. In the words of Joni Mitchell (who let's face it new a thing or two about such monstrosities) "they tore paradise and put up a parking lot".
Today we took an hour long taxi ride to our beloved 'Arambol Beach' where there is a 'sweet water lake' (which in local Indian vernacular often sounds like 'sweat water lake' – not far from the truth given the number of tourists who sit like grounded hippo's on the banks, baking in the boiling sun, submerging bright white cellulite-ridden legs and hairy beer bellies in the gloriously warm but stagnant shallow waters).
This time, instead of the majority of tourists being Brits and Israeli's, there seems to be a crazy influx of Russians who are apparently pissing off all the fruit/trinket/lungi sellers because of their rude arrogant ways and tight-fistedness with the rupees. We witnessed such a spectacle this afternoon whereby a hapless young girl hawking bedspreads was mocked and scorned by a Russian foursome spouting gutteral invectives – the men clad in revealing speedo's and the ladies puffing on cheap cigarettes, their bleached blond hair held back by 'scrunchies'.
There is the dawning reality that Jay and I are no longer part of the hippie/backpack brigade (thank GOD for that) and thus do not 'fit in' anymore. Where once we clad ourselves in woven bracelets, decorated cotton rags, haggling over 50p a night rooms and boomed around the country on a motorcycle feeling free as the wind, we now find ourselves chained (and I do mean CHAINED) to the here and now with our two little men.
Jay has nicknamed our youngest 'Bee-elza-dumps' this holiday as he rules our family with a fist of iron. One blood-curdling cry and we'll do pretty much anything the little prince demands, be it leave our newly served dinners to walk him around tables as he smiles and shouts out to fellow diners, or serve him up chocolate wafer after chocolate wafer to keep him from flinging bits of chicken and rice across the table and into strangers hair. Then of course there is his constant demand for breast. As I mentioned it is no longer a case of need but want, and he fancies it at least once an hour it seems. Nightmare. I don't think there are many locals who haven't glimpsed a bit of my bits recently.
At any rate, Jay and the boys have just walked in from dinner. I begged off for a shower and some peace and quiet. Given that Jay has been allowed to ride around on his motorcycle while the boys and I cruise about in a tourist taxi has made him rather sympathetic towards 'Mama's needs'. In a minute I'm going to take off, find an internet café and upload this. Then I'm off to a tailor for more comedic alterations on a skirt which is becoming more ridiculous with each stitch. But more on that later. In fact tomorrow I shall tell you all about 'Pramesh' from 'Leather World' and the whole soap opera which is ensuing. Bet you can't wait ?
Bits n' Bites
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Spent another sleepless night last night here at the hotel in Goa. Dumps is either
a) dehydrated
b) starving or
c) suffering from insomnia
and therefore wakes up several times a night to slap me across the face, pinch my neck or pull out pieces of my hair piece by piece.
Last night he screamed as though he were being tortured in hell – all because I wouldn't give him carte blanche to chew and otherwise mutilate my poor sore nipples all night. I think he knows the nursing gig is almost up and is experiencing premature anxiety – trying to drain every last drop of enjoyment and experience from his favourite pastime. I plan to stop on New Year's Eve. The reason I have not ceased this pretty much pointless exercise yet is three-fold:
1. I breastfed Egg for 13 months and it seems only fair to do the same for Dumps lest I get blamed for him turning into an axe murderer one day due to feeling unloved
2. I need to have a means of pacifying Noah's blood-curdling screams of fury on the nine hour flight back home in a few weeks
3. Just think how deliciously drunk I shall get on a mere few drinks come New Year's after having virtually (okay pretty much) been teetotal for the better part of two years
Actually, even though it is going to be heartbreaking for the wee fellow, it probably is for the best given the fact that he now feeds loudly, slurping like a fat drunk over a foamy pint of Guiness, and waves his arms around victoriously for all to see while I surreptiously try to conceal the fact that I am publicly nursing. I'm not even sure there is very much milk left to be honest, though I think that's beside the point for poor addicted Dumps, and I can only liken it to a nicotine crazed addict puffing away on a ciggie before a stop smoking seminar.
Today at 6am Jay left me with a screaming monster to go on a bike trip down south. The deal was that he'd be back in time for a late breakfast with us. However as it turns out, as soon as I heard the Enfield roar off this morning, Egg awoke with a start (he now LOVES motorcycles and is begging for a long roadtrip with Dada…God help me), jumped into bed with a red-faced Noah and myself, and them proceeded to play/fight with his brother on and off for the next several hours. The three of us were unfortunately room-ridden all morning and nearly went mad simply because I was too ashamed of having spawned the monsters who caused the occupants of Hotel Cavala to be awoken throughout the night and early morning by the sounds of an utterly irate and inconsolable infant.
The day began to look up as we went forward though, as I managed to wrangle myself a heavenly hour long massage in a cool room with a masterfully trained ayervedic masseuse named 'Deena'…soothing classical Indian music being piped gently through the soft whirring of the fan. This glorious massage cost the ripe old sum of £7. When they asked if I would be coming back it was all I could do not to suggest I come twice a day for the remainder of my holiday!
We rounded off the day by hopping a taxi to the infamous 'Anjuna Flea Market'. Every Wednesday traders from all over Goa hawk their wares in a giant field near the beach. Everything is for sale and anything from a silk bedspread to a leather purse to a haircut can be purchased. Once I used to get off on the haggling. These days I simply find it too exhausting and frankly can't be bothered. However without haggling you will find yourself quoted prices not unlike that of Harrod's in London, and after a few feeble attempts of snorting in disgust and rolling my eyes as I backed away from hawkers pleading, "You tell me YOUR best price Madam…I make you good price…come back!" I decided to just not bother and merely bought a cool brass outdoor lamp from a vender who was so chilled out that I wanted to ask him if I could have some of whatever he was on.
After the market we hightailed it to our favourite Tibetan place for yet some more 'Momo's' (steamed vegetable and cheese dumplings eaten with delicious broth and covered in fresh garlic, soy sauce and hot chili sauce. As I announced to Jay mid-mouthful tonight, it would definitely be my deathrow meal. (His for the record would be sushi from Nobu…). We topped off the delicious meal with melt-in-your-mouth banana fritters in homemade toffee sauce and two huge steaming cups of Indian Masala Chai.
People it just doesn't get better than this. Even the annoying 'holier-than-thou' buddha-loving ladies beside us (one of whom errupted in gentle tears during dinner) and the loud, common south Londoners at the other table commenting on the 'cheap-as-chips' food in Goa, weren't enough to put us off what was simply a divine repast.
Now I've just got to find a way to barricade my breasts from a fiercesome night bat who is already eyeing them up from across the bed and giggling his dirty laugh in anticipation. When the lights go out I get eaten alive and we both know who's going to win this war. When you hold the only key to silencing what is one of the most horrifically loud screaming tantrums known to man, the only decision is to 'take it for the team'.
Twenty-six days and counting…
Spent another sleepless night last night here at the hotel in Goa. Dumps is either
a) dehydrated
b) starving or
c) suffering from insomnia
and therefore wakes up several times a night to slap me across the face, pinch my neck or pull out pieces of my hair piece by piece.
Last night he screamed as though he were being tortured in hell – all because I wouldn't give him carte blanche to chew and otherwise mutilate my poor sore nipples all night. I think he knows the nursing gig is almost up and is experiencing premature anxiety – trying to drain every last drop of enjoyment and experience from his favourite pastime. I plan to stop on New Year's Eve. The reason I have not ceased this pretty much pointless exercise yet is three-fold:
1. I breastfed Egg for 13 months and it seems only fair to do the same for Dumps lest I get blamed for him turning into an axe murderer one day due to feeling unloved
2. I need to have a means of pacifying Noah's blood-curdling screams of fury on the nine hour flight back home in a few weeks
3. Just think how deliciously drunk I shall get on a mere few drinks come New Year's after having virtually (okay pretty much) been teetotal for the better part of two years
Actually, even though it is going to be heartbreaking for the wee fellow, it probably is for the best given the fact that he now feeds loudly, slurping like a fat drunk over a foamy pint of Guiness, and waves his arms around victoriously for all to see while I surreptiously try to conceal the fact that I am publicly nursing. I'm not even sure there is very much milk left to be honest, though I think that's beside the point for poor addicted Dumps, and I can only liken it to a nicotine crazed addict puffing away on a ciggie before a stop smoking seminar.
Today at 6am Jay left me with a screaming monster to go on a bike trip down south. The deal was that he'd be back in time for a late breakfast with us. However as it turns out, as soon as I heard the Enfield roar off this morning, Egg awoke with a start (he now LOVES motorcycles and is begging for a long roadtrip with Dada…God help me), jumped into bed with a red-faced Noah and myself, and them proceeded to play/fight with his brother on and off for the next several hours. The three of us were unfortunately room-ridden all morning and nearly went mad simply because I was too ashamed of having spawned the monsters who caused the occupants of Hotel Cavala to be awoken throughout the night and early morning by the sounds of an utterly irate and inconsolable infant.
The day began to look up as we went forward though, as I managed to wrangle myself a heavenly hour long massage in a cool room with a masterfully trained ayervedic masseuse named 'Deena'…soothing classical Indian music being piped gently through the soft whirring of the fan. This glorious massage cost the ripe old sum of £7. When they asked if I would be coming back it was all I could do not to suggest I come twice a day for the remainder of my holiday!
We rounded off the day by hopping a taxi to the infamous 'Anjuna Flea Market'. Every Wednesday traders from all over Goa hawk their wares in a giant field near the beach. Everything is for sale and anything from a silk bedspread to a leather purse to a haircut can be purchased. Once I used to get off on the haggling. These days I simply find it too exhausting and frankly can't be bothered. However without haggling you will find yourself quoted prices not unlike that of Harrod's in London, and after a few feeble attempts of snorting in disgust and rolling my eyes as I backed away from hawkers pleading, "You tell me YOUR best price Madam…I make you good price…come back!" I decided to just not bother and merely bought a cool brass outdoor lamp from a vender who was so chilled out that I wanted to ask him if I could have some of whatever he was on.
After the market we hightailed it to our favourite Tibetan place for yet some more 'Momo's' (steamed vegetable and cheese dumplings eaten with delicious broth and covered in fresh garlic, soy sauce and hot chili sauce. As I announced to Jay mid-mouthful tonight, it would definitely be my deathrow meal. (His for the record would be sushi from Nobu…). We topped off the delicious meal with melt-in-your-mouth banana fritters in homemade toffee sauce and two huge steaming cups of Indian Masala Chai.
People it just doesn't get better than this. Even the annoying 'holier-than-thou' buddha-loving ladies beside us (one of whom errupted in gentle tears during dinner) and the loud, common south Londoners at the other table commenting on the 'cheap-as-chips' food in Goa, weren't enough to put us off what was simply a divine repast.
Now I've just got to find a way to barricade my breasts from a fiercesome night bat who is already eyeing them up from across the bed and giggling his dirty laugh in anticipation. When the lights go out I get eaten alive and we both know who's going to win this war. When you hold the only key to silencing what is one of the most horrifically loud screaming tantrums known to man, the only decision is to 'take it for the team'.
Twenty-six days and counting…
Tuesday, 4 December 2007
A Close Call (December 4th 2007)
Sitting by the pool at Hotel Cavala in Goa. Jay sips a fresh lime soda, Egg splashes away on the top step of the kiddies pool and little Dumps (aka Noah) is contentedly examining tiny sticks and stones on the ground whilst trying to lift his chubby leg up on the bench.
I'd like to say that yesterday passed without incident but I'd be lying. After a quick splash in the kiddie pool with both babies, jay and I stepped out with Dumps and were having a conversation about something or other when out of the corner of my eye I spotted Egg bobbing slowly under the water, then up, then under…my mind didn't register anything as he wasn't splashing or panicking and it took me a few moments to realise that he was in trouble.
A quick shout and Jay raced over and pulled him up out of the water. The poor angel was petrified, traumatised (and remains so) and luckily hadn't swallowed much water. He was okay. But I am not. Jay in his usual way doesn't seem to recognise the severity of what almost happened, but then maybe he can't let himself go there. Believe me when I say that I had a sudden, terrifying lesson of how quickly a child can drown – even when an adult is present.
The rest of the day was spent in rather typical, Goan Holiday fashion: a 90 full-body massage for Jay, a sunset drink on the beach, an apple sheesha pipe (for old times sake – ie. Our stint in Dahab many moons ago when we were but reckless, childfree 'travellers') and a too-yummy-for-words dinner of steamed Tibetan Momo's in Calangute later that evening.
Jay's rented his usual Enfield motorcycle (which means that I as dutiful wife will no doubt spend many confined hours in the hotel room with two monsters while 'Easy Rider' races around terrifying locals and large cows with his ipod earphones pumping out a reggae soundtrack).
I'm going to sign off now. Dumps is yelling 'Dadadadadada' and Egg is somewhere off on the other side of the pool and Jay not being known as the most conscientous of fellows cannot and should not be left as sole 'watcher' of rugrats. This falls to me. Let's just hope that I have no more scary stories to relay over the next few weeks. Talk about a wake-up call. One more incident like that and I'll have to fashion a few wicker baskets, deposit the boys in them, and sail them down with Baga River with a note that states:
"We loved them. We tried to care for them. We suck. Hope you can do better."
I'd like to say that yesterday passed without incident but I'd be lying. After a quick splash in the kiddie pool with both babies, jay and I stepped out with Dumps and were having a conversation about something or other when out of the corner of my eye I spotted Egg bobbing slowly under the water, then up, then under…my mind didn't register anything as he wasn't splashing or panicking and it took me a few moments to realise that he was in trouble.
A quick shout and Jay raced over and pulled him up out of the water. The poor angel was petrified, traumatised (and remains so) and luckily hadn't swallowed much water. He was okay. But I am not. Jay in his usual way doesn't seem to recognise the severity of what almost happened, but then maybe he can't let himself go there. Believe me when I say that I had a sudden, terrifying lesson of how quickly a child can drown – even when an adult is present.
The rest of the day was spent in rather typical, Goan Holiday fashion: a 90 full-body massage for Jay, a sunset drink on the beach, an apple sheesha pipe (for old times sake – ie. Our stint in Dahab many moons ago when we were but reckless, childfree 'travellers') and a too-yummy-for-words dinner of steamed Tibetan Momo's in Calangute later that evening.
Jay's rented his usual Enfield motorcycle (which means that I as dutiful wife will no doubt spend many confined hours in the hotel room with two monsters while 'Easy Rider' races around terrifying locals and large cows with his ipod earphones pumping out a reggae soundtrack).
I'm going to sign off now. Dumps is yelling 'Dadadadadada' and Egg is somewhere off on the other side of the pool and Jay not being known as the most conscientous of fellows cannot and should not be left as sole 'watcher' of rugrats. This falls to me. Let's just hope that I have no more scary stories to relay over the next few weeks. Talk about a wake-up call. One more incident like that and I'll have to fashion a few wicker baskets, deposit the boys in them, and sail them down with Baga River with a note that states:
"We loved them. We tried to care for them. We suck. Hope you can do better."
"Captain Calpol" (December 2nd 2007)
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Okay so here's the good news: we made it to Goa in one piece, survived the charter flight (even managing to sit together in a row near the front despite being the last passengers to check in only 2 hours before take off), AND we pulled off the craziest, most ridiculous 48 hours of our lives which involved moving home, moving tenants out of and into our rental flat, and getting ready for our big family holiday.
Now here is the bad news: Due to the aforementioned insanity of the past 48 hours, my life partner (I'm not sure we're on quite good enough terms to call each other spouses at the moment after the level of verbal abuse which took place during the past few days) and I passed out HARD about two hours ago here in our hotel room. So hard in fact that we were unaware that Egg helped himself to the 'medicine bag' and overdosed on four sachets of 'Calpol' and now lies flat out in what can only be described as a 'kiddie coma'. You know how they have childproof caps? Well mama here thought at the airport that rip-open sachets would take up less space in the baggage and not get our clothes sticky. Of course I didn't count on the ingenuity of Egg to not only remember where they were kept, but expertly rip open the packaging, rustle up a spoon and self-administer several doses of the child medicine as we lay snoring, passed out.
As for Dumpie, we woke briefly to the vile smell of a filthy nappy awhile ago and somehow Jay in his deep, deep sleep coerced me into getting up and changing it, and it was then that I noticed the nappy cream spread all over the hotel floor, and the ton of toilet tissue scattered about the room as if a modern day art installation. More alarmingly is the ripped open mosquito coil package and missing tablet….i can't even bear to follow that thought through so am not even going to go there.
As it's India the generator sometimes goes off for hours at a time, and unfortunately it's our mini bar fridge in the room that is suffering and has expelled a huge pool of water near the bed which Dumps has already slipped on…twice. Aside from the fact that we had both boys out in the baking hot noon day sun for a little while today – returning with flushed cheeks and in danger of heatstroke, and that Dumps has figured out that he can climb up on the railing of our first floor balcony and illicit a scream on demand from his freaked-out mother as he tries to squeeze his little body through the generously placed bars….i'd say things are going swimmingly.
I feel I need to back up a bit and release some of the angst and horror from the past few weeks, but especially the last few days in particular. Moving home apparently rates up there on the stress level ABOVE death and divorce in some cases. I scoffed at this previously but now emerge shaken and horrified at the toll this move has taken on both my marriage, my peace of mind and my poor, aching body. Will I ever recover? (And please bear in mind that throughout this whole ordeal Jay and I shamelessly impinged on the personal freedom of not one, not two, but three aunties who happened to be next door and took in both children SOLIDLY – night sleeps included – such that we could get on with the task at hand. We could give them all our wordly possessions and STILL not make up for the help they gave us…modern-day saints they are – especially when you consider what a handful these two monsters are.)
Anyway, I guess the problem lay in the fact that due to the amazing central location of our (now former) two bedroom London flat, we were loathe to give it up for far too long, and what with the advent of two babies in quite quick succession (even ten years between them wouldn't be enough I have discovered), we outstayed our welcome so to speak…and then some. An unfortunate result is that we overcrowded ourselves to the point of suffocation. Given the fact that Jay and I are both musicians, I am a clothes horse, and we're both avid readers and collectors of books, we found ourselves gradually being buried alive and caged in by all of our belongings, and held hostage by our possessions. So when it came time to extricate ourselves, the 'Flat' wasn't having it and wouldn't let us go without a fight. Much to our horror we discovered that in the past five years our 'things' had hatched other things, and those other things had given birth to still other things.
Naively I had looked on a packing website which suggested that for the average two bedroom flat, 30 large boxes were sufficient. As it turns out, this is pants (or we are NOT average). In the end we used (in my estimation) upwards of 70 boxes, every bag we own, every suitcase, ever knapsack, and still we left our giant loft 3/4 full with all of our possessions we couldn't even get to! It doesn't bear thinking about.
I think I first discovered the problem about a week before we moved when I spent a day or two 'packing up' things and I had hardly made a dent. It was a bit like the 'loaves and fishes' story in the bible, you know the one where Jesus multiplies the food and the more food the disciples pass out, the more there are for the hoards. Well, the more boxes we packed, the more stuff there was to put in those boxes!
At times I'd look around a room where the carpet was no longer visable and I'd want to sink to the floor and weep (acutally I probably did a few times looking back), especially as my pinched nerve was acting up, I'd had no sleep and saw no end to the hell and misery I was immersed in. I'd catch myself giggling manically a few times (like Chevy Chase in the 80's movie 'European Vacation' when he finds himself stuck on the roundabout by Big Ben for hours, unable to signal left and out.)
Anyway, I think you get the picture. Suffice it to say that during 'The Move' (as it shall from this day forward be known) Jay and I almost killed each other. Forget threats of 'divorce'…by the end of it we were bandying around death threats and in fact I do recall some choice insults being bandied about which don't even bear thinking about. He'd curse like hell upon finding yet another case of my mini-discs and I'd follow suit upon finding yet another guitar or piece of computer equipment he'd forgotten about. All I can say is luckily the kiddies weren't around to witness their beloved parents transformations into monsters of evil!
Of course a side effect of all this racing the clock, packing up, and stressing out, is that eventually we got careless and lost the plot. By hour 36 or so, on three hours sleep, we were chucking things out in the bin that were: a) perfectly good b) expensive c) not even worn(!) d) important
We shall no doubt shudder when the full extent of our purging hits home but at the time we just didn't care and felt it was the only thing stopping us from utter insanity and being buried alive under the weight of all of our possessions.
Ironically, what started as a carefully labelled, colour-coded sticker system (dreamed up by yours truly), encompassing bubble wrap, marker pens and carefully applied packing tape, ultimately ended up in the third circle of hell which found me filling up plastic supermarket bags willy nilly with single sweeps of the arm across shelves of expensive cosmetics as I struggled to get our last remaining possessions out of the flat while the taxi waited honking downstairs and Jay and the boys jammed tight in the people carrier whilst all the other passengers on flight AC044 were just then checking in at the airport.
The last memory I have of our old place is of three shell-shocked, exhausted aunties waving forlornly from the pavement with slight horror as they took in the multitude of bags of 'stuff' loaded up to the roof and spilling out everywhere as our taxi driver sped us off to our new home to deposit us briefly before we made our way to the airport.
We were in such a rush that I forgot the 'contingency' airplane bag I had fastidiously packed a few days before which contained all my makeup, nappies, travel blanket, toys for the boys, you name it. My most personal possessions didn't make it to India sadly, but we did. After calling a local cab company, we ended up in a beat up old car being driven by a turban clad Pakastani who almost erupted in road rage after a posh neighbour demanded her right of way on the narrow street. This fellow drove us all the way to Gatwick as we raced to make it in time, but was tipped handsomely by my over-generous life partner who to this moment is still muttering about 'boxes' under his breath and seems not a little traumatised by recent events.
I could go on and on, but my neck is in severe pain (pinched nerve from all that stress and the heavy boxes) and one child still lies comatose and I should really look into that, whilst the other is systematically destroying the contents of our luggage. Too clever for his own good he has discovered that destruction of expensive things is F-U-N fun and a sure fire way to get attention. He has embarked upon destruction as of late with the overzealousness of a fatty in a sweet shop.
So I shall leave you all with a sincere apology for not having written for the past few weeks. Perhaps now it all makes sense. And sorry to the friends I have neglected (especially the two who have just had babies and not yet received a congrats card OR a pressie…they are packed in one of 79 unlabelled, non-descript boxes!)
On a positive note we absolutely ADORE the new place (from the few minutes we got to enjoy it before racing back to deal with more packing and rental tenents), and despite the crazy venders who put us through hell in the pursuit of our 'almost dream home', almost bankrupting us in the process, we are secretly ecstatic that we managed to pull it all off. Well, almost managed…I'll get back to you on that one.
Okay so here's the good news: we made it to Goa in one piece, survived the charter flight (even managing to sit together in a row near the front despite being the last passengers to check in only 2 hours before take off), AND we pulled off the craziest, most ridiculous 48 hours of our lives which involved moving home, moving tenants out of and into our rental flat, and getting ready for our big family holiday.
Now here is the bad news: Due to the aforementioned insanity of the past 48 hours, my life partner (I'm not sure we're on quite good enough terms to call each other spouses at the moment after the level of verbal abuse which took place during the past few days) and I passed out HARD about two hours ago here in our hotel room. So hard in fact that we were unaware that Egg helped himself to the 'medicine bag' and overdosed on four sachets of 'Calpol' and now lies flat out in what can only be described as a 'kiddie coma'. You know how they have childproof caps? Well mama here thought at the airport that rip-open sachets would take up less space in the baggage and not get our clothes sticky. Of course I didn't count on the ingenuity of Egg to not only remember where they were kept, but expertly rip open the packaging, rustle up a spoon and self-administer several doses of the child medicine as we lay snoring, passed out.
As for Dumpie, we woke briefly to the vile smell of a filthy nappy awhile ago and somehow Jay in his deep, deep sleep coerced me into getting up and changing it, and it was then that I noticed the nappy cream spread all over the hotel floor, and the ton of toilet tissue scattered about the room as if a modern day art installation. More alarmingly is the ripped open mosquito coil package and missing tablet….i can't even bear to follow that thought through so am not even going to go there.
As it's India the generator sometimes goes off for hours at a time, and unfortunately it's our mini bar fridge in the room that is suffering and has expelled a huge pool of water near the bed which Dumps has already slipped on…twice. Aside from the fact that we had both boys out in the baking hot noon day sun for a little while today – returning with flushed cheeks and in danger of heatstroke, and that Dumps has figured out that he can climb up on the railing of our first floor balcony and illicit a scream on demand from his freaked-out mother as he tries to squeeze his little body through the generously placed bars….i'd say things are going swimmingly.
I feel I need to back up a bit and release some of the angst and horror from the past few weeks, but especially the last few days in particular. Moving home apparently rates up there on the stress level ABOVE death and divorce in some cases. I scoffed at this previously but now emerge shaken and horrified at the toll this move has taken on both my marriage, my peace of mind and my poor, aching body. Will I ever recover? (And please bear in mind that throughout this whole ordeal Jay and I shamelessly impinged on the personal freedom of not one, not two, but three aunties who happened to be next door and took in both children SOLIDLY – night sleeps included – such that we could get on with the task at hand. We could give them all our wordly possessions and STILL not make up for the help they gave us…modern-day saints they are – especially when you consider what a handful these two monsters are.)
Anyway, I guess the problem lay in the fact that due to the amazing central location of our (now former) two bedroom London flat, we were loathe to give it up for far too long, and what with the advent of two babies in quite quick succession (even ten years between them wouldn't be enough I have discovered), we outstayed our welcome so to speak…and then some. An unfortunate result is that we overcrowded ourselves to the point of suffocation. Given the fact that Jay and I are both musicians, I am a clothes horse, and we're both avid readers and collectors of books, we found ourselves gradually being buried alive and caged in by all of our belongings, and held hostage by our possessions. So when it came time to extricate ourselves, the 'Flat' wasn't having it and wouldn't let us go without a fight. Much to our horror we discovered that in the past five years our 'things' had hatched other things, and those other things had given birth to still other things.
Naively I had looked on a packing website which suggested that for the average two bedroom flat, 30 large boxes were sufficient. As it turns out, this is pants (or we are NOT average). In the end we used (in my estimation) upwards of 70 boxes, every bag we own, every suitcase, ever knapsack, and still we left our giant loft 3/4 full with all of our possessions we couldn't even get to! It doesn't bear thinking about.
I think I first discovered the problem about a week before we moved when I spent a day or two 'packing up' things and I had hardly made a dent. It was a bit like the 'loaves and fishes' story in the bible, you know the one where Jesus multiplies the food and the more food the disciples pass out, the more there are for the hoards. Well, the more boxes we packed, the more stuff there was to put in those boxes!
At times I'd look around a room where the carpet was no longer visable and I'd want to sink to the floor and weep (acutally I probably did a few times looking back), especially as my pinched nerve was acting up, I'd had no sleep and saw no end to the hell and misery I was immersed in. I'd catch myself giggling manically a few times (like Chevy Chase in the 80's movie 'European Vacation' when he finds himself stuck on the roundabout by Big Ben for hours, unable to signal left and out.)
Anyway, I think you get the picture. Suffice it to say that during 'The Move' (as it shall from this day forward be known) Jay and I almost killed each other. Forget threats of 'divorce'…by the end of it we were bandying around death threats and in fact I do recall some choice insults being bandied about which don't even bear thinking about. He'd curse like hell upon finding yet another case of my mini-discs and I'd follow suit upon finding yet another guitar or piece of computer equipment he'd forgotten about. All I can say is luckily the kiddies weren't around to witness their beloved parents transformations into monsters of evil!
Of course a side effect of all this racing the clock, packing up, and stressing out, is that eventually we got careless and lost the plot. By hour 36 or so, on three hours sleep, we were chucking things out in the bin that were: a) perfectly good b) expensive c) not even worn(!) d) important
We shall no doubt shudder when the full extent of our purging hits home but at the time we just didn't care and felt it was the only thing stopping us from utter insanity and being buried alive under the weight of all of our possessions.
Ironically, what started as a carefully labelled, colour-coded sticker system (dreamed up by yours truly), encompassing bubble wrap, marker pens and carefully applied packing tape, ultimately ended up in the third circle of hell which found me filling up plastic supermarket bags willy nilly with single sweeps of the arm across shelves of expensive cosmetics as I struggled to get our last remaining possessions out of the flat while the taxi waited honking downstairs and Jay and the boys jammed tight in the people carrier whilst all the other passengers on flight AC044 were just then checking in at the airport.
The last memory I have of our old place is of three shell-shocked, exhausted aunties waving forlornly from the pavement with slight horror as they took in the multitude of bags of 'stuff' loaded up to the roof and spilling out everywhere as our taxi driver sped us off to our new home to deposit us briefly before we made our way to the airport.
We were in such a rush that I forgot the 'contingency' airplane bag I had fastidiously packed a few days before which contained all my makeup, nappies, travel blanket, toys for the boys, you name it. My most personal possessions didn't make it to India sadly, but we did. After calling a local cab company, we ended up in a beat up old car being driven by a turban clad Pakastani who almost erupted in road rage after a posh neighbour demanded her right of way on the narrow street. This fellow drove us all the way to Gatwick as we raced to make it in time, but was tipped handsomely by my over-generous life partner who to this moment is still muttering about 'boxes' under his breath and seems not a little traumatised by recent events.
I could go on and on, but my neck is in severe pain (pinched nerve from all that stress and the heavy boxes) and one child still lies comatose and I should really look into that, whilst the other is systematically destroying the contents of our luggage. Too clever for his own good he has discovered that destruction of expensive things is F-U-N fun and a sure fire way to get attention. He has embarked upon destruction as of late with the overzealousness of a fatty in a sweet shop.
So I shall leave you all with a sincere apology for not having written for the past few weeks. Perhaps now it all makes sense. And sorry to the friends I have neglected (especially the two who have just had babies and not yet received a congrats card OR a pressie…they are packed in one of 79 unlabelled, non-descript boxes!)
On a positive note we absolutely ADORE the new place (from the few minutes we got to enjoy it before racing back to deal with more packing and rental tenents), and despite the crazy venders who put us through hell in the pursuit of our 'almost dream home', almost bankrupting us in the process, we are secretly ecstatic that we managed to pull it all off. Well, almost managed…I'll get back to you on that one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)