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Thursday 10 January 2013

BARYSHNIKOV WANTS A CRACKER


I took the King to a ballet class today. Yes, that entire sentence is chock full of contradiction. Let’s just say the kid is no Baryshnikov. Firstly, as you can plainly see, I’m not into gender confining activities. One man’s ballet is another man’s football. However, on the surface I will be honest that when I think of the King, ballet is not the first thing that comes to mind (although I’m currently envisioning his father in tights and it is simply the most amusing thing ever). But I’ve been desperate for some new activities to burn off some of the King’s mind boggling energy and the class was billed as a dance/movement kind of thing. So, in my mind, I envisioned a few pliés, a fun flying jeté and perhaps some mad running around the room where the children pretended that they were part of Swan Lake on acid.

Well let’s just say the teacher and the King had something far different in mind. We showed up to the class and I could tell from the word go that the King was in one of his, ‘I’m not in a cooperative state of mind’ type moods. In fact, this has been a running theme all week. With every passing day, I’m starting to realize that the terrible two’s that we thought had passed us by were just taking a detour. So we walk into the room and the peace and quiet of the space suddenly alarmed me. Peace, Quiet. The King does not do those words very well, let alone do it in a pink tutu. The second problem, the room contained three little girls. Not that that’s a problem in itself, but they were sweet, docile, wearing full ballet get ups (as was the teacher), whereas the King was dressed in a normal dude get up, jeans, t –shirt and was anything but docile.

Trying to stay positive, we watched the previous class do their thing and I tried to sound as encouraging as possible – while in the pit of my stomach I had a feeling this was not going to go down like an episode of Fame. The King seemed interested for a bit, he looked at me eagerly and said, ‘Mamma dancing dancing,’ as bits of cracker fell out of his mouth (I was getting dirty looks from the other mothers as I don’t think crackers and ballet go hand in hand).  So I took this as a good sign. Meanwhile, he was also lifting up his shirt and exposing his belly to all while singing the lyrics to Twinkle Twinkle at the top of his lungs (in all fairness, he was simply copying the class) to the ire of the other mothers who were trying to record their little ‘princesses in pink’ on their iphones.

So the moment arrived for the King to start his class and for the first few minutes I felt pretty positive. He followed direction, he did a little split (sort of), he even pliéd in a kind of strange crunched down style that I’m sure would not impress the Bolshoi Ballet. But hey, the kid was trying and he seemed to kind of like it. Then, I’m not sure what happened, as he suddenly dropped to the floor and rolled around making funny noises (to the confusion of the teacher) and then got up, headed for me and demanded his shoes be put back on. I smiled at the teacher who was coaxing him back and tried to encourage him that they were getting to the good part – ‘look sweetie, now you get to pretend you’re a bunny. Hop hop!’ Thinking the King would dig this.

Yeah. Not so much. The next few minutes were spent with him horizontal demanding a cracker at the top of his lungs, followed by him stating that Mama should go home with him, make dinner and put on Fireman Sam (!!!) (his favorite program du jour). Again, I looked around at the other mothers and tried to pretend like I had no idea what he was talking about [cause you know, I’m a good parent that doesn’t let her cracker shoveling son watch television (ahem)] and of course I had this all under control.

Let’s just say by the time they were doing their ‘princess tour of the fairy garden’ the King had lost his composure altogether and we hurried our ballet butts out of there. Of course on the way home he looked at me with a huge smile and said, ‘dancing mamma, dancing!’ Yeah, don’t quit your day job your royal highness, that’s all I can say.



Wednesday 9 January 2013

FOR PINT, TURN LEFT




Recently there was a consumer electronics show, or to those in the know, CES, held in Las Vegas, Nevada highlighting all the latest advancements in, well consumer electronics. You know that all-important, prodigious list of things that apparently we can no longer live without: televisions, computers, handheld devices, smartphones and so on. Apparently, joining this ever growing list, we should all ready ourselves for the next wave of electronics vying to take over our lives, which is wearable technology. Yes, we are one step closer to becoming a Stanley Kubrick film. God help us.

First up to bat, Google lit up the Internet of late (an easy feat when you are the juggernaut Google I’m presuming) with their soon to be released ‘Project Glass headset.’ This headset is pretty much designed to not only make the Facebook generation look like freaks as they walk around with headsets on like a bunch of tech addicted coal-miners, but it also ensures that our narcissism will hit the roof in no time at all (then again, I think we crashed through that ceiling long ago) as we will be able to document our lives from every solitary angle.

Anyway, I shall put my jaded sensibilities aside and tell you how this fancy little gadget is (apparently) going to improve your life. In short, you put on this tiny little headset on and a tiny widescreen color monitor hovers over your field of vision (can't you just see our sidewalks/pavements now – oh the amount of idiots running into one another will be sheer amusement!) and it enables you to stream and record video. You know, to capture EVERY single moment of your waking (and I’m sure soon to be dreaming) life to bore your friends and colleagues with. The company assures us however that the technology does not stop there. Soon enough you will be able to say to your trusty little headset, ‘I need a pint of ale (vodka, tequila etc), where can I find one?’ And presto, the app kicks in, the camera does whatever it does and an arrow appears showing you which way to walk. (I’m anticipating the usual malfunctions in line with those rife in sat-nav devices that will have people walking into walls). Or, if you find yourself in France and can’t read the menu, apparently this little headset will translate the menu for you. Can’t you just imagine the sheer enjoyment of the French as they watch tourists wearing their fashionable little headsets slaughtering their beloved language?

Other gadgets from CES soon to hit our markets are visors for athletes which will have in built displays that show (for example) a runner’s speed, heart rate, lap time, distance traveled etc.; as well as ‘smart watches’ that will essentially provide alerts, messages and reminders that one can wear on their wrist. Why one needs a watch on their wrist and a phone in their pocket/hand that does the exact same thing, is beyond me, but for the tech junkies out there, I’m sure the more devices they can hold or stick on their bodies the better.

The other bit of technology that I will admit does hold a bit of my interest is a lost and found device the size of a coin that one can stick on their pet, kid, husband. This device contains a Bluetooth chip, temperature sensor and battery and in conjunction with your smartphone app, one can then look at a radar image covering a 200ft radius to find the lost item/person/toddler/animal. As the King often likes to take off running in public places and hide under things, not to mention the husband is ALWAYS losing things this one may come in handy. In fact, I could just stick stickers all over his things so he can play ‘Minority Report lost and found’ and locate anything he wants without having to ask me. Now there is an advancement I can get behind!




Monday 7 January 2013

CUP OF FUEL


I am addicted to coffee (but no, one of my resolutions was NOT to give it up). I don’t have many addictions left at this point in my life (perhaps bad TV, dark chocolate and cleaning), but I can honestly say that my love affair and dependence on coffee has become a very palpable thing (and once a strict decaf girl has totally gone out the window). I’m not ready or willing for some 12 step java weaning program (so don’t plan any interventions), and not only does this addiction make me very happy, but it essentially fuels my lifestyle; let’s be honest, with the King in my life, herbal tea is just not going to cut it.

Like most things, it is when I leave my routine (or step outside London) that I realize how full on my addiction really is. Suddenly my head is awash with, oh my GOD, where am I going to get my coffee? And when I say coffee, I should be specific here. I’m talking latte, cappuccino, macchiato etc. I am not a drip girl; and it's not just any coffee but MY kind of coffee, my exact cup of coffee of choice. Because as any addict will tell you, coffee is an art form, you do not just stumble into any old coffee place and expect your fix to be satiated. [Trust me, some people’s interpretation of coffee is downright frightening - muddy, bitter water is NOT coffee, at least not to me].

Like any good addict, in my neighborhood I have my places. And I will go out of my way to go to those places based on the cup of java that they serve. Conversely, there are also places that while cute and full of atmosphere, if the coffee sucks, I’m not going back. I’ve had to say goodbye to some very adorable establishments over the years.

Ask any coffee drinker (and one doesn’t have to a genius to realize there is a serious coffee cult out there) and they will happily tell you where they think is the best place to get the ultimate cup of coffee. In Los Angeles, Intelligentsia is apparently THE place. I drove an hour out of my way to get a cup of coffee from there and fine, it was very good, but the pretentiousness kind of killed it for me (there was ten minute line to get served and we had to wait outside the door. Outside like caffeine addicted dogs. Yeah, bite me). In London, I’m partial to a small place near my house on the main drag called Madam Chi. I don’t know what ‘Madam’ does to her lattes, but they are some of the best I have had anywhere.

Of late, it has gotten to the point where I have started dreaming about coffee. I know it’s totally demented. It’s not like I’m sitting in a room conversing with deep roasted beans or anything (although think of how good that room would smell!), but in my dream, I’m waking up to the greatest cup of coffee out there, and for some reason this makes me smile. I suppose it’s also the ritual involved; the walk to your favorite haunt, getting your first cup to start the day, negotiating with the King over how many croissants he can have.

The problem is, when this ritual is disturbed in any way, or you get some new barista in training behind the counter it can seriously alter the day in a profound way. There is simply nothing worse than starting the day with the wrong cup of coffee. Nowadays, I just pretend it didn’t happen and start from scratch (I always get extra cleaning done on those days as I’m extra full of pep). At this point when the King sees a mug – and it can be filled with just about anything - he looks at it, smiles and says, ‘Mamma’s coffee.’ 

Ahhh Bless. 


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