3 years old today

It's hard to believe that three years ago today I pushed two humans out of my nether regions.  If you'd told me that I'd be participating in this kind of activity five years ago, I would have been like "No way is that kind of shit going to happen, that is all kinds of wrong".  And wrong it was.  To all those people out there that want to express to me what a magical birthing experience they had.  I say to you;  "Piss off you psycho, and never tell me that bullshit again".  There is nothing natural about childbirth.  I don't care if you pushed out your child in a rolling pasture surrounded by a pack of baby deer, and the baby actually popped out on a pile of healthy greens like kale and beetroot leaves.  So what?  - natural it aint.

My own little lambs, bless their evil black newborn hearts, actually started head butting each other trying to beat the other one out for first place. That was uncool.  Can you believe that though?  Actually fighting before they even entered the world.  I felt their very first in utero brawl as well.  They were about 6 months old in fetus years.  Valli tried to infiltrate Cordi's side, and as a result of this hustling, copped a series of swift kicks to the head. It could have been worse.  My brother's twin friends had a much larger incident.  The first one out kicked the follower so hard that he punctured his lung.  How's that for brotherly love?

Birthday beach picnic

Anyway, I was so glad to get mine out that I failed to anticipate the shit storm of hell that was to follow.  I tried to sip a celebratory glass of expensive champagne a couple of hours post birth, and failed.  I felt ill.  How on earth was I ever going to get that image of the blood bath I witnessed out of my head?  A word to expecting new mothers - never  glance back at the delivery room as you are being wheel-chaired out.  But at least I didn't go through my biggest fear, which came courtesy of Mrs Bedding and her biology movie from year nine.  That is, at least my fanny didn't split with the accompanying sound of a whip cracking. I'm not sure what traumatised me more - a close up of a vagina tearing around a protruding baby's head, or the forest of pubes that the woman had going on.  I just never knew they got so thick......or expansive. How can pubes reach the knees?  I'm serious, I want to know....

I think they're surprised

Ah, sweet memories

I guess most mother's reminisce about the sweet baby times on the anniversary of their children's birth.  Not me.  I get down on my knees and thank whoever is listening that I no longer have to clean up bodily excretions, and that I don't leak milk all over my favourite shirts.  But most of all, I am thankful that I can put my head down on the pillow at night with the knowledge that I will be awoken by the soft rustling breeze on my cheek mid morning.  Not wailing.  When you've been sleep deprived for a really long time, there is nothing in this world that is better or more satisfying than snoozing all the night through.  Nothing.  A friend told me recently that she hadn't had an uninterrupted sleep for ten years.  That made me feel sick.  Though, for not sleeping in ten years she looked really hot.

The reason that I'm thinking so much about babies and birth (besides the fact that it is the girl's birthday), is because 3 little babies were born on Valli and Cordi's birthday.  They are the second cousins of my daughters.  No, they weren't all born to the same mother (imagine that!).  A sweet little set of twins (one boy and one girl) was born to one of my partner's nieces, and a little boy was born to another one of my partner's nieces, 45 minutes after the twins.  Congratulations Sunny and Nooshi!  How lovely that they will all grow up together sharing a birthday.  Though it's the thought of the shared 18th and 21st birthday party that concerns.......

Jump Birthday Girl

This birthday was about as low key as you can get.  As much as I condone, and have enabled (twice), a dozen mini humans to get completely off their heads on sugar and run rampant at my father's treasured beach house, it was nice to play it casual.  I didn't have to do any of the detailed planning that goes into executing a fight free pass-the-parcel; I didn't give my guest's children third degree burns to the mouth after passing out an over heated batch of party pies;  I also didn't accidentally give out choking hazard prizes to the younger members of the group; I didn't have to wrestle any eager participants who started their own treasure hunt earlier, and ransacked all the caramello koalas; and I didn't have to pay a small fortune for helium balloons that got released into the lower stratosphere as I was loading them into the back of the car.  In other words, it was not so much fun, but definitely more relaxing.

What's another pile of sugar between friends....

I still stepped up to the mark on the cake though.  However, I don't think the eaters got nearly the same amount of pleasure out of eating it, than I had making it.  Can you believe I actually popped out one of the lenses of my sunglasses to create the perfect mold for my cakey cat's pirate eye patch.  What can I say, I wanted it to be purr-fect........Happy Birthday my little three year old darlings - I love you so much xx

It's Kwazi from the Octonaughts OK...

 

Start Spreading The News

Smoking SUV on right

Just the other day I noticed a small article in the paper reporting on how the four men accused of assisting in the failed bombing attempt in Times Square on May 1st 2010 were recently acquitted by a court in Pakistan.  The only man convicted in this balls up, 33 year old Faisal Shahzad, was hauled off a plane bound for Pakistan only hours after the bombing attempt.  I guess if he'd made it, he would have got off too.  Unfortunately for him, he's doomed to spend the rest of his life hanging upside down in an orange jumpsuit having water poured up his nose.

Old Faishal Shahzad needs to work on his bomb making technique

The reason this minute article caught my attention is because I was living half a block away from Times Square at the time.  Everyday I would load my nine month old babies into their stroller and take a city walk, starting off by pushing my way through the crowds in Times Square.  More than once, I would look around at the ridiculous crowds of tourists, the flashing lights - advertising every variety of American excess, the broke teenagers hawking tickets to shows, the cops eating donuts and think to myself that there couldn't be a more appropriate place (if mass maiming is your intention) to set off a a bomb.

And thus it was so.  The only reason I wasn't out strolling at the time the SUV started smoking, is because I was vomiting up the remains of the sushi I'd bought for the babysitter who was 90 minutes late the night before.  I thought we'd missed our dinner reservation, so that California roll was starting to look appetising.  Unfortunately I failed to realise it was actually from California, delivered slow post.  I started puking during dinner in the only toilet they had (for men and women) in the restaurant.  That was embarrassing. I will never be able to drink a cucumber martini again (and why would anyone - what a dud choice).  That shit is the worst in it's regurgitated form too.  I will probably never be able to eat at that restaurant again either, which is disappointing as it was my total favourite in the whole of New York.

So anyway at the time the whole debacle started, I was oblivious and heaving into my own toilet bowl.  The entire block was shut down until the bomb squad moved in, broke the window with a robotic arm and dismantled the device.  I was all freaked out later, thinking that it could have brought the block down if it detonated, but I don't think it was  actually very powerful.  Besides, old Mr Fuck Shit Up or whatever his name was, failed to get it cranking anyway.   You just wouldn't have wanted to be walking past if it had blown.  The cops didn't notice either (I told you they were too busy with the whole donuts and all - it's not a myth I saw them stuffing their faces with fried sugary goodness with my own eyes), the alert was given by a t-shirt vendor.

I've had a few narrow scrapes in New York.  That very same trip upon arriving at the airport at 1am, we'd had to take two taxis into the city.  I was in one cab with a friend and my daughters, and Chalky in the other with all the luggage.  Both taxi drivers looked a little dodgy.  But one of them had one eye.  Naturally I was like - Yep, I'm going with the guy who has two eyes, thinking it was a valuable attribute when driving for a living.  Well, I placed all my money on the wrong horse.  While powering down the freeway with an unrestrained child on each of our knees, suddenly the taxi started swerving all over the road.  As I saw pieces of the back right tyre fly past the window I realised what the issue was.  Unfortunately on the freeway into the city there is no pull over lane and we were forced to keep swerving all over the show.  Thank goodness it was 1am and there weren't many cars on the road.  As the sparks started flying, an exit lane presented itself.  And there we were, in a car with three wheels in a dark street somewhere in Queens with a psychotic taxi driver trying to get money from us, and refusing to call another cab.

Luckily for us Chalks showed up.  Apparently he'd told his taxi to "Follow that car" (I've always wanted to say that - in New York too!), and he'd seen the fireworks emanating from the back hub cap, the swerving, and finally, the pull off into the dodgiest part of Queens.  I'd honestly thought he was ahead of us, so the relief was intoxicating.  A cab was called, ten bucks exchanged hands, and we were back on the road fifteen minutes later - with a non weirdo this time.  My advice here.  When in doubt choose a guy with one eye over a person who has a plait in their beard and hasn't washed their hair since '89.

Then, there was the first time I went to New York on my own, and decided to go and see a movie.  I love going to the movies by myself.  As I exited the revolving doors I found that I couldn't get out due to the crowds.  Then people started pushing me from behind.  At last I exited, just as a cop on a horse did a Lone Ranger move (horse neighing up on two back legs) right in front of my face.  There were also a whole row of police dressed in riot gear holding barricades, and swarms of people all over the road blocking all the cars. I started trying to push down the street against a surging crowd of people.  Suddenly, looking around I realised I was the only white face in sea of very angry, yelling black people.  Mainly men.  It was confronting, what can I say.  I kept pushing against the crowd as more and more people swarmed out of a nearby subway station exit.  Finally, after about twenty minutes I made it to an intersection where the crowds were less.  I overheard a policeman yelling at two bewildered tourists "You can't be here, get out of here, go back to your hotel".  I also took his advice.  The taxi ride back to my hotel was long.  I later found out that police had shot a black man on his wedding day, thinking he was brandishing a gun, when all he was doing was waving out the window.  It didn't go down well among New York City's African American residents.

There's no doubt.  There's always something going on in this fascinating city of contrasts.  When you are there, you can't help but feel that you really are in the capital city of the world.  Cliches abound, such as "electric atmosphere" and "buzzing with energy".  There's always so much to do there, and adventures and interesting interactions present themselves on every block.  If you have never been, do yourself a favour and put it on your 'to do' list.  Just choose your taxi drivers wisely, avoid riots and if you see any Nissan pathfinders with smoke pissing out of their tinted windows, call a t-shirt vendor.

Viewing the local wildlife

Every time we come back here there's always something a little different.  In one year the entire garden went from being a barren rocky dessert to the lush green tropics, with fruit growing all over the joint.  There was even a giant bunch of bananas grown right in our garden, ripening out the back when we arrived this year, that someone had kindly put there. Cheers.

That's some serious smoothie ingredients

There are only so many ways you can do bananas though.  And for anyone wondering - yes you do get sick of them.  Very sick of them.  And sick of banana muffins, cake and bread. They are all basically the same thing anyway. This year we arrived to find we had two new pets in the backyard.  Two tortoises.  The owners wife had nabbed them from the bush for her twin grandchildren.  The fact that the owners have twin grand kids is extremely convenient for us.  There were two cots when we needed them, and now two single beds side by side.  There are two blue high chairs and two plastic potties.  There are two pushing trolley things and a ride on mouse and a tricycle.  There are also tons of kids plates, cutlery and glasses, cute straws and icy pole makers, a basket of musical instruments, barbies and outfits, games, books, DVDS, floating vests and so on. Again, Cheers.

Valli looks like she has stump arm in this one

Three cheers for two high chairs

But back to the tortoises.  I'm not sure if the girls have taken to them that much.  They're not the most cuddliest pets you could meet.  They also poo everywhere, and apparently bite.  We have limited our interactions to feeding Hasty and Speedy bits of mango, and taking photos of them eating it. See.

Speedy seems shitty

Hasty is a guts

Other animals we have around the homestead include geckos - or are they lizards; your usual tropical critters - iguanas; hummingbirds - that often get trapped at the windows and we have to rescue them with the pool net; butterflies in the garden by day; and fireflies by night. There are cute baby goats that air-lick all the time and wander around waiting to get cooked into a popular Caribbean delicacy - "curried goat" (you have to say it with a Caribbean accent, and perhaps add "I be eating the" first).

Destined for the curry pot

You can swim in the sea with giant turtles at a nearby island, or view them at the sanctuary.  Luckily for them, turtle is not a national food here the way it is in the Cayman islands, where they even have turtle burgers.  That shit does not look appetising.  The flesh is literally green.  Not here though.  Those little suckers are treated with care, and the turtle sanctuary really does release them to the sea rather than flog them off to McTurtles down the road.

Don't eat me

Mini burgers

It's not such a sanctuary for whales though. Bequia is one of the few places in the world where limited whaling is still allowed by the International Whaling Commission. Natives of Bequia are allowed to catch up to four humpback whales per year using only traditional hunting methods of hand-thrown harpoons in small, open sailboats. The limit is rarely met, with no catch some years.  Obviously piffing some homemade spear off a canoe doesn't do the trick like a Japanese steel custom-made whale maimer, heaved off a boat designed especially for sea-mammal death.  The Japanese should come and do a workshop here or something.

The arch is two whale jawbones

Obviously (and unfortunately) sometimes they succeed

There is also a particularly strange land mammal called a Marmaduke or a Manikin or something.  We first spotted one while out running last year.  Completely freaked me out.  It looked like a possum but with bulgy eyes, large pointy ears, and really sharp teeth.  It made a sort of guttural hissing sound and even though it was the size of a cat, it really held it's ground, and seemed up for an attack.  We called it a "hell creature", and the name stuck.  We saw another one wrestling a giant crab after that.  The fight was really on.  It had its whole mouth around the crab's shell, and the crab had a firm grip on the hell creature's nose with it's claw.  I was commentating David Attenborough style, until Chalks told me to put a sock in it.  I'd post a picture, but I cannot find any information on this mini beast anywhere.  Against begging and pleading from Chalky, I once tried to rescue a tiny mewing baby one, which was trapped on a pile of rocks.  It completely savaged me and I had to abandon ship.  I couldn't believe I'd got attacked by a fetus.

At least there's nothing poisonous here.  Even the snakes are pussies.  Can't say the same for the plants though.  After to go for a multi drop bush poo on one occasion, I was forced to wipe several times with the nearest leaves.  Heading back down the road I became aware of an excruciating burning sensation in the entire herdie gurdie zone.  Luckily Chalky had driven the car back to get me.  But by the time he arrived I was really screaming.  I grabbed a bottle of water out of the car and was pouring the entire thing down my pants and trying to wash off the leaf residue.  I'm sure it must have been quite the sight for the two construction workers strolling past.  They pretended not to look, but how can you ignore a half psychotic woman pouring litres of water up her arsehole on the side of the road, and screeching "it fucking buuuuuuurrrrnnnnsss".  That painful sensation continued for the next 12 hours.  My advice = Don't wipe with brazilwood leaves.  Apart from not even removing the original substance, the napalm-like finish is difficult to overlook.

Mummy it hurts.....

So if you come here, follow my advice: don't eat the turtles, avoid psychotic baby hell creatures, and always carry a wad of bog roll in your undies.  Just in case.

Off-Season Specialists

Valli watering our pet crocodile

From time to time someone will inevitably ask me "For god's sake, how the hell does a peasant like you get to stay in these amazing places".  I have one hyphenated word for them....or is it two words?..... Off-season.  This is the magic word (or words).  You basically have to be prepared to go to places when nobody else wants to be there.  That's how we are currently able to stay well beyond our means  in a holiday house belonging to a wealthy Englishman.  Nobody wants to be in the Caribbean in the summer.  It's bloody boiling.  All the house owners are drinking champagne and shagging young french girls on the beaches of St Tropez, or drinking jugs of Pims and having quickies with their tennis partner's daughter in The Hamptons.  They have no interest in their winter toys.  But, and here's the opportunity, they don't like their places to stand empty for all those months.  Empty places get musty and robbed.  That's where we kindly step in and do them the favour of caretaking.....naturally at a cost.  But at a cost far, far less than they charge in peak season.  What can I say?  I'll put up with the sweating if I get to do it from some loaded dude's infinity pool.

Pretty as a postcard

Every morning I wake up, I just can't get over our good fortune.  But it's not just the house.  It's the place.  We discovered it by accident when our babysitter in New York once told us she was from the neighbouring island.  This island, Bequia, is what the Caribbean used to be like 50 years ago before American big business slapped resorts all over the place and McDonald's set up shop.  Not here.  Bequia doesn't have a single hotel. And the closest thing they have to fast food is fried breadfruit.

Everything looks good from the air

Princess Margaret Beach (apparently she took a dip here)

The beaches are completely undeveloped.  You buy your fruit and vegetables from stands by the side of the road, and your dry goods in 1 pound plastic bags from one of the only three shops in town.  They only got electricity here in 1970, and paved roads a few years after that.

Main street of town

Reggae blasts out from every car.  While at the Rastafarian fruit market, sweet mary jane is the main produce exchanging hands.

Is that a beard dread?

On Sunday mornings the sound of gospel singing echos up from the valleys, and all the passerbys put on their Sunday best (complete with hats) as they walk to church.  In this respect, it's a total trip to the past.  Not to mention the manners.  When I go for my morning walk, I'm  waving to all cars and "Good Morning"ing my fellow strollers left right and centre.  Conservatism too is at it's best here.  Forget suntanning your boobs at the beach, even babies running nude are frowned upon.  I also think the housekeeper is shocked Mark and I aren't married....yet.  Whatever Cathy....forget your sense of propriety, where was your gratitude for that fricken glass dolphin I lugged all the way here from Bangkok for you?  Last year she finally asked me with despair exactly what religion I was.  When I explained our situation - Jewish father, unbaptised mother with no particular religious affiliation and two unbaptised babies she didn't come back for a few days.  I'm surprised she hasn't tried to bring us into the fold.  I'm a little disappointed.  I can see myself singing "hallelujah" and "praise the lord" in a purple robe.  It'd be a bit hot though.  And I'm tone deaf.

Hallelujah ladies

The island itself is only 18 km square.  The locals are from a mix of African, Scottish and Indigenous Carib descent.  In the old days, pirates were known to use Bequia as their base.  I always dream of unearthing some long buried pirate treasure, but keep forgetting to bring one of those metal detectors.  Although whenever you spot one of those cheap bastards going through the sand you always think "What a scumbag".  I'm not sure I'm ready to become that guy just yet.

John and his conch shell

Momissa and little Israel

Here, we have no friends, no family, no responsibilities, no restaurants, no cafes, no trashy mags(!), no cinemas, no shops, not much variety in the food available.  But it's just the way we like it.  We give up alcohol and our usual 3 coffees a day.  I stop eating two blocks of chocolate in bed, and drink litres more water than usual.  We eat much more fruit and vegetables, and buy it all from a happy black woman called Darky (I felt uncomfortable addressing her at first), a Rasta called Sunshine, and from a shy dude called Cali and his sister Matilda.  Yesterday I mistook Matilda as Cali's mother.  It possibly caused offence.  Perhaps now she'll stop cooking us breadfruit like she did last year.  That shit is not good.

Breadfruit - eugh!

Spicy N  Herby ..... Breadfruit

This place is like a treasured reprieve from what is sometimes a hectic schedule and a busy life.  We look forward to it, as the perfect time to get healthy, play with our children and relax.     At least this year we're not training for a marathon.  That was probably the least relaxing activity we have ever indulged in......Instead we'll just go down to old Pam and Tony's for some good old Caribbean eats....in other words, breadfruit.  Ah gawd, where's Starfucks when you need it?

Home Sweet Bequia

As I've mentioned before, only an early flight can get me up at 5am.  And thus it was so.  The final double leg of a multi-day. multi-legged trip to where we are presently calling home.  St Vincent and The Grenadines.  And in particular, one of the Grenadine islands - Bequia (pronounced Beckway).  Where the hell is this? I hear most people (including myself) ask.  Well wonder no further, all will be revealed. But back to leaving the UK.  As I mentioned, we enjoyed our transit through Oxford - full of brain boxes, and cups of tea.  But it was time to board good old Vagine Atlantic straight to Barbados. I realise what I say next, may disturb and disgust, and forever seal my reputation as a giant snob.  But I'm going there, public image be dammed.

where were you when I needed you baby?

When you are fortunate enough to have enough frequent flyer points to move up a level in ye olde airplane cabin, sliding back down, as you inevitably must do, is always depressing.  That's the thing about travelling on occasion in business class, the experience forever ruins normal class.  We would never pay actual cash for it - we're not insane, it's a complete rip off - but to reap it's benefits for free is another story.  Sitting in economy class and anticipating the next 8 hours, I felt squashed and disillusioned.  There was no champagne while waiting for take off.  The flight attendants were dismissive when I asked for a foot massage ( - ok so I didn't, but Upper class Virgin used to offer manicures and massages - that's now been scrapped with the new cutbacks - it was good while it lasted).

The TV screens in the back of the seats looked so minute, the headphones so flimsy, the sound distorted.  The meals slapped down in plastic topped containers were so untasty - the vegetables so soggy and the packaged potato whip so packaged.  Where was the tablecloth? the selection of wine served in actual glasses? The boxes of chocolates? But by far the most disturbing was how dirty the seats were.  While searching for a figurine down the back of Cordi's seat, my hand got squishy yellow stuff on it.  But even worse was, when I was feeling under the seat behind me for some texta lids, and my hand closed over a giant ball of black hair.  It filled my hand and then I couldn't get it off.  I feel traumatised thinking about it.  What is it about other people's hair that is so revolting?  It's like a band aid floating in a swimming pool - inexplicably disgusting.

I'm not kidding - it was this big

Spin, for god's sake spin

When we arrived in Barbados the temperature was pumping.  We stepped off the flight into bright sunshine.  We were all blinded like little bats in the daylight.  Cord was screeching "my eyes, my eyes".  I instantly started sweating in my jeans and cardigan (England had been freezing....what are the odds?). We spent a few more hours in limbo awaiting our final and tiny plane to take off.  This is my most dreaded leg.  It's always the tiny planes that go down.  Nobody cares either.  If the death toll isn't over 150 it's lucky to make the evening news.  Eight measly bodies just aren't newsworthy.  I'm not sure about you, but I just never really feel comfortable in a propeller driven aircraft.  I need to see a few large engines to feel secure.  Flocks of birds bring down those bloody propellers - eg Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.  The pilots had one of those silver windshield covers you see in cars.  I was disturbed to see it remained on the entire flight - what if those navigation instruments malfunctioned? At least they weren't reading an instruction manual like our pilots in Costa Rica, who once flew us in an even tinier plane, deep into an peninsula unaccessible by road, i.e rescue vehicles.  There was a graveyard right at the end of the runway.  It was chilling.

Valli almost finished

Cordi's gone

Well, just for the record, our Caribbean pilots need to work on their landing technique.  As they came down fast on a tiny airstrip on the edge of the sea, we were bouncing around like a ping pong ball.  Everyone on board sucked in a large breath as we hit the tarmac on one wheel, tried to correct and almost catapulted off the edge into the water.  As the brakes came on, all eight of us started laughing nervously, which then led to a relieved interchange of smiles, when we all realised we'd live to see another (tequila) sunrise.  We cleared the tin shed of customs, and waited for our pick up the other side. One short, and again bumpy, drive home in the back of an open taxi truck and there we were.  And here we are.  For the next ten weeks.  On a tiny island in the East Caribbean Sea, off the north coast of Venezuela.

Instrument of death

Yes, it may have been a complete pain in the deep recesses of the arsehole to get here.  But when you wake up to a view like this, it's completely worth it.