A morning with the dear little ladies

The taxi shuddered and screeched as the driver stopped and started his way through breakfast traffic and I hoped my stomach would stay where it belonged. As he miscalculated stopping distances or the aberrations of other drivers I held on, sticking it out on an errand of mercy.
The dear ladies dearest Daddy is not well but, being an Englishman of the best sort, he doesn't make a fuss but bears up wonderfully,and I was going to sit with them so that he and Yummy Mummy could go to hospital for an emergency procedure that's best left un-described.

Finally, we slide to a halt outside the blue door which swung open before I had chance to knock, and piping voices ordered me in to observe the ritual of breakfast.
Small,curly fingers delicately held triangles of toast spread with blackberry jam,pinkie fingers akimbo, and proceeded to cram the whole piece into rose-bud mouths and describe indistinctly what would be happening while Poorly Daddy was away.
Their french plaits gently swing, particularly Miss Fourandahalf, who as the eldest deludes herself into believing she is in charge of Miss Almostthree, and rushes around organising in imperious tones reminiscent of her mother.

Both of them have the agility of gazelles, pirouetting and gambolling, but Miss Almostthree being a little more earthy than her sister tends to be more disconcerting.
Seeing her other granny take off her top to apply deodorant, Miss A strolled past and commented "HaHa-Nudey Bum!" She also heckled an eminent politician with her harmonica on a recent visit.
This same Miss scaled the back of the futon, balanced herself on the back, behind me, and ruffled my hair-"I want your earrings, Nanny". The curly fingers tickled the sides of my face,jabbed at the cloisonne discs, paused, then gave them a tug "just to see if they're in properly".
After almost throttling me with enthusiasm, she relaxed, re-adjusted her position, and suddenly her plump toes and stocky little feet appeared, one on either side of my face.
The little piggies wiggled closer and closer until almost touching and her chuckling voice asked..."Cheesy?"
I agreed.
"Not mine, yours of course!"

Miss Fourandahalf, meanwhile, perused the shelf of dvds, running her finger professionally along the spines, her long plait draped over one shoulder. Poised and deceptively fragile she plays the butterfly. Shall it be this one or that?
She makes the choice, dvd is inserted and play button pressed, and she then proceeds to give me a run down of the whole plot, it's subvert and overt themes, who says what,when and how. She is a small version of her academic parents hypothesising in an assignment
Never was "Wallace and Gromit- The Curse of the Were Rabbit" so cogently explained.

I am a willing slave and take my orders obediently. I serve their snacks with all the deference of the Head Waiter at The Ivy and these patrons are demanding and onerous.
Poorly Daddy and Yummy Mummy ring as good parents should to see if the girlies are keeping me in check-all has gone to plan and they are on the way home.
"Better tidy up" says Miss F scurrying round to collect all the bits of paper we have cut and torn, while Miss A says
"No way"
and continues on her rampage, using me as an assault course.

Do I care?
Do I Hell?!
They can use me as they choose.
They are gorgeous, invigorating, endlessly questing, humorous, bewitching- a pair of elves who dwell in the world of humans and run circles around us.

The Vendetta

This week's bet noir is coat hangers and their ceaseless vendetta against me.
The constant tangling and snagging, their mocking tinny jangle as they giggle together
and plot the next round.
They choose the moment when I'm near to breaking point with exasperation and jam the hanging
bar against their clones or cling onto the clothes, especially those silly bootlace ribbon loops sewn
into the shoulder creases. They judder and poke.
I hang them seperately, with the hooks all facing in the same direction, I return to find them embracing
each other as if copulating, engaged in a writhing metal ecstasy.
As I swear, mildly, they suck themselves closer poking the skirt hanging hooks into the fabric of an
adjoining item of clothing which pulls the fibres however carefully I try to release them.
Perhaps a hanging system is the answer - all the hangers uniform and covered in a velour fabric that purports to cling to the sheerest fabric gently but firmly and stop them ending up on the dog shelf.
However, I cannot justify to myself the cost for hangers and tie/scarf holders of various kinds, so will continue the skirmishing unless I take revenge and dump them all in shameful darkness, bend their skinny metal shoulders into grotesque shapes or force them apart and use them to dowse for water or the ultimate disgrace, to unblock the loo.
I will master them!

Blog-the return

The previous post is my first for absolutely ages as I've gone in other directions but now life is changing radically.
I'm retiring and about to move to Norfolk and in the midst of attempting to begin packing the creative urge has returned, both in the visual and written form- typical!
Looking at the boxes, some flat packed, some half full, I am too daunted to know what to do next and I've run out of space.
Now have to call for help from number one son to make space before I can continue.
What to keep, what should go-can I mix books, dvds, duvets, ornaments, in one box?
Idiot! You can do whatever you want.
It will just be chaotic when you unpack....
But surprising!

Teatime-July

Watching globules of rain bending the leaves on swelling green tomatoes, now lashing hard as stair rods, cascading and breaking, mini tempest smashing insect wings.

The slugs gurgle and giggle, their desiccation banished, sliding over blunted egg shells to eat the fruit.
Delicate herbs shiver as waves of wild spray bounce off the windows.
I'm watching the tallest tree in the vicinity as it rocks and bows,
Its boughs bucking.
I dread hearing the crack of doom that will come if the tree trunk splits- it will lay waste, rape the neighbourhood.

Out of this deluge The Rhubarb straightens and stretches as I watch, its leaves vast and dangerous but shielding the tender crown, red stalks full and bitter.

Raining so hard it makes the air thrum and the house hum
as it bounces.
In the half light, daytime night, a brief tattoo and...now the sun shines.
Smell of brimstone and vanilla comes from nowhere.
My technology stutters and fails to respond.