Modern Mrs Bennet Diaries

Pretending to be a lady

2011-05-07T13:38:00.001-07:00

Saturday, May 7th 2011
Mrs. Bennet decided it was about time she started writing down all the funny things her twin daughters Spag and Bol muttered on a daily basis before the brain cells she had left finally disappeared with the odd socks, hair bands and Polly Pocket shoes.
Having realised her last diary entry was January 1st and it contained a pledge not to lose any of the little Miss Bennets, she thought it was only fair to state that she had NOT abandoned any in a supermarket, car, street or otherwise. She had lost many other things, but generally they were not of the living variety. Instead they were of the variety that always proved to annoy and frustrate her, so much so she often commented to her hormone-suffering husband: "Why do I spend most of my day looking for things when I had them only five minutes ago?"
Two hair brushes had disappeared in a spate of three days. Mrs. Bennet used her fingers to comb her own purple, blond and red streaked hair, but they didn't have the same result on five long-haired daughters. Mrs. Bennet didn't do long hair and still hadn't mastered the perfect ponytail. Somehow it always ended up one side and partings were never straight down the middle. They seemed to have several extra pathways veering to the left or right.
It wasn't surprising then that her legs were also allergic to skirts or dresses. They much preferred jeans. But last week Mrs. Bennet decided to break from tradition and allow part of her short pins to show - so long as their twin-induced varicose veins weren't on display for all to see. Her attire didn't go unnoticed.
In fact some members of the household were very quick to respond. Notably Miss Bennet number four, affectionately nicknamed Spag.
"Mummy," she declared in deliberate fashion, "Why are you pretending to be a lady?"
Mrs. Bennet couldn't help but laugh. This little twin was always dressing up in long flowing robes, twirling around in front of the mirror and declaring that she was a Princess. She clearly didn't see Mrs. Bennet in this category. Although Spag had been suitably impressed when watching her mother's wedding DVD to see her in the ultimate Cinderella dress complete with 5ft train - and white Dr Marten boots. SHe wore that 14 years ago. Mrs. Bennet was sure she had worn a skirt since then, or may be she hadn't. It was obvious by Spag's remarks that not many dresses or non-trouser outfits had been part of her attire in Miss Bennet Number Four's four year lifetime. Mrs. Bennet didn't have to come up with a reply. Her older daughters did it for her.
"That's because she is a lady! She's not pretending."
Secretly Mrs. Bennet thought Spag was right. She did feel as if she was pretending. But she liked it. So much so she went out and bought another skirt the following day.

A pledge not to leave a daughter behind

2011-01-01T15:14:00.001-08:00

Saturday, January 1st 2011

“I, Mrs. Bennet do solemnly declare that I will in 2011 count all my children in, and count them all out. That way I will ensure I don’t leave any one of the five Miss Bennets behind, whatever the word behind might refer to at that given time. I will also make a better effort not to lose my car keys and instead put them back on their hook so that last minute panics don’t occur. Oh and I promise to put at least one photo in an album this coming year.” Signed Mrs. Bennet.
So it had come to this: writing promises and pledges to her children. Whether it was for her benefit or for theirs she wasn’t quite sure. But one thing she did know was that it did have a little something to do with guilt. It was ever since Mr. Bennet came home one Tuesday night and discovered that one of the little Miss Twin Bennets was missing. Mrs. Bennet had been in the kitchen, trying desperately to produce something vaguely edible that her daughters would eat without wriggling up their noses, pulling a distorted face and inquiring “what is it?” and then declaring that they didn’t like “it,” and would not be eating their tea. Mrs. Bennet had not been in a good mood that evening. One of the older Miss Bennets had been rude, downright stubborn and had refused to do what she was told. It meant precious time had been lost and Mrs. Bennet had 20 minutes to feed five hungry mouths and leave with the eldest child for the next Bennet appointment – and there were many in her household. They had been to a ballet lesson, but due to rebellion in the camp, the lesson wasn’t completed and tantrums had caused an embarrassed Mrs. Bennet to leave in somewhat lower spirits than she had arrived. In her upset, she had forgotten her arithmetic, so when Mr. Bennet, who was much better in the maths department than herself, arrived, he was able to notice that the sum of daughters didn’t quite add up.
“Where’s Rosie?” he asked.
“What do you mean? Playing with her people I expect,” answered Mrs. Bennet, realising that she hadn’t been asked for a drink or food from her eldest twin for almost half an hour.
She joined her husband in the hunt for the missing child. Being busy in the kitchen and leaving the children to play quietly and happily, Mrs.Bennet had wrongly assumed all were present. As not one child had noticed that the dark-haired Miss Bennet Number Four or her well-chewed bunny with its heart-shaped patch covering the hole on his bottom weren’t in the house, Mrs. Bennet hadn’t had cause to worry – until now.
“But she’s not been out of my sight!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, her voice beginning to shake and the insides of her stomach starting to churn as she tried desperately to recall every movement Rosie had made. She ran outside and opened the car door, peered in and closed it again. Now she was panicking. Her mind blank, her heart racing, she turned to her husband in desperation.
“I don’t know where she is and I don’t know what to do!”
Frantic minutes of rushing around the house, searching and calling followed. In the midst of her own turmoil, Mrs.Bennet stopped and prayed. In the only second of calm, she decided to have another look in the Scooby Doo Van, where on sliding the door, she found crouched in a tight ball in the footwell between the second row and third row car seats with Rabbit held firmly in her hand, was the missing child.
“Rosie! I’m so sorry love. Come here!” Not giving her daughter a chance to reply, Mrs.. Bennet embraced her in a huge hug, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Oh Rosie, I thought we’d lost you.”
“I did call you Mummy but you didn’t hear me!”
So that was why Mrs. Bennet was now promising to count her children in and out. In the stress of dealing with a rather stubborn nine-year-old, she had failed to move the back seat and pull her first twin out.
Mrs. Bennet knew she was not a perfect mother, but she did love her daughters, even if they did push her to limits and test her patience. And she also knew how easy it was to get distracted by one her little people. Between 4pm and 6.30pm – before Mr. Bennet arrived home – was often a time when World War III took place. It was the period when she frequently longed to grow wings and fly off to a make-believe place where the words conflict, disobedience and rebellion didn’t exist. A hot soothing Mr. Latte often helped but just didn’t last long enough.
So here she was in 2011. A year when three of her offspring would be starting new schools – the eldest off to secondary and the youngest two joining the sea of green uniforms at primary. She decided with so many labels to sew on, she had better order them now and get working. That way she might also remember her children’s names. There was nothing worse when going to tell a child off than using the wrong name and having to go through all five to get to the right one. It under-minded your authority somewhat.
And so with an era of nappy changing behind her, luke-warm coffee in hand, Mrs. Bennet stumbled into 2011, knowing it would be a year of military operations, time-table schedules, taxi driving, refereeing, cooking and attempting to remember where each child was each day. She would endeavour to ensure each got home safely and weren’t left anywhere. After all if she did it again, her daughters might hold it against her in her old age, and forget to look after her when she needed it.

My bottom’s not working

2010-09-22T13:48:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, September 22’10

After 10 years of daily wiping and changing bottoms, Mrs. Bennet had served her sentence. Thirty seven and a half thousand nappies later she was now a free woman. Miss Bennet Number Four – the last of the Bennet girls to master the given art of performing in the correct place – had finally announced very proudly “Mummy, my bottom’s working now!”
Having seen three children through the nappy-to-pant stage, Mrs. Bennet thought numbers four and five would be easy. She was wrong. Twin bottoms were a different matter. Two bottoms attached to two very different bodies. One would think that if one twin derriere had successfully progressed from the L stage to pass, then the other would follow. Not so in Spag and Bol’s case. It was Bol, the smaller twin who first decided she no longer wanted the restrictions of a nappy and instead opt to actually wear the chosen Dora the Explorer collection of pants instead of admire them from a distance. The Peppa Pig pant family remained in their cellophane wrapper for months and months. Spag liked to look at them. Wearing them was not high on her agenda. She much preferred spending time playing with her little people, having conversations with them and making them her friends. Bol liked being with real people and observed every move they made, so it figured that as she followed her mother into the bathroom every time nature called, she too wanted to sit on the big toilet. So she trained herself, announced what she wanted to do, took herself to the potty and did the business without any accidents. Bol desperately did her best to get her bigger sister by 20 minutes to follow suit, but Spag just congratulated her and decided that her twin could receive the glory, so long as she could get on with role playing. And so at 3 years and 4 months she finally allowed Peppa Pig out of the pant packet.
But as any mother knows just because the child in question has moved from changing mat to toilet seat does not mean that the word “mess” is eliminated from the vocabulary. Quite the contrary, it can in fact mean this word appears more and prompts a few choice words in response! Now Mrs. Bennet knew that this was not the case for all the little Miss Bennets. Bol had been a dream potty trainee. She took herself to the said pot, did her business and got rid of the evidence without spillage. She announced what she needed to do and did it – in the right place. Spag however had the laid-back approach to the pant wearing regime and if she needed to do her business and the bathroom was a little further than she cared to travel, she produced amidst her toys – often fumigating her Polly Pocket people. However she was on the right track. Accidents were only a handful a week now and at least Mrs. Bennet was saving money by not having to buy nappies. Perhaps she should put by what she was saving in a special toiletry collection bank, ready for the next expensive item which would affect the Bennet household. She knew it wouldn’t be long before the periods started and the volcano of hormones would start exploding. With six women suffering PMT, Mr. Bennet had no idea what was coming his way. Thirty-seven thousand nappies were nothing compared to the amount of sanitary towels required in the coming years. Mrs. Bennet could only feel sorry for her poor husband. It would be his nerves and not her own which would be severely tested.

The boxing Bennets

2010-07-15T14:20:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, July 15 2010

Her head throbbed and her thumb hurt. Mrs. Bennet sat in a crumpled heap in the playroom floor surrounded by playdough tools, hardened lumps, tiny sunglasses with bent arms, princess shoes missing their precious jewels and shape sorters stuffed with everything(breakfast toast remains included) but the rightful triangular, circular and square residents. Towering above her in a mocking fashion as it gently wobbled from side to side was the latest acquisition to the Bennet household - a punchbag and its boxing glove companions. The younger twin, Miss Kezia Spiers called it a hot air balloon. Mrs. Bennet decided this was an excellent name for it. The whole idea of buying this strange toy was to get rid of the hot air between two of her offspring. Miss Emily and Miss Megan Bennet were in the midst of a "you're the worst sister ever" season and it was driving Mrs. Bennet mad.
They knew how to wind each other up and purposely pushed the boundaries to get a reaction. Voices would rise, punches would fly and tears would flow - all before breakfast which made passing go almost impossible for the school run. The "go directly to gaol" card was frequently issued by the mother. Not to the offenders. To herself.
Sometimes a night in a cell sounded quite appealing if it avoided waking up to fights. In desperation rather than in wisdom, Mrs. Bennet hunted down the local shops for a punchbag - as you do - so that the argumentative Miss Bennets could lash out at the bag rather than each other. Impressed by this novelty item, they immediately pledged to be friends then promptly argued over who would try it out first. Miss Kezia Bennet enjoyed it the most, hitting her black air balloon proudly with tiny fists and huge grin. But it soon became obvious to Mrs. Bennet who the punchbag was really for - her.
An hour or so later, after yet another bout of Miss Bennet blues and battles, Mrs. Bennet walked out of the house as soon as Mr. Bennet walked in and counted to 100 whilst hitting the steering wheel. Let it be said quickly here that she was not driving - just taking much needed time out in the safety of her four tin walls. She was too frustrated and angry to let herself near the punchbag in case she boxed it off its stand. Ten minutes on she let herself go back in, headed straight for the boxing gloves and jabbed at the bag with all her might. Hot in the face, she finally stopped punching. It was only then, once her passionate display had cooled, that she realised her thumb was really sore.
"You do realise broken thumbs are a common injury for boxers, don't you?!" offered a voice from the adjoining kitchen. No doubt intrigued by his wife's sudden burst of energy and need to improve her upper body muscle-tone, Mr. Bennet had been secretly watching.
Mrs. Bennet felt like punching him, but at risk of making her thumb worse, decided to poke her tongue out at him instead. Once her thumb had recovered its first bout of boxing, she knew Mr. Punchbag would be her new friend. She could punch him as hard as she liked and he would never ever complain.

I don't like being 40

2010-07-09T14:25:00.000-07:00

Friday, July 9th 2010

Mrs. Bennet wanted her money back. Being forty was not what it promised to be. Life was supposed to begin. But her body had obviously rebelled about being such an age. Certain bits were in decline rather than in blooming mode. In order to write this, she was now wearing glasses. Having realised that she was holding her book further and further away in order to read the small print, she reluctantly made a long-overdue eye test. Armed with her new purple-starred reading specs the long-sighted road had begun. So now by her bedside table lay her glasses alongside her passion-killing mouth guard, acquired a couple if months ago. Apparently she ground her teeth in the night which caused her jaw to ache in the day! She'd lost a tooth, broke another one on an olive stone, had trouble with her varicose veins thanks to the twins' pregnancy, now had to wear padded bras as the five Miss Bennets had munched what little she had at the milk bar; and to depressingly she had recently discovered a white hair in a place she didn't wish to disclose! But as she had always vowed to grow old disgracefully she had booked up a hair appointment to have purple and burgundy streaks. She could run 10k quite comfortably thank you and more importantly she knew how to laugh with and at herself. But to be honest being forty hadn't been fun. Her children still loved her even if they chuckled at her new support aids. Miss Bennet Number Three,spotting her mouth shield had even boldly asked: "Mummy what's it like wearing false teeth?!" But considering she had five little girls to look after, a job, a husband to love and a very active life - although her socially her children seemed to have far more exciting things to do - she wasn't doing too badly. She just hoped being 41 would prove to be better and she hold all her working bits together!

I know what you’re up to

2010-07-01T15:39:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, June 30 '10

The little boy shuffled his bottom along the window ledge closer to Mrs. Bennet’s table. She was quietly working, tapping away on her computer keys in an attempt to meet a writing deadline. Her office, being a glorified shed which thought it was a sauna during summer months, melted her brain cells so she opted for the sanctuary of a cool spacious supermarket café. There were distractions around her – a screaming baby, noisy chairs, loud speaker announcements calling for certain members of staff, and the general hub of merged conversations – but as they weren’t her distractions, she therefore somehow knuckled down and got her work done. From the corner of her left eye she could see a dirty-kneed toddler approaching. Armed with his toy train, he had perfected his bottom manoeuvring skills and had moved away from his father, two tables away, until he could touch Mrs. Bennet’s improvisation desk. He then broke wind and immediately left the lift off pad and shuffled back to his dad and milkshake. The fragrance left behind wasn’t pleasant and it forced Mrs. Bennet to hold her breath for a few seconds. An adult couldn’t have done a better job in changing the atmosphere. Any fly buzzing near by would have head-butted the window in shock.
“You’ve come back then Jack. What were you doing?” the boy’s father asked.
“I know very well what he’s been up to,” muttered Mrs. Bennet, “and I am sure he feels much better for it, unlike me!”
A couple of days ago, she had been at the tail end of an enormous bottom burp whilst innocently running on a treadmill in her local gym. It was so unbearable, she felt like she’d just passed a sewage farm, but as she didn’t want to stop her athletic workout, she pressed on, unpleasant as it was. And the smell never left. It didn’t help that it was a warm, humid day. Even the fans couldn’t blow the putrid clouds away. And yet, she noticed, she immediately felt guilty.
“As there’s only two of us in here, anyone walking into this room could think it was me!” she thought. It certainly wouldn’t encourage the reluctant fitness enthusiast to venture forth. More like venture out. But she did empathise with the guilty bottom. There was nothing worse than being caught in a public place with a need to break wind. It was fine in the confinements of one’s own home, but surrounded by people, was a highly different and embarrassing matter.
She therefore forgave both the bottoms on these occasions because she knew it could be hers on another occasion. The secret was to do the deed and not be found out. The little boy and the athlete were both guilty. And she knew it.

Labour pains of a Mummy

2010-06-07T11:41:00.000-07:00

Monday, June 7 2010

Motherhood, Mrs. Bennet decided was like being in permanent labour. There were moments of calm. And there were moments when the contractions were so painful, she felt like screaming. Sitting on the doorstep, head in hands and breathing deeply was one of those moments. Minutes before the little Twin Bennets were happily playing in the playroom, Miss Bennet Number One was literally plastered with paper mache, engrossed in building a model air raid shelter, Miss Bennet Number Two was cartwheeling across the lounge floor, while Miss Bennet Number Three was sitting quietly amidst a rainbow of coloured felt tips working on her latest masterpiece. There was a contented aura in the house which meant Mrs Bennet could get on with preparing tea without having to act as referee or counsellor. So how come then she was now sitting on the step, wishing she was somewhere else and counting the minutes to Mr. Bennet’s return? She was victim of the domino effect. The Braxton Hicks contractor that started small, but built up so strongly, she had top gasp for air. Since she had no cylinder of Gas and Air to call upon, it meant leaving the house to count to ten and get her blood pressure under control again.
It started with the simple act of opening a cupboard. A small bottle of pearly brown nail varnish had nose-dived into her favourite spotty mug and in doing so smashed the top, sending little chips onto the hob and floor. Bending down to pick up the bits, she banged her head on the corner of a cupboard she had forgotten to shut. Simultaneously battles were erupting in the different downstairs rooms. The little Miss Twin Bennets, who up until now had been behaving themselves, sharing their toys and chatting in their unique Spagbolese language, were now at war. The elder twin by 20 minutes was sitting on top of her sister’s head, refusing to let go of her as her rival had stolen both Fifi characters and wasn’t going to give in. Prizing her from the head sitter, affectionately known as Spag, Mrs. Bennet issued a peace treaty and separated the two fighters. Meanwhile the cartwheeling Miss Bennet had promptly crashed into the very table her artistic siblings were working on, wobbling it to the degree it caused glue to spill and felt tip marks to slip.
“Now my picture’s ruined! It’s all your fault Emily!” exclaimed Miss Bennet number three, ripping up her bright design.
“And look what you’ve done!” cried the elder Miss Bennet, not impressed by the acrobat.
In sorting out this scenario, Mrs Bennet completely forgot about the pot of boiling water and the pasta within. A certain burning smell was heading her way. Too late, the pasta was now part of the saucepan. She hurriedly picked up the handle and ushered the pan to the sink, but somehow failed to miss the pair of tiny pink spotty sunglasses on the floor and crushed them underfoot, hurting herself as she did so. The younger twin, to which the mini fashion accessory belonged, didn’t miss a trick and immediately howled, knowing full well what her mother had just done. So now Mrs. Bennet was the accused and Bol had the evidence that she was guilty. Mrs. Bennet felt like the burnt pasta: frazzled. And it was another 90 minutes before her Mr. Darcy arrived to rescue her.
Sometimes the contractions of motherhood came thick and fast; other days they were a little less frequent. Very rarely was there a day in the Bennet household, when the labour pains barely registered on the graph. And of course there were moments when Mrs. Bennet, so sleep deprived, felt like she had taken one too many puffs on the Gas and Air. Yesterday she had bathed Bol and dried her, to be told by Mr. Bennet that she had failed to wash out the shampoo on the little twin’s head! She had spent the day wearing her top inside out and one earring only and the bottle of Chardonnay she had bought for a friend, promptly rolled out of the car and smashed at her feet as she opened the door.
“You think once you’ve had a child, labour stops. But it’s a lie, it continues for years,” she said out loud from her I-feel-sorry-for-myself step. She breathed out as she was taught all those years ago at Parentcraft lessons and made a decision to see if there were some Gas and Air cylinders on EBay she could bid for. She’d then keep one in each room ready for the next contraction.

Warning low flying tampons

2010-05-16T14:55:00.000-07:00

Friday, April 30 2010

Mrs. Bennet knew it was time to get off the treadmill when removing her jumper, the concealed tampons in her pocket flew out and hit the running machine of the male runner in front. Seeing the White bullets scattered on the gym floor and athletic eyes gazing in her direction, Mrs. Bennet brought her run to an abrupt end, leapt over the front of the machine, gathered her essentials and legged it. She had come on that morning and had had no real desire to exercise anyway, apart from trying out her new trainers, so she appreciated the excuse.
As Spag and Bol, the little Miss Twin Bennets were happily playing in the crèche, she couldn't leave the building in the safe anonymity of the packed car park; so she sank back into the comforts of the gym's leather sofa, clutching her Mr. Latte and prayed the men she had attacked with her bullets wouldn't recognise her with her clothes on!

Conception in the bedroom – not guilty, says Mrs. Bennet

2010-04-13T17:27:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, April 13 2010

The bedroom was a hive of sexual activity. The problem was it didn’t involve Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Normally the creak of a floorboard meant a little Miss Bennet was on her way, so any night time activity had to quickly come to an end. But this night time activity wasn’t going to stop despite any interruptions. It was certainly noisy and no doubt passionate but it knocked any romantic notions on the head for the real owners of the bedroom in question. The mice were back. Weeks of silence had ended abruptly. And tonight for some reason the creatures which Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had convinced themselves had disappeared were taking revenge by either inviting their friends in for a party or by practising some loud mating ritual. Either way their antics echoed around the cavity walls where Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were lying. They were so vocal squeaks could be heard until at least three o’clock in the morning. In fact for once Mr. and Mrs. Bennet could make as much noise as they liked if they so desired. But visions of what might be happening behind the wall dampened any passion.
“I reckon that mouse has eaten about five others and is now one gigantic creature. It sounds cat-size, it’s making so much noise,” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet.
“Perhaps it’s in labour,” suggested Mr. Bennet.
Had she been that noisy? She certainly hadn’t squealed. No, they were definitely having a party, thought Mrs. Bennet. Too much fun going on up there and labour was not a word associated with fun. Although there had been funny moments during Miss Megan Bennet’s birth and surreal memories of Hyacinth Bucket appearing on the television screen.
Never once in the 10 years of living in their current house had they had active visitors like this. Yes there had been spiders and nits. But not mice. With the arrival of two more Miss Bennets, the stretch marks had affected not just the mother’s body they once lived in, but the house. And for some reason just before Christmas the rodents had smuggled themselves into the bite-size modern Pemberley and had set up residence in the marital bedroom – the cause for the house growth in the first place.
“What are they doing?” cried Mrs. Bennet as any hope of sleep was destroyed by an almighty bang.
“I don’t know but they’re obviously having a great time,” replied her husband.
Reproducing was clearly not a problem in this particular household. But just because Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had drawn a line under any more Bennet offspring appearing, Mrs. Bennet didn’t think it was right that uninvited occupants in the household could take on the challenge. But obviously now the house was bigger in size, the mice had decided there were more walls to fill. If Mrs. Bennet had the energy she would have thought if you can’t beat them, join them. But her desire for Mr. Sleep was greater. So instead she turned to kiss Mr. Bennet, grabbed her pillow and buried her head under it until the romping faded.

Christmas Day Mark Two

2010-04-03T12:51:00.000-07:00

Sunday, March 28 10

Friends might consider she had lost the plot, but Mrs. Bennet was 40 now so she didn't care. She had purple and red streaked hair. And yes she was conscious her body parts weren’t as they once were. But as a friend had kindly built her a wardrobe; a commodity she hadn’t had for 10 years, she was now able to hang her clothes up instead of shoving them under the bed. So it meant for the first time since she had seen the first blue line which had started the baby production years, she had weeded her wardrobe. So ruthless was she, there weren’t too many garments left to hang. But she decided from now on she would wear only what she liked, regardless of fashion and sense. And to her and Mr. Bennet’s amazement this now included the occasional dress.
Turning 40 had turned something inside. Mrs. Bennet would create memories. She would laugh more, try and relax more and not worry about what tomorrow brought. As it was today was Christmas Day in the Bennet household. It was also the birthdays of Mrs. Bennet’s dad and Miss Megan Bennet. Without her dad or her mother-in-law around the Christmas Dinner table back in December, the day hadn’t seemed complete. Both her own mum, Jannie and her father-in-law Ed, hadn’t spent a Christmas without their respective spouses for 50 years. So Mrs. Bennet felt it was only right they should celebrate the occasion again once the couples were reunited and hospital visits were a past and distant memory. Only life didn’t work out like that.
By Saturday, both birthday boy and girl had, between them, visited hospital five times. Megan had been accidentally dropped in the school playground, banged her head and subsequently suffered from concussion. Mrs. Bennet had arrived at the scene a few minutes after the incident to find her daughter ghostly white and throwing up in a brown tub, labelled “sick bowl,” and literally carried her 200 yards to the local hospital. The poorly child was then transferred to Cheltenham General before being let out for showing her precious cheek dimples sufficiently to be declared fit and well, much to the dismay of the patient concerned who quite relished the fact she had both Mummy and Daddy to herself.
Meanwhile her grandfather had managed to break his wrist whilst climbing on a table to put up some balloons for Megan’s birthday party. His knee gave way and down he fell. Three hospital visits later he was finally sitting at the Christmas table; arm in plaster looking rather vulnerable and shaken. Mrs. Bennet was convinced he was allergic to her cooking, but despite needing some assistance, he quite happily chomped his way through the festive delights - although he did manage to unconsciously clobber a couple of relatives with his cast.
Next Sunday it would be Easter, so it was only right Christmas should be celebrated before rather than after. The tree came out, the crackers got pulled, the silly jokes got told, a few trivial gifts opened and the Christmas pudding got set alight. They did not sing carols. The Bennet family might be considered a little eccentric at times. But creating memories was precious, and it would be an event the little Miss Bennets would remember for days and years to come. And at least this year they wouldn’t have to wait too long for the next one…only 233 days!

The Cot Concert

2010-03-22T05:46:00.000-07:00

Monday, March 22 '10
Shouts of joy and laughter which came from the vacinity of the little Miss Twin Bennet's room indicated that the occupants were far from asleep as Mrs. Bennet had been informed by her husband. Both twins were standing upright, oblivious to the fact their mother was nearby. They were obviously up to something and enjoying one another's company and she was intrigued. She stood outside their door, her arms full of clean washing.
"And now it's Bubba's turn!" cried Spag, the older twin by twenty minutes who had never once called her sister by her correct name. Mrs. Bennet firmly believed Kezia would known as Bubba until the twins were in their eighties.
"Tinkle tinkle little star, ow I under what you are..." began Bol.
The audience was silent as the little star sang with delicious beauty, then erupted into applause once the song was finished.
"Well done, Bubba! Well done," responded the X factor judge from the right-hand cot. The contestant in the left-hand cot was delighted.
"Thank you Rosie and now it's your turn!"
And so Rosie began her solo. This time it was "Dora, Dora, Dora the Explorer." And again the audience respected the artist and encouraged her accordingly. The unseen agent behind the door smiled. So this was what they were up to: performing their own cot concert. She hated to interupt their fun.Instead she put down the clean washing at their door, and tip-toed away, making a note to sign up these little stars for future entertainment purposes.

Training twin bottoms

2010-03-15T16:46:00.000-07:00

Monday, March 15 ‘10

There were two different kinds of bottoms in bite-size Modern Pemberley: the ones who were pro-potty and the ones who, if Mrs. Bennet allowed, would still be wearing nappies until they were 18. Four bottoms were trained. One bottom was not. And the untrained bot was quite clearly very happy to stay that way. She saw no need for it but was quite happy for her twin-bottomed-pal to enjoy her new-found independence.
To be honest Mrs. Bennet didn’t like potty training. Miss Megan Bennet had been somewhat later than her older siblings due to the fact that the massive double bump had prevented her mother from getting anywhere near the floor to a) reach the potty or bottom in question and b) clear up any spillages or deposits. The thought therefore of training two little derrieres at the same time did not fill Mrs. Bennet with joy.
But in the past few weeks something extraordinary happened with Miss Bennet Number Five. The smallest twin, known affectionately in written fashion as Bol, and Gorgeous in spoken form; decided to potty train herself. So efficient was this tiny dot, that not only did she take herself to the potty when she needed to go, but she wiped herself with a toilet roll put down by her side, emptied the contents into the toilet (without spilling any), climbed on to the side of her sister’s no-chance-of-anything-getting-in-here-potty, reached the flush, pressed the button, climbed down and then proceeded to wash her hands using the bath taps, pulled her pants and trousers up and did a little run and jump to end the routine. Mrs. Bennet was stunned by this spurt of independence and hoped that it would rub off onto Miss Bennet Number Four. But so far, nothing. Spag, as this twin was known on paper, Fantastic to her face, showed no sign of following.
“Well done Bubba!” she frequently yelled, accompanied by a clap. Bubba was the affectionate name Rosie gave her sister. Never once had she called her Kezia. Bubba was her name and probably would be for the rest of her life. Using the toilet or potty, dressing herself, walking everywhere and helping Mummy was a Kezia thing, not a Rosie thing. In Rosie’s world, one drew faces and people, used lots of bright coloured felt tips all day long, got pushed around in pushchairs, was dressed by Mummy only and didn’t go anywhere near a bathroom unless lifted into the bath.
These two children may share a birthday and a womb, but they were so refreshingly different that even Mrs. Bennet found it hard to believe they were twins. Miss Kezia was a mini Miss Bennet Number Two and Miss Rosie was a mini Miss Bennet Number One or Three. Miss Emily, daughter number two was Mrs. Bennet’s memory stick. She remembered every detail her mother was likely to forget. And Miss Kezia was fast becoming her back-up or hard-drive.
Only the other day Mrs. Bennet in sorting out the washing had made seven piles ready to take to the corresponding drawers, to discover one had disappeared. Without being told, the pile had been delivered to the correct landing spot by a two-year-old! Mrs. Bennet wasn’t sure how she managed to produce such a young and enthusiastic laundry helper when her older siblings just watched and let their mother get on with it.
“Please watch Kezia and take note everyone!” she remarked. But only Miss Bennet Number Two took notice. Mr. Bennet was now in Japan, so couldn’t. But he left his washing behind anyway.
Mrs. Bennet marvelled at the diversity within her household. Life was never dull. Sitting at her toddler table, drawing perfectly formed people, complete with bodies and head hair, her elder twin was now dressed in a fairy dress with a winter bobble hat on her head while her sister waddled pant-less towards the downstairs bathroom with potty in hand refusing any help. Mrs. Bennet’s nappy days were almost coming to an end. But somehow she knew there were a few more dirty bottoms in store for her yet.

No Octopus for Mrs. Bennet

2010-03-04T16:00:00.000-08:00

Friday, March 5 ‘10

Mrs. Bennet's octopus had never arrived. She had thought about asking Mr. Google to hunt one down, preferably with a facility to programme it ready to master maths homework, listen to young readers, make a nutritious meal which catered for all seven individuals, and wipe waddling bottoms as they carried wee-filled potties around with pride, pants around their ankles. But Mrs. Bennet knew it wishful thinking. She had spiders in abundance. But they weren’t quite what she needed. Somehow their eight legs caused more work for her to clean up. Their webs were spun in corners as fast as the little Miss Bennets spun their clothes webs, catching unsuspecting doll’s house accessories, discarded tissues, bracelets and coins, which of course all ended up in the washing machine’s belly. It had got so bad, the other day Mrs. Bennet found it had eaten a packet of Ibuprofen. Every tablet had turned a soggy mush and disintegrated into the clothes. She knew how it felt. Not one for resorting to pain relief, even Mrs. Bennet had found a new friend in Mr Ibuprofen lately due to jaw ache. Apparently stress was the cause. The remedy: to rest. Five children didn’t feature in any of the definitions she looked up. “Peace, ease, or refreshment resulting from sleep or the cessation of an activity; quiet relaxation and relief or freedom from disquiet or disturbance.” As Mr. Bennet was right now flying in the Milan direction, any chance of Mrs. Bennet enjoying the meaning of any one of these words was with her husband, 35,000 feet in the air. The washing machine obviously high on its dose of pain killers was taking off in the kitchen and jumping violently. Mrs. Bennet wished she too take off, but her wings didn’t work. One day, she would turn into superwoman. But for now, her task was to come up with a creative plan on getting her children to pick up after themselves, put their shoes away, hang their coats up and attempt to hand over their dirty underwear at least instead of stashing it away like a treasure chest. It was a never ending job trying to match lost socks with its abandoned mate and retrieve the dirties before their soiled the only clean things left in her children’s’ bedrooms. If she didn’t devise a plan soon, her sanity would be lying in a heap next to the laundry mountain. At least when she climbed a hill in the surrounding countryside, there was a promised view to enjoy. The only view she got from the laundry version were a few Peppa Pig scenes on tiny toddler pants and occasionally Miss Rosie Bennet’s beloved rabbit spinning round and round as he underwent his regular wash. In order for this to happen, he had to be stolen from the cot, the washed and dried before his owner awoke. But Rosie was no fool. She knew that he smelt differently and had been somewhere other than her comforting arms.
No the Octopus hadn’t arrived and was unlikely to do so. What was likely was that Mr. Bennet would visit Duty Free to pass some time at the airport. Perhaps he would feel sorry for his wife and come up with an alternative. A bottle of perfume might not fix the problem, but it would at least help Mrs. Bennet smell a little sweeter than the dirty washing.

A taste of freedom and wanting more

2010-01-29T08:11:00.000-08:00

Friday, January 29 2010

There was something about freedom which was addictive. Mrs. Bennet had had a taste of unclipped wings and now that she was back in the restraints of her four walls and six other Bennets, she wanted to escape and soar through the sky. Not that she wanted to leave them or live without these precious people, it was just ever so often she just needed to retreat to that quiet place where she could go to the toilet in peace, drink a coffee that didn’t go cold and have a meal made for her instead of creatively trying to think how to feed six mouths without one of them inevitably moaning about the final offering.
For the first time in 20 years, Mrs. Bennet had spent the weekend in a plush hotel with her sister. Once they had driven aimlessly around Cardiff city centre trying to find their destination – without the help of Mr. Tom Tom or an up-to-date map – they were quite happy to flop in the hotel’s restaurant with a large glass of wine and relish what hours they had. There was something magical about being sisters. One shared a sense of time and history, stories of loved ones past and present, and adventures and experiences money couldn’t by. As the age gap wasn’t huge, neither sister in this case could remember a time without the other. Everyday life couldn’t be more extreme, yet this constantness, this grounding, this respect and unconditional acceptance was the underlying force which gelled them together – and a mutual interest in art and retail therapy!
In her Tuesday evening art class, Mrs. Bennet’s challenge was to paint an oil landscape with palette knife only. She worked from a photograph she’d taken of Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium. She accentuated the colours, pushing them to the limit and relished in the freedom of using the knife. She wanted it to reflect the freedom she had felt over the weekend. Really she was greedy for more so maybe this would serve as a reminder of what there was if only she could grab a few minutes to appreciate it. Everyone needed a break at times, but what was it about mothers and leaving their children even for a day or two? Why did guilt threaten and hover like a black cloud. Mr. Bennet was more than capable of handling his little ladies. Yes he did experience some inner conflicts and refusals to help in putting toys away, but able he was and kind to let his wife treat his sister-in-law. Mrs. Bennet had felt like a new woman away. She had even been persuaded to buy a dress: an item foreign to her body and wardrobe. Mr. Bennet certainly hadn’t seen his wife’s legs out in public since their wedding day.
It was unfortunate that she arrived home after a storm. Mr. Bennet had lost his cool with his daughters and after asking them several times to tidy up, without success, had at the last resort, scooped every item on the floor up in a black plastic bag and dumped it in the garden. This hadn’t gone down too well with the Bennet girls and somehow in the midst of the uproar Miss Megan Bennet had walked into a door and hit her eye on the door handle.
“So have you been good for Daddy?” Mrs. Bennet asked them after receiving a bundle of cuddles from them all.
“No, not really,” was the honest reply, “And Megan’s got a black eye.”
Six lunch boxes later, various sorting out and clearing away, finding swimming bags, responding to work emails and discovering she had some tight writing deadlines to meet – and that the four legged creatures in the cavity walls were still there - Mrs. Bennet stumbled into bed exhausted and feeling stressed. Her sister had on the other hand gone home to watch a DVD. Somehow, despite the demands of her busy life, Mrs. Bennet knew for the sake of being the best wife, mum, daughter, sister and friend she could be, she had to make time to escape. She had had a taste of freedom and it was a dangerous thing. She wanted more. But she also knew that she needed only to fly a short way away, because the sheer joy of seeing six precious faces beaming at her as she walked through the door, would always entice her to come home despite how noisy and demanding it was.

A-shaking in the bedroom

2010-01-10T15:38:00.000-08:00

January 2010

“No offence, Mr. Bennet, but I can’t sleep here any more. I’m moving out. This bedroom’s getting a bit overcrowded,” Mrs. Bennet announced at the beginning of the year. Not the best start to a new decade to leave the marital bed – even if it did mean a decade of absolutely no more child bearing other-wise-I’m-suing-the-NHS - but her actions were entirely justified. There was too much night-time activity taking place in this particular room and it had nothing to do with them.
It wasn’t long before Mr.Bennet joined her. They hadn’t fallen out with each other. But they had fallen out with certain invisible visitors who had taken camp in bite-size Modern Pemberley’s cavity walls and had the disconcerting habit of scurrying around at the back of their heads at three o’clock in the morning. De-nitting five heads was nothing compared to this. Mrs. Bennet knew her informative friend Mr.Google was always excellent when it came to finding out specialised details, but she never imagined him having to help Mr. Bennet identify droppings found in the loft. Mr. Bennet looked shaken with Mr.Google’s diagnosis. It wasn’t mice. It was something bigger.
“We better camp out in the lounge,” he decided.
“What do we tell the children? That we wanted a sleep over?” asked Mrs. Bennet.
“Just say we fancied a change. Anything, but don’t mention the R word. They’ll never sleep at night,” was his reply.
Mr. Bennet was right of course: ironically confirmed the next evening by the eldest Miss Bennet, who had just happened to be reading The Railway Children.
“I’ve just read the first chapter Mummy!” she declared.
“And…what do you think?”
“It’s great Mummy, until the children have to move to the country and Roberta hears all this noise and she’s told it’s the rats in the cottage walls. That must have been really awful. I didn’t like reading that,” she explained.
Mrs. Bennet choked, trying to stifle a laugh and not quite believing the timeliness of her daughter’s choice of book.
Thankfully the elder children were out of the way when the Rat/Mouse Man paid a visit.
“Expect a lot of activity in the next few days, because they’ll get very excited,” he said. “I think you’ve only got mice by the way,” he added reassuringly, before adding: “but there could be a rat among them.”
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet might not want any more babies in the coming years, but it seemed someone else was getting a little too passionate in their bedroom. And the family behind the walls was growing a little too fast for Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s liking!

Affair over with Mr. Latte

2009-12-07T15:15:00.000-08:00

Monday, December 7 ‘09

Mrs. Bennet’s affair with Mr. Latte was officially over. Having moved in permanently – thanks to her 40th birthday money – his position in the corner of the breakfast bar was no longer an exciting place to be. Mr. Latte had been sulking over the past few weeks as Mrs. Bennet hadn’t fancied him. Having been struck by a virus, Mrs. Bennet’s desire for her familiar hot steamy friend had wavered in favour of Mr. Black or hot water (nicknamed Mr. Peely Wally). And in obvious protest, Mr. Latte went off in a froth, blew a fuse and left the house in darkness. Having turned the house upside down in vain to find his guarantee or receipt, Mrs. Bennet realised that moving her treasured coffee companion into bite-sized Modern Pemberley hadn’t resulted in happily ever after. He wasn’t as faithful or reliable as she had hoped.
But Mr. Latte was not the only one letting her down. Both Mrs. Bennet’s Scooby Doo van and Mr. Bennet’s run-a-round vehicle were showing signs of weariness. The driver’s door lock in the latter was broken. Unless it was open, there was no way of getting in unless the driver climbed in through the passenger seat or fell on the mercy of anyone travelling inside to open the door from the inside. As for the Scooby Doo van, as well as having a leaking radiator and a dodgy gear stick, the mechanics in the doors were also suffering from automobile arthritis. So much so in trying to get Spag and Bol, the little Miss Twin Bennets in one afternoon, the only back door of the car – a sliding one at the side – refused to open at all. This meant all five Miss Bennets squeezing into the vehicle by the only route available; mountaineering over Mrs. Bennet’s seat into their respective places, with the two older Miss Bennets pole vaulting yet again into position in the very back. She then had to follow suit to ensure the younger ones were all strapped in correctly.
Life was full of challenges and disappointments. Sometimes you could laugh at them, other times you could not. Mrs. Bennet knew there was no spare cash to repair or replace anything. The house still didn’t have toilet rails, loo roll holders, blinds, curtains and lampshades. These things were on Mrs. Bennet’s wish list, along with her eternity ring, which had lost a stone months ago. She had lost a stone due to viruses and stress and needed that back too. She couldn’t buy that either.
That night as she peered in on her sleeping children, looking peaceful and untroubled, Mrs. Bennet knew they were her most precious gifts in the house. There was always enough love to go around. Faulty doors and a defunct Mr. Latte machine which looked good on the side yet was completely useless were just part of the hiccups of everyday living. Her affair with the hot froth was now over. She warmly accepted a big hug from Mr. Bennet, who promptly handed her a glass of chilled Rose instead.

Toasted Breast Sandwiches

2009-11-22T09:48:00.000-08:00

Friday, November 19 ‘09

Mrs. Bennet couldn’t look at a sandwich toaster in the same way again. As much as she loved a cheese, onion and mayo toastie, she couldn’t quite bring herself to make one. It was too similar to the breast sandwich she’d just experienced at the local screening hospital. Six weeks ago she had had two small assets, which at least moved slightly. Now having suffering a weight-loss battering due to stomach bugs and the stress of her father’s emergency dash to hospital, what remnants she had now could quite easily fall into the category of “gnat bites at the end of an ironing board” – a phrase so eloquently used by one midwife in her explanation that any lady, big or small-chested, was capable of breast feeding her baby or babies. Incidentally a well-endowed mother’s acquisitions were referred to as “trombones.” The gnat bites belonging to Mrs. Bennet certainly weren’t happy today. They were squashed into the mammogram’s jaw, and then tightened with what felt like a screw.
“You wouldn’t believe I fed twins would you?” she nervously joked to the lady who was in control of this chest chewing machine. As unsightly and uncomfortable as she felt, Mrs. Bennet was still grateful to have her breasts toasted. Having appreciated the diligent efforts of the surgeons and breast cancer team to save the life of her own dear mum, Jannie – and her cousin - she could only applaud the services provided. With five little females of her own, it was the responsible thing to do, even if it did mean losing what dignity she had left. It would be 10 years before she officially got the official annual mammogram invite. It certainly gave her a greater understanding of the vulnerability, embarrassment and discomfort of being squashed and squeezed that so many cancer patients felt. In some units, the machine apparently bore an encouraging sticker: “squeezed in love.”
Feeling suitably bruised, Mrs. Bennet put her shocked assets away and took them home. The cheese toaster shone in the light as she walked into the kitchen. Sometimes she treated herself to a crunchy toastie. Today though, she couldn’t face it. Mr. Bennet might fancy a toasted naked breast and mayo, but it definitely wasn’t being offered on this lunch-time’s menu.

Spag and Bol – the tonic

2009-11-11T16:14:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, November 11 ‘09

Now the dolls-on-the-roof had completed their ball-point pen removal therapy, they were back in full working order – being dragged along feet-first and lovingly manhandled by Spag and Bol. Under the lounge spotlights, the baby plastic now looked decidedly blotchy and Mrs. Bennet realised she had slightly overcooked the poor things. But the little Miss Twin Bennets didn’t seem to mind. They shoved Cheerios into the dolls’ mouths regardless and then wondered why they couldn’t get them back out.
Mrs. Bennet was so grateful to Spag and Bol right now. They were proving a real tonic. Their in-built rechargeable batteries never ran out enabling them to clip-clop in clumsy yet beautifully-comical style around the downstairs circle-route in bite-size Modern Pemberley wearing dressing-up high heeled shoes which didn’t match. They had no worries; only giggles and smiles. Mrs. Bennet wondered what age worry set in. How she would love a bottle of care-free childlike innocence at times. All was well in Spag and Bol’s world even if it wasn’t quite as it should be in Mrs. Bennet’s. With Christmas looming, Mrs. Bennet had no desire to buy any presents. Getting to Christmas dinner with every family member in one piece would be the best gift of all. Right now her dad was in hospital, having been rushed in passing out with acute stomach pains. Jannie had bravely fought breast cancer, but was still suffering the aftermaths and had seen enough medics to last a life-time. It certainly hadn’t been the best of years. And yet, despite seeing her dad, happy on morphine, eyes tinged yellow with his unshaven chin dappled with white specs as if he’d been caught dipping it into a packet of icing sugar, Mrs. Bennet felt grateful. Jannie had made it and so too would her dad – with the help of gall-bladder removal and a low-fat diet.
“Donuts don’t have any fat in do they?” he half-hoped, half-joked. It wasn’t good news for a sweet-tooth.
“They’re giving me a list of what I can have,” he informed his wife, still heart-broken that he hadn’t been given any ice-cream or milk for his breakfast cornflakes by the nurses.
“Good, because if they tell you, you might listen,” replied Jannie.
“Have you told them about your allergies?”
“Yes, but they only put down - beer. I think it was the only one they remembered but it made the consultant laugh,” the patient said smiling.
If there was one thing which held her family together it was humour. Watching her parent’s playful banter despite the situation they were in, gave her hope. A man wretched noisily into one of those funny cardboard bedpans in the corner bed; another snorted loudly in his sleep while one poor chap was stuck in the toilet waiting to be wheeled back to his bed. Visitors had sat around talking to an invisible man for 20 minutes wandering where he had gone. It was like watching a scene from Only When I Laugh, a classic early 1980’s comedy series set in the ward of an NHS hospital with an odd trio of male patients. Humour was everywhere if you chose to see it. And Mrs. Bennet had it on tap. She only had to spend a few minutes observing her youngest two daughters to get a free dose.

Mummies never get sick

2009-10-30T12:41:00.000-07:00

Friday, October 30 ‘09

There was a book on the playroom shelf called “Mummies never get sick.” It lied because sometimes they did. They just couldn’t take a day off from work to be so. In her nine and a half years as a mother, she had only been bedridden once with flu, up until now. A stomach virus hit her big time, forcing her to crawl on to the sofa in between sudden dashes to the bathroom, which thanks to the completion of Modern Pemberley was now on ground floor level. It lasted 10 days, leaving her with vertigo and very dodgy on her feet. She somehow managed to run a party for eight-year-old Miss Bennet Number Two and her 25 chums thanks to the sterling efforts of Mr. Bennet and his amazing ability to gather the girls in an orderly fashion and get them spitting cola bottles, rolling conkers and eating hula hoops off string. He would make a great party entertainer. Fifteen years ago she fell in love with him while he was riding a unicycle in the midst of a circle of kids in his capacity as a youth leader in charge of a holiday club. It was days like this, when the stuffing had been knocked out of her, she really appreciated her own Mr. Darcy. Not that she had any energy to exert any passion, but it did remind her why she had married him. As the bug co-incided with the entire length of half-term holiday, it meant the little Miss Bennets were home and therefore Modern Pemberley was not quiet. Not that ever was, apart from the two-hour silence Mrs. Bennet enjoyed when Spag and Bol were asleep. Her elder three children had given up their afternoon nap soon after hitting two. At almost two-and-a-half Spag and Bol had no idea their mother wasn’t letting them give up theirs. Happy to lie down in parallel cots, the little Miss Twin Bennets were chatty bedfellows and enjoyed their lunchtime natter before drifting off.
Somehow in between flopping, Mrs. Bennet managed to sit and do beadwork, collage, cakes, play dough, jewellery, painting and maths practise with chocolate buttons. The children didn’t complain. As long as they got out of the house at least once a day, they were happy. And again somehow Mrs. Bennet did, so long as she was back on the sofa within the hour. It had become her new friend. Mr. Latte – who had moved in ever since Mrs. Bennet had bought a life-line sophisticated coffee machine with her 40th birthday money – had to sit quietly forgotten in the corner. She had no desire for him, or anything other than a mug of hot water, nicknamed Mr. Peely Wally in the Modern Mrs. Bennet dictionary.
But she did feel well-off. Ironically it was an enriching experience to be ill. Mrs. Bennet had realised what she had and it was good. She may not always have enough money to pay for their clubs and shoes, but where coffers lacked, the blessings around her more than compensated. Watching Spag and Bol chasing each other from lounge to kitchen to playroom to lounge dressed in fairy dresses and winter hats which were far too big from them, giggling profusely as they did, cheered her no end. Sometimes Mummies did get sick. But they were never lonely.

Up on a roof

2009-10-10T14:34:00.000-07:00

Saturday, October 10 '09

"It's sunny, so please put dolls out," read the text. Mrs. Bennet was currently marching the three oldest Miss Bennets down the hill towards the cinema, leaving Mr. Bennet with the mischievous Spag and Bol and a half-constructed IKEA wardrobe to build. She had temporarily lifted the DIY curfew as Jannie, Mrs. Bennet's lovely mum had arranged for the King of Bodge, Mr. Jannie to be at hand to help. Whether it was safe to leave her husband and her Father banging away with two little girls free to roam at will, was a risk Mrs. Bennet decided to take. At least with the sun in full beam, there was a chance that the acne-creamed baby dolls could get their much-needed face lifts. Mr. Bennet was sceptical. He didn't believe such drastic treatment would work. Mrs. Bennet was more optimistic. She returned at lunch-time to find the two plastic victims sunbathing on the shed roof. Thankfully the older Miss Bennets didn't notice until later that afternoon. By then the sun had done wonders to the doll's grafitti skin and she was able to explain why they were where they were and that their parents hadn't gone completely mad.
Mrs. Bennet was impressed. One of the dolls, although now having slightly darker skin pigment in places, was essentially Biro-free. Her companion still wore some of her wounds and needed to revisit the plastic surgeon in the morning and be turned over to catch the sunlight, if there was any. But at least Spag and Bol had been given a reprieve. Their older siblings weren't cross with them or their mother for letting them loose in the first place. Acne cream mixed with sunlight had done the trick, certainly for one doll, who was returned to her owner. The other returned to the hospital shed for a rest, ready for a further installment. Mrs. Bennet did now worry for her own daughters should they ever need acne cream. She certainly wouldn't be putting them on a shed roof for a sun-bathing session. If the cream reacted with the sun's rays in this way and did Biro-removing wonders for plastic skin, what would it do to real skin? Having said that, Mrs. Bennet thought it could be a good way of removing age spots. She quite fancied a five hour kip in the sun - although perferably not high up on a shed roof!

Walkie Talkie can take a walkie

2009-10-04T14:11:00.000-07:00

Sunday, October 4 '09

The whole idea of having a shed, studio, retreat, office or space was so that the owner could escape into a child-free zone without being disturbed for however long she needed. Mrs. Bennet had obviously not made this very clear to those who shared bite-sized modern Pemberley with her. For her 40th birthday, the little Miss Bennets had, thanks to Mr. Bennet, given her a walkie talkie so they could communicate with her when she disappeared down the garden.
"We thought it would be fun to chat to you Mummy," they informed her. Eyebrows raised, she looked quizzically at her husband.
"It was so I call you back after midnight," he explained.
"But had it not occured to you that I might not want to come back?" she replied.
The Miss Bennets ushered her into her den so they could test the efficiency of their present. Mrs. Bennet had vaguely remembered seeing the said object on Miss Bennet Number Two's birthday wish list. No doubt she had had something to do with it.
Dutifully Mrs. Bennet took her talkie walkie - which she preferred to call it - to her shed. She couldn't help thinking that a better present would have been an obedient microchip which could be installed into each child (and possibly husband.) The remote control of course would for once be firmly in the hands of Mrs. Bennet.

But it’s not working

2009-10-02T06:10:00.000-07:00

Friday, October 2 ‘09

There were certain theories which clearly were not working in the Bennet household. The “getting out the door” theory did not exist as far as Mrs. Bennet was concerned. She had tried everything in her parental power to get her offspring out of the house, into the car, back out of the car and through the school gates before the bell went. But no matter how hard she tried, there was always something – a child, a paddy (or a “ponk” as Mr. and Mrs. Bennet called it), a recycle van, a lack of parking space or a completely exhausted mother – which stopped them achieving their goal. This morning it was Spag (alias Miss Rosie Bennet) who would not co-operate. She point blankly refused to put on her shoes or coat, and instead lay prostrate on the floor and wouldn’t budge. It hadn’t helped that the older Miss Bennets had decided to play hide and seek instead of cleaning their teeth. It was only when she moved the computer chair Mrs. Bennet discovered Miss Bennet Number Two – so good was she at hiding. Instead of using spoons to eat their cereal, they had armed themselves with felt tip pens and got lost in a world of imaginative drawing. There was just no sense of urgency or the comprehension that “I must go to school.”
Mrs. Bennet had had enough. Doing live reports on radio or television was a doddle compared to getting five children out of the house. Her stress levels soared far higher. Whatever it took she would not get worked up by this charade any more. If the children weren’t ready by the time the Scooby Doo van had to leave, then they would have to come in whatever state of dress they were in. Having to go to school in pyjamas would soon teach them a lesson.
The other theory which had failed her so far was the acne cream removing Biro one. Right now the defaced baby dolls were plastered in the white stuff, so-say sun-bathing so that the sun’s rays could work with the chemicals in the cream. Only the sun had disappeared two hours ago. Spag and Bol's etchings hadn't. The dolls, looking rather pathetic and sad, were lying on the trampette. One or two of the neighbour’s cats had sauntered by to see what was going on, and realising that one of their favoured spots had been taken, walked off haughtily. It wasn’t every day you saw two miniature people undergoing cosmetic surgery in broad daylight. And it was broad daylight, or to be more accurate direct sunlight that was needed for this procedure to work. Mrs. Bennet feared she would now have to wait a year. She peered curiously at the creamed dolls. Had the marks faded slightly or was that wishful thinking? They were certainly visible and very striking on one side.
She wiped off the cream and popped the dolls back into the hospital shed.
As it was Friday, there was not a chance of trying the procedure again until next week. A whole weekend then of hoping the question: “where’s my Baby Annabell Mummy?” didn’t pop up. Mrs. Bennet decided she might have to tell the owners that unfortunately their babies were currently in special care and couldn’t be held for a while.
Clouds threatened overhead. Mrs. Bennet needed a miracle. Well two actually. A dose of divine wisdom as to how to get to school on time and a cure for removing black marks from innocent plastic babies. Incidentally if the cream did work, she intended to put some on her wrinkles and sit out in the sun all day.

Mrs. Bennet buys acne cream for a doll!

2009-10-01T08:02:00.001-07:00

Thursday, October 1 09

Children, Mrs. Bennet realised, took you to places you never ever expected to go. They also forced you to learn things you hadn’t realised you needed to learn. Such was the case for Mrs. Bennet who was doing her best to prevent the eldest Miss Bennets from venturing anywhere near the male shed. The female version was kept clean, orderly and used as a retreat and office for Mrs. Bennet alone. The male equivalent was quite simply a mess, but proved a useful place to hide anything. It was currently hiding two Baby Annabell dolls.
As Mrs. Bennet was endeavouring to polish up any art skills she had, so too were her offspring. One afternoon, while the older Miss Bennets were painting piggy banks, Spag and Bol, their younger siblings were happily applying their artistic marks to two plastic faces. Mrs. Bennet was changing in the room next door and could hear their happy giggles. Investigating to see just what was so funny, Mrs Bennet caught them in the act. Ball-point pens in hand, they had applied their permanent squiggles and marks on to the cheeks and foreheads of each doll. Hiding the plastic babies was one thing; trying to remove the tattoos was another. After Mrs. Bennet’s attempts to apply nail varnish remover hadn’t worked, somehow Mr. Bennet had smuggled the clothe-less babes down to his side of the shed and had failed miserably to remove the Spag and Bol imprints with mentholated spirits. If that didn’t work, what would? These dolls weren’t cheap, and the Miss Bennets who the dolls belonged to, were not going to be very happy. Not very happy at all.
Mrs. Bennet went to work that night and consulted Mr. Google for help. He was able to suggest various ideas: baking soda paste, vegetable oil, carpet cleaner, adhesive remover and even evaporated milk. According to fellow parents who had also suffered the same ball-point baby defacing problem, none of the fore-mentioned had proved to be the answer. But there was one product which apparently did and there was even photographic evidence to prove it. The solution? Acne cream containing 10% benzyl peroxide. Apply it to the doll and then stick her in sunlight for a few hours and hey presto all the marks disappear.
So here Mrs. Bennet was on her way to a chemist to buy acne cream. Not for a teenager, but for a doll. And if the pharmacist dared to ask her if she had used the cream before or had had any side effects, she knew she would probably not be able to contain herself. Her side effect was a fit of giggles.

Goodbye to DIY

2009-09-25T06:23:00.000-07:00

Friday, September 25 '09

Mr. Bennet did not yet know it, but Mrs. Bennet had banned him from any future D.I.Y efforts which may be needed in future at their modern bite-size Pemberley. When a curtain rail fell down in Miss Bennet Number One’s bedroom, hitting the bed with such force it made Mrs. Bennet jump, she vowed that was enough. If Miss Naomi Bennet had been asleep at the time, she would now be suffering from a severe headache. Only a few days ago, Miss Bennet Number Three had experienced an avalanche of coats after tying to reach her fleece. The entire rail fell off the wall, smattering its contents on the five-year-old. Mrs. Bennet now seriously considered employing a Darcy in the Dirt on a permanent basis. Book shelves were also a taboo subject if it involved a hammer and nail. Whilst breastfeeding Miss Bennet Number One on the marital bed, some nine years ago, the shelf behind her collapsed, sending the Chronicles of the 20th century hurtling in the cow's direction. It narrowly missed both mother and child by inches.
A decade on, today was also significant. It marked the end of Mr. Bennet’s D.I.Y exploits, no matter how simple.

The Mummy’s in a bad mood syndrome

2009-09-23T11:21:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, September 23 ‘09

“How would you feel Megan if I kept telling tales of you?” asked an indignant Miss Bennet Number Two.
“Sad,” replied a quietly spoken Miss Bennet Number Three, who after a long pause, added: “But then I feel sad because you hit me!”
Most people had an alarm clock. Mrs Bennet had squabbles as her new-day welcome. After the first ten minutes she just knew it wasn’t going to be an easy few hours. Her stomach was knotted, her head pounded and she did not want to face an hour of battling against wills, detangling hair and scraping squashed cornflakes and jammy toast off the floor or walls. She felt stressed. Mr Bennet had casually informed her last night that he was off to Singapore for five days. His announcement came at a moment when her resources were empty, her brain was scrambled and her body exhausted. She was in a season of change. Not THE change thankfully, but never-the-less, there were various things in her new decade calendar which took her out of her comfort zone farther than she had anticipated. She had embarked on leading her first parenting course, started a year’s art and design course on a Tuesday evening to see if there was anything creative left in her after 22 years and the twins had driven off with a childminder for the first time. Having interviewed some 85 artists over the past 18 months, Mrs Bennet had felt inspired and had decided to throw herself back into her art and this morning was the first of a 10 week pastel course. She thought it would be fun to play about with colour as her young children did so freely. But she was so uptight inside, all Mrs Bennet kept thinking was: “what am I doing here and why did I come?” By lunchtime she bitterly regretted plunging into anything new. The efforts needed to get to such a course, whether it was this one or the Tuesday evening, was such that she felt so frazzled by the time she arrived, it took her almost the entire class duration to unwind. Surrounded by those who clearly knew what a pastel was and had either been to art college, painted regularly or taught art, she wanted to leave before she had even made a mark on the page.
It didn’t help that she was feeling bad at shouting at the Miss Bennets and blew her top because one of them refused to look for a pair of white socks. They had absolutely no sense of urgency to get out of the house and quite frankly Mrs Bennet was fed up in shepherding them to the boarding gate. Like a kettle she boiled over, steam pouring from her nostrils and words flowing uncontrollably. She then suddenly stopped, fell to her knees, burst into tears and apologized profusely to the little Miss Bennets, who immediately threw their arms around her. She, now the child; they the adults.
This morning, the boarding gate was crammed with five lunchboxes, nappy bags, book bags, art bag, shoes, three swimming kits and a gym bag – in case she could run away afterwards. Despite this, due to the emotions bubbling within the Mummy, it was not the smoothest of exits. It was hardly surprising then that colour didn’t flow. Mrs Bennet wanted to wear black, scribble all over her pictures and run away. What parent was she to lead a parenting course? And why did she think she could be an artist? Mrs Bennet was clearly not having a good day.

The “But Mummy I have to have it now” syndrome

2009-09-22T07:05:00.000-07:00

Monday, September 21 ‘09

Having felt a deep sense of achievement in watching the eldest Miss Bennet get dressed, fed, hair and teeth brushed without so much as a repeat request, Mrs Bennet felt somewhat relaxed as she encouraged her flock to round up ready for the morning exit. A check list on Miss Bennet Number One’s desk with a tick box next to each simple instruction including get up, get dressed, put on clean white socks and so on; seemed to do the trick. The pre-teen happily ticked her boxes.
All was going too smoothly. Miss Bennet Number Two was voluntarily popping up toast and taking orders from her siblings; twins Spag and Bol were chuckling over a private joke which involved a couple of plastic play people and Mrs Bennet was ahead with the pigtail ritual. At eight o’clock, she was two heads down, three to go. She was dressed, had every book bag, shoe and lunch box, lined up in military precision at the boarding gate. And so far, nothing had been removed from a wandering Spag or Bol.
Thirty five minutes later three little school girls suddenly remember they have to take something really important into class and it must be today. The morning army camp had no room in its schedule for forgotten items, so peace was soon quickly escaping out the front door, instead of the six bodies inside.
“Mummy, I need to have a photo of me as a baby. We’re looking at growth today. Can you get me one so I can take it in?” cried an innocent five-year-old, oblivious of her mother’s rising stress levels.
“And you haven’t got my Indian top and trousers from the dressing up bag Mummy, and I wanted to take it today,” remembered the elder Miss Bennet who was studying Indian culture and custom at school.
“Oh, and I need a piece of fruit to take so we can paint it in art this morning. It has to be unusual and I don’t want anything we have got here, they’re all too boring,” chipped in Miss Bennet number three.
“Great,” thought Mrs Bennet, frantically trying to remember where Megan’s baby photo was and had they got time to nip into a shop and buy a quirky fruit?
Baby photo sorted, the flock was allowed beyond the fence; the shepherd following, guiding them with her spoken rod. Thankfully as Miss Bennet Number One had followed her check list to the tee, there were five valuable minutes spare – just enough time for Mrs Bennet to pull up outside her favourite supermarket, rush in and buy two coconuts for a £1. As she hadn’t managed to retrieve the Indian outfit from the dust heap under Mr Bennet’s side of the bed, she handed Miss Bennet Number One the other coconut. She too was studying the compositions and different shapes within a still life, so Mrs Bennet’s bunch of coconuts was the hit of the morning.
Once the three older sheep were safely in green uniform pastures and Spag and Bol were securely strapped in the Scooby Doo van, Mrs Bennet slumped over the steering wheel relieved the morning scrum was over. She glanced in the driver’s mirror. Make-up was smeared like war paint all over her left cheek. She hadn’t had chance to do a bathroom check in the rush to leave the house. No one but no one in the playground had said anything about her ridiculous look. Or was it because she always looked like that first thing in the morning?

Getting Past Go - The Avalanche Effect

2009-09-17T06:07:00.001-07:00

Thursday, September 17 ‘09

Having accepted that passing go was an impossible mission; out of sheer curiosity and for her own amusement Mrs Bennet decided to take note of the unforeseen daily factors against her. Of course there were six factors before anything else came into the equation: a harassed Mummy Bennet and five little Miss Bennets who all needed clothing, feeding, teeth and hair brushing, and finally shoeing - both on their feet and out the door. Having had a few years of school run experience, Mrs Bennet knew it made absolutely no difference as to what time she got up. If she was up at 6am, with all the shoes, coats, book bags, nappy bags and lunch boxes packed and lined up in orderly fashion in the taking off pad – the hallway – she would invariably still be late because at the 11th hour a distraught Miss Bennet insisted she had to have something really urgently and that it had to be found there and then or else her world would fall apart.
Today all was going well. Mrs Bennet had been given a “good girl” sticker for not raising her voice and all five Miss Bennets were in the boarding gate awaiting their flight. It was Mrs Bennet who had forgotten something – vital toiletries – and sped upstairs to find them. With the sheep dog now out of sight, the younger Miss Bennets began to wander and the middle one started to look for a coat.
Whizzing from upstairs, into the lounge and through the kitchen to pick up a bottle of water as she went, Mrs Bennet returned to the boarding gate to find three of her flock missing. One was pulling out all the blankets ready to set up a home, the other climbing on a chair ready to start colouring. A cry from the walk-in cupboard indicated the whereabouts of the other.
“Help Mummy, help!”
Following the shout, Mrs Bennet found her five-year-old hidden under an avalanche of coats. The entire coat rail had fallen off the wall and its contents had spewed onto the unsuspecting child. A bewildered face balancing skew-whiff spectacles on the nose looked up at her.
“I didn’t do anything Mummy. I only wanted my coat not everyone else’s!” she declared.
Wishing the Darcys in the Dirt were back on the scene and wishing Mr Bennet was good at DIY, Mrs Bennet set her child free and spent the next five minutes hunting out matching shoes from underneath the soft mountain.
Five minutes she didn’t have.
But it wasn’t just the clothes avalanche preventing her passing go. The recycle van drove into her close, just as she was trying to reverse off the drive. They had no time for mothers on a mission. They weren’t going to budge until every green box was emptied. And as Scooby Doo van had a rather large bottom and couldn’t squeeze through the six zero space available it had to sit motionless as the minutes slipped miserably by. Mrs Bennet had failed to pass go yet again through no fault of her own.

Getting past go

2009-09-14T15:03:00.000-07:00

Monday, September 14 '09

Mrs Bennet realised she would never win the game of monopoly when it came to the school run. If she could get past go – the front door – without shouting, tripping over a piece of Lego or Barbie shoe, returning several times to retrieve a forgotten lunchbox, book bag or coat; she might, just might, earn her £200. Well ok, five minutes with soothing Mr Latte would do. But this morning – the 12th morning since the new school term had started – she realised that winning was impossible. Winning was an illusion. Instead she felt she was being sent to gaol for bad behaviour.
“I was a nice person before I had children. I never shouted and I thought I had patience,” she told the five little Bennets as they were finally strapped into the car and therefore couldn’t move. She was cross with them, but even crosser with herself. Quite frankly she was fed up with hearing the sound of her own voice.
“How many times have I asked you to get your socks on? Yes you do have to get up! No you can’t wear that to school! Will you please get off Kezia’s head Rosie, and where oh where is the brush?”
Set to music, the monotonous droning moans of Mrs Bennet’s firing orders at her unruly soldiers wouldn’t sound so bad. In fact a bit of Mars by Holtz in the background could prove quite atmospheric. But long were the days when the soft sounds of classical music serenaded her as she dressed – by herself. How had she turned into such a “shouty” individual? Somehow she had managed to throw any parenting skills she had kidded herself she had, down the plughole along with the congealed blobs of toothpaste which always seemed to get spat out and stuck to the sink. One morning she’d found the white goo on the floor, wall and glass panel of the shower unit and had to scrape it off with a knife.
“No time for toothpaste checks this morning,” mumbled Mrs Bennet, as she mentally went through her check list.
“Three book bags, check. Three lunch bags, check. One nappy bag with at least two nappies in, check. One handbag with phone to call for help, check. One Mummy, check. Five children, check. Five coats on children, check. Right shoes on right children, check. Six sets of teeth cleaned? No? Three out of six will have to do, check. Six heads brushed? Looks as if two have, fingers will have to do with rest, check. Can’t afford to stay in house any longer. We really are late now. Where are the keys? Not on hook where they should be. Last seen rattling in a tiny hand heading towards dolls house. After quick search, keys are found in bath with a toy goat. Brain? Not sure it can be found so easily. Most of it got eaten by three placentas followed by an oversized version due to twins. No hope then. Still it doesn’t excuse shouting behaviour. Must try and be more organised, not work so late at night and get up earlier, preferably BEFORE children.”
Check list complete, the children were strapped in the Scooby Doo van, leaving the house to sigh in beautiful peace. Mrs Bennet was tempted to stay there. But onwards to school she must, even if slightly late. She may not get her £200 this morning, but she could do with picking up a Chance card. It might take her to Mayfair. But Mrs Bennet knew school runs didn’t go there.

Spag and Bol’s t-towel and trolley war

2009-09-07T13:24:00.000-07:00

Monday, September 7 ‘09

Sibling squabbles were frequent in the Bennet household despite the fact there were now more rooms to escape to. Mrs Bennet dived into the shoe cupboard now and then so she didn’t hear the “Mummy she hit me!” and “And she deliberately scribbled on my drawing!” Mrs Bennet realised the quarrelling was part of her life for the foreseeable future. The more children you have, the more likely at some part in the day, one combination or another will fall out, sit on each other, stick a tongue out or want the same toy/book at the same time.
Spag and Bol, the little Twin Bennets were having a tug of war with a t-towel. Sitting in their respective blue booster seats with matching brown beards due to a chocolate pudding indulgence, they both wanted to hold the rather faded, holey t-towel. Spag (alias Rosie), being somewhat bigger all round was winning as Bol (alias Kezia) was being lifted a few inches out of her chair, yet refusing to let go. The shouts were getting louder in the dining room. The giggles were getting louder in the adjoining, open plan kitchen. Mr and Mrs Bennet, amused by Miss Bennet Number Four and Five’s sudden fascination for a scraggly t-towel, were quite enjoying the spectacle; waiting in the wings to rescue the smaller twin who looked like she was about to fly across the room with a blue plastic seat attached to her bottom. She may have lost in strength, but she made up for it in cheek and charm. And the one nil down score only sought to give her extra determination to get even with her 20-minute-older sister.
The revenge came during a shopping episode. Mrs Bennet, having failed in her search for a double-seated trolley, decided to walk her toddlers in with the help of Jannie, her lovely mum. This was fine until Bol, with her extra vigilant eyes, spotted a mini trolley parked in the entrance ready for potential two-year-old shoppers. She ran to it, claimed it as her own, and grinned victoriously at Spag, who realising there wasn’t a trolley for her, threw her faithful battered and well-loved rabbit on the floor in disgust and herself down with it. Mrs Bennet wanted to leave them to it; pretend they didn’t belong to her and walk out. Only they did belong to her and the supermarket staff knew they did too. Bol had got her revenge. And despite pleas from both Mrs Bennet and Jannie; and screams from Spag, Bol refused to let go of the said trolley and pushed it round the aisles…and occasionally into people….with a vice grip.
Whilst Mrs Bennet understood her elder twin’s upset at the unfairness of life, she couldn’t magic another tiny trolley to appear and neither could the staff. Trying to reason with a two-year-old who was sobbing was like trying to find a minute precious ring stone in the midst of a batch of bread dough. As Mrs Bennet knew from bitter experience, you just had to wait until cooking time was over.
Half an hour later, another trolley was delivered to a now pacified twin who was sitting quietly, trying to get a straw into a bottle of water in the café area. Mrs Bennet was taking refuge in her forgotten friend Mr Latte, who on occasions such as this had become a firm companion for Jannie too. The war had ended. Peace between the twins was momentarily made. And side by side they pushed their matching trolleys up the wide aisles, chatting amicably to one another, creating smiles and not too much havoc as they went. Although Mrs Bennet was sure she didn’t put Cock-a-leekie or Oxtail soup on her shopping list! The twin tug-o-war score: one each to Spag and Bol. Mummy nil.

Bennets Abroad

2009-08-24T05:40:00.000-07:00

August 12 '09

Friends thought she was mad to take five little girls to Spain, but Mrs Bennet thought it was just as mad to take them out anywhere in the summer holidays. It was quicker to fly to Valencia than it was to drive to Liverpool. And at least she had Mr Bennet's arms and legs to call on for extra support. And anyway it was a Bennet adventure. Mrs Bennet liked challenges. Even if they were at 35,000 feet calming down two two-year-olds who couldn't work out what had happened to their ears and why there were clouds below and alongside them when they were usually up in the air. Miss Naomi Bennet had just turned three last time she has ascended and Miss Emily a mere seventeen months. The whole flying experience through the eyes of five little Bennet girls made it all the more interesting. Miss Naomi impressed by her airport surroundings couldn't help but utter a "wow this is amazing!" Miss Emily, the time-keeper of rhe family exclaimed every few minutes, "are we going to miss our flight?!" Miss Megan, who didn't like having "hurty" ears, kept shouting out, "I've lost my voice and it's not coming back?" as she couldn't understand it was her hearing she'd lost. Mrs Bennet tried to get her to pop her ears by holding her nose and blowing hard or swallowing. Miss Megan knew about the potential ear problem from a Topsy and Tim book. But they had been given a sweet to suck by the air hostess. Miss Megan was quite upset she hadn't so Mrs Bennet tried to save the day by providing the glucose. It only served to upset her offspring more as Miss Megan swallowed it before descent. "Oh no, I've eaten it!" she announced panic-stricken, a state of mind which stayed with her until five hours later when the "pop" happened and her "voice" returned. The little Miss Twin Bennets just saw the airport as a new playground, somewhere to run and explore. Miss Rosie was understandably distraught however when her precious bunny was taken off her to be scanned and then her pushchair disappeared on a conveyor belt, in her eyes, never to be seen again! As for Mr Bennet? He enjoyed his single seat taking off but Mrs Bennet insisted he swapped for landing. Being the filling in a twin sandwich had its own taste of turbulence! He also wished he had booked a bigger hire car. A seven seater car with no boot space with seven bennets, two pushchairs, five lots of hand luggage and four suitcases to fit in, left him dripping with sweat and his wife praying for a miracle that somehow they'd achieve the impossible and get everything in. Somehow they did and somehow they managed to find their villa. Were they mad? Yes but it was worth it to have the adventure..... and a chilled bottle of beer sitting on a balcony overlooking a huge expanse of Mediterranean sea. Mr Bennet looked good after a day in Spanish sun, jumping waves and messing about with his little women. The cacophony of giggles after endless splashing in the pool was music to Mrs Bennet's ears. May be turning forty wasn't going to be too bad.

The Browning Banana Effect

2009-07-27T13:57:00.000-07:00

Monday, July 27 2009

Two lonely bananas looked lost in the Bennet fruit bowl, which a few hours ago, had been brimming with ripe apples. One sitting at the dining table meant the bananas were now bereft of their crunchier pals. Five hungry mouths had chomped their way to the cores, now left for Mrs Bennet to clear away.
“That will be me and Mrs Bennet in a few years time,” thought Mrs Bennet as she took the banana-only fruit bowl into the kitchen to refill, this time with tiny oranges, the “easy peeler” kind.
The bananas didn’t look as fresh as they did on Friday. Their brown freckled patches were now more noticeable against the yellow skin. They didn’t seem so appealing and Mrs Bennet knew they’d end up as banana cake if not consumed within the next 24 hours.
“Where does time go?” she thought sadly. She didn’t want to be 40. It sounded so old. Well it had sounded really old when she was about 15. And it didn’t seem five minutes since she was at secondary school, mulling over which A level subjects to take.
Last night she had been looking at baby photos with Miss Naomi Bennet and laughing at the funny comments she had included in her first year book. None of the other Miss Bennets had such a book. Mrs Bennet had had time on her hands when Miss Naomi had arrived. Miss Emily had half a book, but Miss Megan, Miss Rosie and Miss Kezia didn’t stand a chance of getting a completed diary. Mrs Bennet felt guilty about it. She was so busy looking after them, feeling like the ball in a pin-ball machine, pinging from task to task, child to child, she often failed to take a photo of the occasion let alone get the opportunity to develop them or put them in an album. One day maybe? What hit her was how young she had looked. It certainly wasn’t the face she had seen in the mirror this morning. Like the banana, it had brown marks on it, slightly wrinkled and a little jaded. Her teeth were no longer as white – in fact one was missing – and she looked, well older. It hadn’t helped that most of the past ten years had been deprived of sleep or that her body had produced five children, was constantly on the go and no longer knew was rest meant. In fact if she was honest she really felt like a discarded banana peel. Since the little Miss Twin Bennets’ arrival, she’d spent countless hours in “tighten your asset” classes trying to get her “peel” to stick back together. If you looked closely you’d see it didn’t quite match. But thankfully only Mr Bennet got that close.
Right now Mrs Bennet didn’t want time to move. She wanted to freeze moments – the infectious giggle of Miss Kezia Bennet who ran away at the mention of “nappy change”; the innocent writing and simple loveable drawings Miss Megan Bennet constantly produced; the Tigger-like bounce in Miss Emily Bennet’s step, the wonderful smattering of freckles dusting Miss Naomi Bennet’s nose and the way Miss Rosie Bennet sucked her fingers and cuddled her bunny when she was tired. Mr Bennet who frequently delighted in reminding her that he was younger than herself, seemed to have worn better. Granted, he had less hair and perhaps more padding, but his smile was still as bright and he certainly didn’t have any stretch marks. He didn’t look so tired either.
Mrs Bennet hoped the next decade would bring more sleep, but somehow she knew more grey hairs, wrinkles and age spots would arrive. Like the uneaten banana, left in the fruit bowl after the younger crispier fruit had long gone, she hoped she would still be useful. But then there was always the chance she and Mr Bennet would make a good banana cake in their ripening years.

Peer Pressure versus Purse Pressure

2009-07-16T09:42:00.000-07:00

Thursday, July 16 09

“Now I’m going to have to wear my school uniform. I don’t have anything to wear and my friends will laugh at me,” said an angry Miss Bennet Number One as she stormed off in the direction of her bedroom.
Mrs Bennet was a bad Mummy, a stingy Mummy and a Mummy who didn’t care. That was the current opinion of her eldest daughter. On occasion, Mrs Bennet felt outnumbered by her offspring. Today she was quite grateful that she had more than one daughter. There was at least 20 per cent chance that one of them would be having an “I love my Mummy” day.
Tomorrow was the last day of school before the long stretch of summer holidays – which like a remote landscape seemed to go on for miles and miles. It was non-uniform day so children had the privilege of paying to wear what they wanted. Only it seemed when they did reappear in their own gear, instead of the usual sea of green, it was now a sea of denim.
“All my friends are wearing a skirt in the morning. I don’t have one so can you go and buy the one I liked in Tesco please?” Miss Bennet Number One had asked.
The answer of course had been no. Although Mrs Bennet treated her children when she could, she was not going down this road. You buy a new skirt for one; you buy one for four more. And anyway there were two more Miss Bennets taking part in non-uniform day. It could prove a very expensive last day of term if she gave in.
That’s why she was considered Mean Mummy. Peer pressure versus purse pressure didn’t work. The pennies in the purse, or coppers to be more precise won. There weren’t enough to buy a waist band today let alone a full garment.
Miss Bennet Number One wasn’t open to reason. Instead she took herself to bed, snuggled under the covers and pretended to sleep. Eventually she returned downstairs in her chosen non-uniform attire – jeans and t-shirt. She didn’t wear a smile. But Mrs Bennet decided the only way of dealing with pre-teenage strops was ignoring it and changing tact. So instead of imitating the sulk, she tickled her eldest daughter until she could do nothing else but giggle. Dimples and denim went so much better together.

Not enough pressure

2009-06-28T09:26:00.000-07:00

Saturday, June 27 ‘09

Mrs Bennet didn’t have enough stress in her life. The nurses at her local hospital decided she needed a career in the National Health Service. Her blood pressure was too low and obviously needed a boost.
“How do I get it to go up then?” Mrs Bennet asked the sister.
“We don’t get asked that very often. You need to work here, that’ll make it soar!” she replied.
Mrs Bennet was in Casualty, being checked over for a bruised rib cage. Every time she laughed, she winced. She had tripped over an object in the road in the small hours of the morning – as you do – and had fallen awkwardly on her chest. As the Bust Fairy hadn’t visited her for some time, she didn’t have much padding, and crushed what little assets she had. Obviously sore, she had decided to get herself checked out – despite the embarrassment. Mrs Bennet hadn’t been drinking. Instead, she had been on a very special ladies night out; night being the operative word. She, along with 1,700 other women had, that morning walked 10 miles through and round a nearby town, starting at the stroke of midnight in aid of the local hospice, Cotswold Care. Striding out, the impressive snake of white t-shirts, was anything but silent as it meandered its way through dimly lit streets and parkland. Mrs Bennet had clocked up hundreds of miles over the years in terms of running and not once had she tripped up and fallen over. But then she had never had cause to run at one or two o’clock in the morning. Why would she? Surely being in a comfy bed was much more sensible. The ladies thought so too as they passed a shop selling mattresses and luxury single and double beds, which teased them as they marched by. Mrs Bennet had thought the idea of having a ladies night out and some undisturbed adult time had been a good one at the time. This was before her own lovely mum had been diagnosed with the C word, so now the walk had even more significance. For once, she and her friends could speak in whole sentences, while their legs obediently worked hard. The night air was cool but not cold and unlike 10 o’clock that morning, there wasn’t a drop of rain in sight. However for Mrs Bennet there were other obstacles. She narrowly avoided getting winded by a bollard as it suddenly appeared in the centre of the pavement. Thankfully a friend pulled her away just in time. But at mile three, she failed to see an obstacle in the road, and completely lost her balance, tumbled and fell with a thud – her sternum taking the brunt of the fall. Shaken up, Mrs Bennet fought back the emotion, brushed herself down and kept going. Her chest tight and painful, she wished she had more padding, but vowed to keep on going. She wanted her medal, she wanted to finish and she looked forward to her coffee and croissant at the end.
Hence why she was here at the hospital at a more civilised time. It hurt to laugh and inhale. But apart from popping pain killers and getting some rest, there wasn’t a lot more she could do. As her life wasn’t stressful – according to her blood pressure measurements – rest was easy! Five children weren’t obviously enough for her. In jest, her mother-in-law suggested maybe six or seven might do it. But if that ever happened, it would be the NHS which would be in trouble. And so would Mrs Bennet. It would be Mr Bennet’s blood pressure which would rise for fear his wife had gone off with Mr Darcy.

High price for spending a penny

2009-06-08T14:32:00.000-07:00

Monday, June 8 ‘09

Trying to spend a penny with two little people, or even five as was often the case, was no easy task. When nature called, it was a costly trip for Mrs Bennet. Negotiating a double buggy through the toilet door was one thing, trying to entertain two impatient children while she did her business, was another. And when all five little Miss Bennets were with her, it was almost impossible, especially when they decided they needed to go at different intervals and at the most inconvenient moment. A double dose of potty training was looming on the horizon and Mrs Bennet was approaching the prospect with fear and trepidation.
Toilet trips were therefore not expeditions to take lightly. And this one had a heavy price. Mrs Bennet was in her favourite supermarket, precariously balancing Spag and Bol on a grown-up café seat because they refused to swing their legs into a high chair. As the call of nature was pressing, and Jannie, having recently undergone surgery for breast cancer, couldn’t lift a toddler if required, Mrs Bennet opted for the best solution – hopping into the disabled toilet immediately next to her mother, so she could get back within minutes to resolve any lifting crisis.
“I’ll be quick, I promise,” she yelled. And quick she was. But the getting out process was by no means swift. Somehow in between locking herself in, and turning the lock to get out, the mechanism went limp and got stuck. Mrs Bennet couldn’t get out, and anyone outside, couldn’t get in. She was trapped.
“I suppose this is one way to get away from children,” she thought grimly. Confined in what must be a 200m square box, with a pungent nappy bin for company and not a window in sight, Mrs Bennet was steadily getting hotter as time elapsed. She knew there was no point in shouting, “Help!” as no one would hear her. Besides the door holding her captive, a heavy double door separated the toilet from the café.
She just hoped Spag and Bol were behaving themselves. They were at an age where sitting still was a foreign concept unless an apple or an orange – something which required effort and a long period of time to eat – was in their sticky paws. And Mrs Bennet knew they weren’t armed.
She noticed an emergency cord in the corner of her prison. It was the sort of thing Mr Bean would have pulled, simply because he wanted to know what happened if he did. It wasn’t the sort of thing a grown woman did just to see “what if?” But now she had an excuse. She really did need help.
She felt embarrassed she wasn’t a disabled person. But in a sense she was really glad it was herself and not an old lady trapped inside. She was feeling claustrophobic, although she knew from the sound of activity outside that someone had come to her rescue.
“We’re just getting the manager. Are you alright in there?” asked a familiar voice. Mrs Bennet used the café so much as a refuge and writing place with her trusted friend Mr Latte, that she was known by all staff. There was a struggle with the lock, but nothing was happening.
“I ran in here so I didn’t leave my mum with the twins too long. She can’t lift them. Please tell her I’m stuck in here,” Mrs Bennet shouted.
“It’s OK, she says you can stay in there as long as you like! She knows you need a break!”
Jannie had a point. It was a break of sorts. It just wasn't a venue she would have chosen. “Please don’t let the fire brigade get involved. I really don’t want my five minutes of fame in this scenario!” she silently prayed. Although who could complain having a Darcy in uniform running to their aid?
What seemed like hours later, the manager finally unscrewed the lock and let her out. Embarrassed, Mrs Bennet walked free. So many times she had used this tiny cubicle to change a nappy. Today she had only used it to avoid being longer than necessary for her mum’s sake. Spending a penny had proved a lot dearer than she anticipated.

Words hurt sometimes

2009-06-06T15:46:00.000-07:00

Friday, June 5 ‘09

“Could you move?” An officious headmistress-like voice boomed above the moans Spag and Bol were making from their chariot. The tone wasn’t polite, it was an order. It implied,” you are invading my space,” “you have no right to be here,” and “take those vile children away from me.”
Mrs Bennet felt like a two-year-old herself, being told off for smearing yoghurt in her hair or flicking peas at her sister. Only her sister was some 30 miles away in Bristol filming and she couldn’t flick her peas that far.
Mrs Bennet was in the local public library looking for a suitable DVD for a girly night in. Mr Bennet was flying off to Iran that afternoon until late Tuesday evening so she had invited a friend round for company. In ten minutes time Miss Kezia Bennet had an appointment with the doctors, a mere 100 yards away. But knowing they always ran late, Mrs Bennet didn’t want to get there any earlier than she needed to. With two little girls to entertain, for what could be 40 minutes in a confined space with sick people, she needed somewhere to go to kill a bit of time. Instead she was killed by words. Spag and Bol started moaning in the children’s section of the library. Note, the children’s section. The lady who came from the ilk of children shouldn’t be seen or heard, was sitting at the far end at a computer with head phones on.
Mrs Bennet had visited this library since she had been in nappies herself, some four decades ago, and had never been spoken to like this. How powerful words were. In the wrong hands they could so easily wound and pull down. Mrs Bennet felt ashamed sometimes to be part of the media. She’d been in the “press” brigade for 22 years, yet what she endeavoured to do was use words to inspire and encourage. It felt like swimming against a tide. She had been told when leaving school, “we don’t think you’re tough enough to be a journalist.” But she had no intention of being tough. You could write truthful stories without upsetting people. Not everyone thought that way. With the spoken word though, it wasn’t so much what was said, it was the way it was said. And here in the library, the three words fired at Mrs Bennet, hurt. Granted, not as much as her head which was still battling infection and feeling the side effects of antibiotics. But surprisingly it brought tears to Mrs Bennet’s eyes. And she did not cry in public. She walked away before her anger rose any higher and produced words she didn’t normally utter. But Mrs Bennet’s anger didn’t last. She was more in shock. It was the “could-you-move” lady who was angry. Angry at little children for being children and conveniently forgetting she had been one once. Apparently it hadn’t been the first time she’d told a mother off or ordered her away from the space she was working in. But in her experience, Mrs Bennet knew there was always a story behind a story. She wasn’t about to use words to cause any greater wounds. Instead she just wondered what the lady’s story was. Three words may not offer much insight into a soul, but they conveyed a deep-felt annoyance towards little people. Mrs Bennet looked affectionately at Spag and Bol, who were unaware they were victims of such wrath. Annoying as they were sometimes, these fearfully-and-wonderfully-made twins – different as day and night – were an endless source of amazement and wonder. Mrs Bennet learnt more about herself through them than any self-help book could offer. She vowed never to become an irritable old woman. She would grow old disgracefully, but she wouldn’t learn to spit or speak rude words to anyone. She’d eat the red hat covering her purple hair if she ever did.

Bite-size Pemberley is complete

2009-05-29T12:33:00.000-07:00

Friday, May 29 ‘09

Mrs Bennet took off her sky blue Crocs and let the new carpet caress her feet. The carpet fitters were still on their knees but for once she was off hers. She seemed only to have prayed one recurring prayer over the past few months - for grace and humour to get her through to this point. It had worked and today marked the start of a new era. The old and the new parts of the Bennet home were finally joined together with a rolling field of beige – opening it up into the spacious place they so needed. The building project had taken as long as Miss Megan and Miss Emily Bennet’s pregnancies and 10 days short of Spag and Bol’s. Mrs Bennet had felt the growing pains, the heartburn, the cravings, and the discomfort of the house gestation and labour. Like in her four pregnancies, she had born the brunt of it, although Mr Bennet had been there at the birth and beyond. Before bite-size Pemberley even began, Mrs Bennet had told him very firmly that if he wanted a wife at the end of it, then they would have to move out while the Darcys in the Dirt moved in. They didn’t move out and after eight months of dust and disruption, Mrs Bennet was still Mr Bennet’s wife.
Leaving Mr Bennet to put up cots and pay the carpet men, she escaped to celebrate in her own quiet way. It couldn’t be a bottle of chilled rose thanks to a dose of antibiotics to get rid of a nasty infection which set in after that problem tooth had been removed. Incidentally Mrs Bennet had now forgiven the tooth fairy, who apparently had relented and left a pound coin underneath her pillow. It wasn’t quite enough to pay for a stool so Mrs Bennet could reach the chutney and chocolate, but it did help pay for her celebratory drink.
Steaming hot Mr Latte after all had become quite a friend during this whole process of change. He didn’t give her any answers, he didn’t judge and he didn’t give her direction. But he did give her time out from Miss Bennet demands and made her sit down, take stock and more importantly escape when there was just no room to run too.
As the big 4-0 was now approaching, Mrs Bennet had wondered if she had experienced some kind of “I-don’t-want-to-be-forty” moment, or whether it was just the pressure of having five children, a major building extension and grappling with her own anger at her dear mother’s cancer issue. As much as she enjoyed having the Darcys in the Dirt around, she was looking forward to enjoying the spaciousness and places to hide when it all got too much. For a while bite-size Pemberley would look a bit odd, as they didn’t have enough money to buy the furniture needed to fill it. But a few cushions would do for now. Her shed was to be called The Space. It would be hers to go whenever she wanted. There was the problem of finding a desk, but as she’d earmarked an old piece of lounge carpet, which the carpet fitters had kindly laid for her, and the battered futon, all she needed was her laptop, some classical music, her laptop, sketchbook and Mr Latte and she would be in her own world for a few minutes – a world where she could just be and dream again. Having five children was such a privilege, but if she was honest at times, it could be a little too much. Her octopus had never arrived, so she did her best to provide a loving arm to which ever Miss Bennet needed it at the time. It did mean that Miss Kezia or Bol was forever hanging in monkey-fashion around her shin while she did so, but although she didn’t like it even Bol knew Mrs Bennet’s love had to go around.
During the whole Pemberley episode, Mrs Bennet had learnt a valuable lesson. That it was vital, while she was attending to the needs of her growing brood, she had to attend to her own needs too. In recent weeks having written about the plethora of artists and creative people living in her area, she had succumbed to her own long-forgotten painting cravings, and gone out and bought some canvases and paints. Now the Darcys in the Dirt were gone and the drilling had stopped, Mrs Bennet could concentrate on being a mother, a friend, a lover and the creative being she knew she was. Life in bite-sized Pemberley would no doubt have its moments of excitement and frustrations, but it would be a house of laughter and life, providing volumes and volumes of memories for her to capture with her pen. So long as she kept off the spicy olives, she could concentrate on bringing up her Bennet production line and not add to it any further.

Forget fainting Mrs Bennet gets knocked out instead

2009-05-21T14:09:00.000-07:00

Thursday, May 21 ‘09

Mrs Bennet did not faint again in the dentist’s chair as she feared she might. Instead she faced her fear and went anyway, after eating a good breakfast and stuffing a banana in her mouth 15 minutes before her appointment. Having consulted a laughter book she had by her bed, she had found a quote from the Bible which said “you will run and not faint.” Well that morning she ran four miles, and she didn’t faint whilst having a tooth out either – despite the fact she had it removed, while serenaded to Abba’s “SOS!” The tooth’s life had ended, but so too had the abscess. With all the pressure off the nerve ending, the dentist informed her she should start feeling better as her body wouldn’t have to fight off any more poison. That was reassuring anyway.
But this morning she was annoyed. The tooth fairy, obviously not very impressed with Mrs Bennet, who had left a note for her instead of the tooth in question, didn’t leave her anything. Not wishing to look at her poorly tooth, Mrs Bennet had left it with the dentist. Therefore there hadn't been a proper offering to give the fairy. So she didn't leave a proper offering for Mrs Bennet. It meant Mrs Bennet couldn’t buy the stool she needed for the kitchen, so instead she took the children’s plastic step, once part of a potty in a previous life, from the bathroom.
Twenty-four hours after the extraction event, Mrs Bennet still couldn’t feel her tongue and her right cheek was starting to throb. She didn’t feel the best, but mothers always soldier on, don’t they?
And so she arrived at school later that day to pick up the older three Bennets who had stayed late for various cooking and library clubs. As usual the three of them walked up to the school gate, with a member of staff to where Mrs Bennet was waiting on non-yellow lines to greet them. As the Scooby Doo van only had one door, which needed a certain strength to slide open, Mrs Bennet got out to walk round and let them in. Two of them climbed in. But then hearing a gasp of horror from one of them, Mrs Bennet turned and realised the car was moving forward. Being an automatic car, instead of being in park mode, Mrs Bennet had left it in drive mode, and it obeyed. It was going very slowly forward so Mrs Bennet ran round to see if she could get to the handbrake in time. Unfortunately in trying to open the door, she somehow managed to hit her head on the door and fell backwards into the road, while the car crashed into a Cotswold stone wall and came to a halt. Two of the children inside were upset, the poor child outside watching was upset, while the twins were chatting away, oblivious to what was going on. Mrs Bennet went white as a mum and teacher ran to her aid. Her head hurt and all she could think about was the children. She was just so thankful the car had been on a flat road and not on a hill. It could have been a lot lot worse.
Half an hour later she went into shock, shook for quite a while and ran Mr Bennet and told him to keep talking to her until she felt better. With five children on board, she was not going to put them at risk and drive until she was ready. Thankfully she had been wise enough to call a close friend for help, who came and kept her company. Relieved their mum was going to be OK, the Miss Bennets forgave her for not driving them to their friends’ house, where they were due to go for tea. Amazingly there were no paddies or displays of disappointment. Instead shocked by the runaway car and their mum’s attempt at head butting the door, they, like Mrs Bennet were just glad to get home. Mrs Bennet wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. She took a dose of pain killers and went to bed, hoping tomorrow would be better. Perhaps the tooth fairy might think again and make a return visit to her pillow.

With gritted teeth…..

2009-05-19T14:42:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, May 19 ‘09

Mrs Bennet was feeling nervous. Tomorrow she was going back to have that dreaded tooth removed. She hadn’t felt right since her passing out saga. The thought of returning didn’t exactly fill her with much joy. It may well be a break from children but she could think of nicer places to go. Would she faint again? Could she go through with the procedure? Could she manage to stop thinking about what the dentist was doing? Would she be able to block out the horrible noise factor and think positive thoughts? The trouble was she had seen the torturous instrument responsible for extraction and it looked too similar to the contraption the builders had just used to pull up some tiles from the Bennets old kitchen floor. It was not a kind looking instrument. It looked like it could inflict pain and Mrs Bennet knew its relation would be back in her mouth tomorrow lunchtime.
She tried to take her mind off the matter. But every time she tried to eat something, it only reminded her that all was not well in her mouth. However the Darcys in the Dirt were getting on well now. With just three days left before every tool – including the macabre-looking instrument – walked out with their owners, bite-size Pemberley was a centre of noise and activity. The old kitchen was now part bathroom, part walk-in cupboard; the new kitchen was almost complete as Chief Mr Darcy grouted the tiles and secured wooden doors. And finally six months after the shed men had built her office, the electricity had been connected. The problem was, as the Bennets hadn’t been able to borrow all the money they had wanted, there were now no spare pounds to buy Mrs Bennet a desk or the additional luxury of her Mr Latte machine which she had so dreamed about. She would just have to wait a little bit longer.
The sound of drills echoed in her head as she tried to edit a radio piece on breastfeeding. It was a sound she did not want to hear in light of tomorrow.
Instead she tried to concentrate on the voice in her headphones. She was facilitating a radio project, whereby a group of ladies were being trained – by her – to interview lots of different people about the myths, difficulties, funny stories and attitudes concerning breastfeeding. The myth she was editing related to size. The question was: did it matter how large you were when it came to breast feeding your baby? The answer the midwife gave was so funny it made her roar with laughter.
“Whether you have two gnats on the end of an ironing board or you have a trombone to deal with, every mother will have more than enough milk to feed one baby, or two or three!”
Mrs Bennet had proved the fact that gnats did very well when it came to feeding two hungry twins. She looked back at the milk bar days with fondness. Seeing Spag and Bol running round with oodles of energy, giggling and bumping into each other with their new pushchairs, it was hard to imagine them ever being the tiny vulnerable bundles they once were.
“I would so love to make time stop sometimes. They just grow up so quickly, like sand slipping through your fingers,” she thought.
But then there were moments like those in the dentist chair that seemed to last forever and didn’t go quick enough. Purees were a thing of the past for the little Miss Bennets, but not so for Mrs Bennet. She would be on the organic baby food tomorrow. Baby rice pudding had always been her favourite.

Passing out in style

2009-05-15T04:14:00.000-07:00

Thursday, May 14 09

Mrs Bennet needn’t have worried about having an emotional torrent in the dentist's chair. She did much worse. Seven weeks ago, as she sat in the reclining position, to her horror she cried. Jannie had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. Having held the tears back like a dam, to protect the children, unfortunately the only time there wasn’t a small person around, was in the dentist’s chair. And as the dentist pressed the button to tilt her backwards, he must have unlocked the floodgate. And the floods came, preventing him from removing the poorly tooth which had caused Mrs Bennet grief for almost 10 months, due to a festering abscess. Seven weeks later, Mrs Bennet was back, feeling calm and ready for pain. She’d given birth to five children without pain relief, so she could surely manage a tooth extraction.
Two injections later, all was well - until Mrs Bennet could see the instruments and started imagining what the dentist was doing. It was like watching a gardener attacking the roots of stubborn vegetables; only it was her roots he was dealing with. Her jaw felt like it was being yanked from its socket. She suddenly felt hot, her ears seemed to block out sound and the voices in the room were scarily quiet. She managed an “I don’t feel right,” and the next thing she knew her pulse was being taken, the seat lowered and the operation stopped. Mrs Bennet was horrified. How embarrassing. The procedure would have to continue next week. In the meantime her tooth was now slightly dislodged and as she drove home, a glucose tablet and glass of water later, bits of it started falling off. This was not going to be a fun week. A week of throbbing gums and anxious waiting for yet another visit to the dentist's chair. It was also going to be a week of Darcys in the Dirt ripping up tiles, plastering, plumbing, drilling and banging for all they were worth in order to finish their deadline, which was next Friday. Mr Bennet had ordered the carpet fitters to come the week after, so the Darcys had to finish all the major building work. Mr No Personality surveyor was due to visit the bite-size Pemberley in the coming weeks and unless he was satisfied, the money needed to pay for the work, would stay sitting in the building society. It had felt like Changing Rooms in the past few days and Mrs Bennet half expected Carole Smilie to pop into the kitchen for a much-needed cuppa. Mrs Bennet needed vodka or something similar right now. But thought better of it. Alcohol mixed with anaesthetic might not be such a good idea.
Instead she dosed herself up with paracetamol and spent the next three hours writing. It was the only thing which took her mind off into a different world. It provided a window into a space that was her own. Mrs Bennet was surrounded by chaos, but once she started tapping at the computer keys, she could block out dust, muddle and mess and write something which had a beginning, middle and an end. She knew bite-size Pemberley was almost there, but like her half extracted tooth, it wasn’t there yet. And she suspected it would get worse before it got better. Once done though, the space and the relief of coming through nine months of mayhem would be great. Would it be worth it? Yes. Would she go through it again? Definitely not.

Spag and Bol are two

2009-05-14T15:08:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, May 13 ‘09

Mrs Bennet couldn’t quite believe Spag and Bol were now two years old. It didn’t seem that long ago, she had cradled them in her arms, clumsily trying to put two tiny heads into position and tandem feed. Now they were two little people, individuals in their own beautiful right, brightening up her life and those around them. Without them – and their three adoring siblings – she wouldn’t be the woman she was today. Modern Mrs Bennet certainly wouldn’t exist. Yes, they tested her patience and pushed her to limits, but they also rubbed edges off her and forced her to see the world with a new perspective. No, she hadn’t anticipated changing nappies for a whole decade, nor had she envisaged a further nine-month growth project, which had left more stretch marks than a twin pregnancy. But building bite-size Pemberley had been a necessary part of adapting to the increase in female Bennets.
Miss Rosie and Miss Kezia still didn’t say a lot. But there was one word, they both cried excitedly everyday and that was DORA. For some reason, they had latched on to the popular Spanish cartoon character, Dora the Explorer and Mrs Bennet knew it wouldn’t be long before certain Spanish words, like Lo hicimos! (we did it!) and vámonos (let’s go!) popped out of their mouths. Mixed with their own Spagbolese language, it would make interesting listening.
The birthday girls were currently outside in the back garden. Despite its bald patches which like Mr Bennet needed fresh turf in places, it was now a safe area to play in. The garage door, builder’s tools and discarded piping had been removed. Instead various bikes, slides and a toy car provided ample entertainment as did footballs and snails. Miss Rosie was in the driving seat of the only car. Looking on, Miss Kezia obviously wanted a go, and Mrs Bennet knew there was every chance crying would soon break out. Surprisingly though turning two, had made way for a quality she had noticed was growing between the twins: sharing. Without protest, Spag (alias Rosie) got out of the car and opened the door for Bol (alias Kezia) to get in. Mrs Bennet then watched as Spag shut Bol in and walked across the garden, picked up a long stick and proceeded to open up the pretend petrol cap and place the stick in the hole. Once the tank was full, Spa put the cap back on and off Bol went. Well all five inches, as she got stuck on a stone and yelled for her mother.
But it was fascinating viewing. She knew babies were imitators, but watching two little people acting out real life in their own unique way was mesmerizing. Two years ago, they were helpless babes, with the sole aim of demanding attention and feeding at the milk bar. Now they happily entertained themselves, content in each other’s company and greedily lapping up every learning opportunity available. Usually it involved opening cupboards or tattooing themselves in felt tip pen when no one was looking. Yet these two delightful Miss Bennets enveloped Mrs Bennet in their world, forcing her to stop and see the world through their eyes; eyes which couldn’t read the newspapers or watch the news. And really when she took time to appreciate life from their perspective, it really wasn’t bad at all.

Cheese and Marmalade Sandwiches

2009-05-11T13:52:00.000-07:00

Monday, May 11 ‘09

“Urghhhhhh,” cried Mrs Bennet, biting into her cheese and chutney sandwich. It was not chutney. It was marmalade, which she didn’t like at the best of times, let alone mixed with cheese. It was like drinking what she thought was coffee and discovering it was tea. At least she liked tea. The error was a consequence of not knowing where anything was in her kitchen. Or more accurately not being able to reach the top shelf in her fridge, which now stood several inches higher than it had done in the old kitchen. Over the past few days, cupboards and appliances had been ripped from one set of walls (now resembling an abstract painting mixed with ceramics), to a new set, pristine clean and canvas blank. Drills and banging had caused the little Miss Bennets to squeal in fright. While Miss Kezia climbed as high as she could up her mother’s legs, Miss Rosie threw herself to the floor as if ducking a bomb. It may be the last chapter in the bite-size Pemberley building project but it was proving the messiest and seemed to have an impact on every ounce of living space. Mrs Bennet felt the last eight months had been like a moving expedition. At least if you moved house it only took a day. This had seemed such a long exhausting process. Yet, she knew it was almost at an end. Once the Darcys in the Dirt had picked up their tools and rubble – currently in what was the garage, but soon to be the children’s playroom – then, and only then could the house start reverting back to being a home. Something it hadn’t been for three years, ever since they first went on the market and the bright coloured walls had been “magnolified,” meaning as a result family photos had been put away. Two children later, they still hadn’t returned due to major disruption, dust and general mayhem.
But time was against the builders. They had just eleven days to finish everything before the carpets were laid ready for Mr No Personality surveyor to return to check bite-size Pemberley was finished. If it wasn't, the building society would not release the money needed to pay for it. At present, alongside discarded books, dolls, plastic animals, hair bands, drawings, scribbles, topless felt tip pens and more worryingly Barbie dolls, there were chainsaws, nails, brackets, screws, hammers, and old kitchen parts in the rooms which weren’t yet finished. Outside it was Skip City. The Bennet’s skip was overflowing, as was the one sitting on next-door’s drive, currently full of rubble ready for a conservatory which had once adjoined the Bennet house. It had once acted as a creative hot house for three eager little artists and occasionally a dining room, when the table was clear enough to see what was being eaten.
Where the conservatory used to be, now stood the new dining room, an official part of the bite-size Pemberley, meaning the temperature was just right for the wife in both summer and winter. Mr Bennet was currently sitting at the table, poured over his laptop, working late yet again. Mrs Bennet wasn’t talking to him right now. He couldn’t engage in conversation anyway and had just told her he would either be flying to Dubai or Iran in the coming week. She really hoped it wouldn’t be the latter. Not only was it worryingly dangerous, but by the time he got his necessary visa, it would mean the trip would clash nicely with half-term and his wife’s mood.
She had noticed since Jannie’s good news, that she had returned to her faithful Mr Latte. She could enjoy his company again. It gave her an excuse to get away from her house, which didn't feel her own right now and as she hadn’t been able to cry in front of the Darcy’s in the Dirt throughout the Jannie worry, she knew it would come pouring out at some point. She just hoped it wouldn’t be in the dentist chair again. She was due to have a tooth out, due to an abscess on Thursday, and being a whimp in the presence of dentists, had every reason to cry. But perhaps the Tooth Fairy might leave her some money – enough to buy a stool so she could at least reach the top shelves and be able to check the jar labels. Oh, and to make sure Mr Bennet hadn’t stored any secret supply of chocolate which he knew would be out of her reach. Of course Mrs Bennet blamed him for the marmalade. He was after all the only one who liked it.
Perhaps she could make him a round of cheese and marmalade sandwiches for work tomorrow and see if he noticed!

Ghosts of kitchens past

2009-05-02T13:15:00.000-07:00

Thursday, April 30 09

Ghosts of kitchens past echoed around the walls. It made an interesting sight and one which, in places, required a pair of shades. Whatever had possessed her to paint a kitchen sunshine yellow and sky blue? In her defence, it was a decade ago. An era of rag rolling, sponging and vivid colours which clashed, yet no one had been brave enough to admit their effects were painful to the eye. Or perhaps they hadn’t wanted to offend those who considered them beautiful. At the time, being a creative sort, Mrs Bennet had given her all. Every part of the house had been touched by turquoises, terracotta reds, yellow, vivid blues and sea greens. The gaudy yellow – which had been hidden these past three years by grown-up, sophisticated beige kitchen units – was now once again exposed. Mrs Bennet remembered painting it to hide the mustard offering the owners before her had left behind.
It was 10 years ago. At 29, she hadn’t known what pregnancy meant, hadn’t known her stomach would, over the coming decade, stretch like a contortionist and provide the nurturing home for five offspring. Now at 39, waiting to enter another era, she didn’t like to think what was before her. She was older, greyer, and wrinklier but she had learnt the valuable lesson of living one day at a time. Yet the last seven weeks of watching, waiting and feeling her mother’s pain, had taken its toll. If the biopsy results weren’t good, she wasn’t sure how she could face tomorrow let alone the next 10 years. The unsightly yellow was just that, unsightly, far too bright for her current situation.
The Darcys in the Dirt were dismantling units and moving them to the back of the house. Ironically that morning, the kitchen had looked immaculate and the tidiest it had been since Mr and Mrs Bennet had lived there.
Now it was battered and bruised. Drawers lay on work surfaces, no longer attached to brackets; holes and rubble appeared where they hadn’t been seen before; and unsightly yet impressively large cobwebs were now on show for all to see. A tumble dryer sat in the middle of the lounge, and boxes full of cereals, food, saucepans, oven cleaner, bleach and tea towels were scattered wherever there was an empty floor space. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was an exciting place to explore for the little Miss Bennets. They had already attacked one box and enjoyed drumming a few saucepans with wooden spoons.
Mrs Bennet did enjoy having the Darcys in the Dirt around. Spag and Bol willingly accepted them as extra faces to study and grin at. But having her house pulled about whilst her emotions were also experiencing a battering was a further strain on Mrs Bennet’s nerves, if she was honest.
It was biopsy day. And her nerves were in tatters. She had sat in the hospital waiting room for two hours, but had been forced to leave her mum, dad and sister in order to pick up the little Miss Twin Bennets, who were being looked after by a friend. Walking away not knowing, had been awful. Walking into a house, which was feeling the effects of upheaval, echoed her anguish. The phone was relentlessly ringing. She knew it would be Jannie’s friends and her own wanting to know the results. She had no wish to talk to them.
On the fifth call, she felt the need to pick up the receiver.
“It’s me. I just had to ring you myself. It’s the best news I could have had today. It hasn’t spread and they're convinced they’ve caught it all,” the voice of Jannie sang in her ear.
Mrs Bennet didn’t hear anymore. She dissolved into tears. The worry, the weight of what might have been, the waiting, the hoping, erupted into an emotional torrent. Her precious mum, the grandmother of her children, was going to be alright. The bright yellow exposed in her kitchen was now bearable. Mrs Bennet could now even consider it as a sunshine yellow. Her bubble, last seen floating over Bristol had returned. Jannie’s hope was back, and so was hers.

More than one punch up

2009-04-28T15:00:00.000-07:00

Monday, April 27 ‘09

It was three o’clock in the morning and to say Mrs Bennet was feeling angry was an understatement. She hadn’t gone to bed as early as she had liked because she had had a writing deadline to meet. It was past one o’clock when she finally crawled into bed. Mr Bennet had made his appointment to see Mr Sleep hours before and no crying child would wake him. As Mrs Bennet had missed her appointment, the crying child woke her instead – just as she had eventually drifted off, even though her mind was troubled. The annoying alarm bell wasn’t going to be switched off and it was quickly joined by its neighbouring bell. Mrs Bennet’s head was spinning. She was fuming over everything. Time of the month hormones only served to fuel the rage within. Why was life so cruel at times? Why did it come and bulldoze emotions? Seeing the hurt and pain in her dad’s eyes, and the fear and worry in her mum’s, only echoed her own. She’d taken it out on Mr Bennet that night and accused him of being useless at emotional stuff. Not being one to have angry outbursts, she had surprised herself but the words had slipped out before she could stop them and the man from Mars withdrew to his cave, wounded.
Shortly afterward Miss Bennet Number Three bolted in with a problem he could fix.
“Daddy can you punch up my tyres please? They’re flat and need punching up!” she declared, with hands on hips.
Glad to be able to assist Mr Bennet did the punching required. Mrs Bennet having punched him with words, did apologise later for her unkind words. The truth was she couldn’t cope with emotional pain either. It was far more draining and difficult to handle than anything physical. There were no easy answers and the waiting game was horrid.
It was these raw emotions which surfaced again as Spag and Bol’s demanding cries robbed Mrs Bennet’s appointment with Mr Sleep. Grabbing her pillow she resumed her sandwich position between cots. It worked for one child, but it wasn’t enough for the other, who wanted a drink.
Cold and fed up, Mrs Bennet went on the hunt for a beaker. As the Darcys in the Dirt were taking her kitchen apart in the morning, the cupboards were now empty. Their contents were on the floor in boxes. But at 3am Mrs Bennet couldn’t remember which box contained the cups and drink bottles. She stubbed her toe on a ceramic dish that hadn’t yet found a temporary home and wanted to cry – cry at the mess before her. The upheaval of building bite-size Pemberley epitomized the disruption and disturbance the word cancer achieved with emotions. At this very moment in time she wanted to howl as Rosie was doing so well upstairs. She knew her mum would be up, unable to sleep too. It wasn’t fair. Jannie didn’t deserve this. Her dad didn’t deserve this.
She stood motionless in the midst of the kitchen chaos. The nearly two-year-old's crying suddenly stopped. Fed up with waiting for her mother to return, Miss Bennet Number Four had given up and had fallen asleep. Peace was in the camp. And now her raging had quietened down, Mrs Bennet was also starting to whimper instead of whale. In the coming weeks, the storms would come and go. But despite them, she knew it was vital to hold on to the arms of Peace – and warn Mr Bennet he might be needed as a punch-bag now and then.

Jannie’s Jamaican Courage

2009-04-23T15:01:00.000-07:00

Monday, April 20 09

Jamaica the rag doll was sitting on Mrs Bennet’s lap, being held rather too tightly. Miss Bennet Number Two was perched on a doctor’s couch, grimacing as the doctor sapped her verruca with liquid nitrogen. As Miss Bennet winced, Mrs Bennet squeezed the doll, complete with its hospital tagged-wrist, which bore the date of her last hospital visit three years ago. Miss Emily had needed an operation and the doll had gone in with her for comfort. Mrs Bennet recalled the awful moment when she had to walk away from her anaesthetised daughter – leaving her on the operating table. It was why she was clutching the doll now. Not because her daughter was pained by the freezing treatment, but because at this very moment her own mum was being put to sleep ready for an operation for breast cancer. Jamaica – bought on holiday in the Caribbean – lived at Jannie’s house. She came out when she was needed to escort an anxious child to hospital or the doctor’s surgery to provide courage and comfort. It was Jannie who needed her the most today, and it was Jannie Mrs Bennet was thinking and praying about at each squirt of the liquid nitrogen.
But Jamaica was soothing Mrs Bennet the most at this moment. Looking at the perfect tropical blue sky outdoors, Mrs Bennet could quite easily imagine being in the “land of wood and water,” where waterfalls, springs, rivers and streams flowed to fertile plains from its forest-clad mountains. The thought of biting into a luscious tropical fruit with a weird and wonderful name or sniffing the tempting aroma of a world-famous Blue Mountain coffee was almost tangible. The latter would probably taste better than Mr Latte. Mrs Bennet had gone off him. He no longer hit the spot. There were issues here too emotional for him to soothe. He could make her feel better about living on a building site, but he couldn’t take away the scary and almost surreal journey her precious mum was now facing. If only a dose of hot frothy milk and a shot of caffeine could make it better. But it couldn’t. It was a long waiting game where there was no control. However Mrs Bennet knew if anyone could walk this new uncertain path with dignity, humour and strength, her mum could.
“Mummy, can I have Jamaica back now please?” asked the small patient leaping off the couch, quickly forgetting her painful toe and bouncing as she normally did in Tigger-like-fashion. This polite request relieved Mrs Bennet's knuckles of their clenching and snapped her back into mother mode.
Back at the almost finished bite-size Pemberley, the rest of the little Bennets were being looked after by friends. The Darcys in the Dirt had incidentally returned that morning, marking the start of the last chapter. They had originally planned to rip the kitchen out that morning, but due to the more pressing operation, had looked kindly on Mrs Bennet and gave her an extra week to pack the cupboard contents into boxes. Instead they were at the bottom of the garden insulating her office.
Now Jamaica’s job had been done, Mrs Bennet did contemplate taking her into hospital to sit at the bottom of her mum’s bed, but thought better of it. Instead she took a handful of home-made cards, the older Miss Bennets had insisted on making, to cheer the patient on. Looking as pale as her blond-streaked hair, Jannie managed a smile. Drained of colour, she was still the beautiful woman they all loved. Her inner strength and positive nature was shining through. And Mrs Bennet knew Jannie was everything Jamaica, the rag doll stood for – heart and courage.

Wiped out by wet wipes

2009-04-16T13:17:00.000-07:00

Thursday, April 16 09

While Mr Bennet was flying at 30,000 feet to Dubai and Miss Emily Bennet was flying on rides round Legoland with a friend, Miss Rosie Bennet was supposed to be having her lunchtime nap. After the usual chit chat and giggles between Spag and Bol, silence had fallen in the little Twin Bennet’s room. Mrs Bennet understandably thought they were both asleep. She was busy making their favourite namesake dish, Spaghetti Bolognese along with a large batch of Shepherd’s Pie, to be frozen ready for hospital visits and operation recovery.
Miss Rosie Bennet didn’t drop off as easily as her sister and being in a playful mood, managed to haul the pack of wet wipes her mother had just opened, through her cot bars. Feeling in the need of a wash, she had proceeded to yank out virtually every wet wipe the packet contained, before falling asleep.
Mrs Bennet found her in a pool of wet wipe juice. Spag’s clothes and bedding were soaking wet and she was surrounded by a cushion of drying out wipes.
“Oh Rosie, what am I going to do with you!” exclaimed Mrs Bennet, scooping up her wet wipe babe with one arm and gathering an armful of soggy white squares with the other.
Amused by the scene, Miss Kezia Bennet pointed her index finger at her sister and giggled infectiously like an animated rocking Bag of Laughter.
Mrs Bennet had no choice but to strip Spag naked. But even with clean clothes, she carried the distinct aroma of a wet wipe. At least she hadn’t got a fetish for eating them. One of her friend’s sons had swallowed a whole one when he was a few months old. She only knew this because she found it rolled up in his nappy deposit the next day!
Although the unpredictable brought the scary, it brought the ridiculous as well. And it was the latter which made the harder issues in life more tolerable. It was the mundane, every day things which kept a mother going. And as wiped out as she was, Mrs Bennet couldn’t help but smile at the comedian in her children. At times she dared to live out the “what if?” she saw in the Miss Bennets. Miss Rosie Bennet now knew what happened when she pulled out 70 wet wipes – she got wet. Mrs Bennet pondered. What if she lived as if there was nothing to worry about? It would make life far more enjoyable. And actually some of the biggies, the sharks which threatened to bite you on the bottom, were often not as bad as the fear of them. Fear had a lot to say for itself. It had a bad report and it was about time the faith part of Mrs Bennet had a greater say. Wiped out she may be in terms of sleep deprivation. Knocked out never.

The Easter Bennet

2009-04-15T07:21:00.000-07:00

Sunday, April 12 09

The Easter Bunny sat with an upside-down-chick-basket on his head, reading his newspaper in Mrs Bennet’s empty shed. Chocolate eggs were hidden in the garden and the Easter Bennets were standing patiently behind the lounge door, waiting to be allowed in to start their hunt. It was the simple things in life which often brought the most joy. Children didn’t care about mess, they cared about having fun and sometimes it was the mess which added to the excitement. So the Easter Bunny’s egg collection was hidden in the building site of a garden amongst an abandoned garage door, rubble, various broken bits of pipe, overgrown grass, mud and bricks – oh, and empty coca cola bottles left behind by the Darcys in the Dirt.
Mrs Bennet’s dad, the Easter Bunny sat quite happily in his nesting shed reading the sports pages, but it wasn’t long before the squeals of delight reached him and he was discovered.
Mrs Bennet thought it wise for Miss Bennets Numbers One, Two and Three to complete their hunt before the little Twin Bennets appeared on the scene and gobbled up the treasure. The aim was to gather the eggs up and put them in a corporate basket to be shared out equally later. Mrs Bennet knew Spag and Bol would not give up their chocolate without a fight and instead either crush it into their sticky palms or stuff it into their hungry mouths. They had good taste and could sniff chocolate through two closed doors.
They woke up from their lunch-time nap just as their older siblings embarked on the outside part of the hunt. Like little puppies however they managed to uncover the hidden delights their sisters had missed, and polished up their motor skills by pulling off any golden wrapper to get their prize. Spag managed to get chocolate everywhere, hands, mouth, hair and bottom. Bol had a tiny smear on her lips, but apart from that was immaculately clean.
It was these classic priceless moments of watching her children laughing, her father looking so ridiculous in his silly makeshift hat and observing how proud and happy Mr Bennet and Jannie were at just being there, which made life worthwhile. Easter for the Bennet family hadn’t been easy. The Good Friday atmosphere threatened to drag them all down. When something life-threatening lingered on the horizon it made it hard to remember hope, yet hope was what Easter was all about and the promise of new life.
There was a black cloud over the Bennets. The big C had attacked one of its precious members. Yet her courage, her determination and her love for life was pushing her on in a defeat-less attitude. Emotionally the road was rocky and draining and Mrs Bennet knew the weeks and months ahead were going to be tough for them all. But seeing the laughter, the chocolate feast, the simplicity of an egg hunt and the joy on her children’s faces, helped restore that Easter Sunday hope. Bite-size Pemberley, as incomplete as it was, was now insignificant. It no longer mattered. What mattered was the moment.

"I hate ball pools!" declares Mrs Bennet

2009-04-09T11:56:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, April 8 09

There were few things Mrs Bennet disliked but those on her list were loathed with a passion. And ball pools were at the top, followed closely by emptying tea bags from a tea pot.
It was the Easter Holidays. Mr Bennet was meeting someone somewhere in Milan. Mrs Bennet was meeting a fellow mum at her favourite place – the local ball pool. A place she normally avoided like the plague particularly during school holidays. But as it was a birthday party for her friend’s two-year-old, a favourite playmate to Spag and Bol, Mrs Bennet had said yes she would come along. She also knew very well that Miss Bennet Numbers One, Two and Three would be delighted at the prospect of running wild and sliding down death slides. Having spent the night on a cold carpet-less floor sandwiched between the twin’s cots, Mrs Bennet was feeling rather tired, grumpy and lacking in patience. She would quite happily have curled up in a ball in her garden shed. But as that still didn’t have any electrics and therefore no heat, Mrs Bennet didn’t think she had any option but to endure a few hours of high pitched squeals and screams.
Between them Mrs Bennet and her friend had nine children – eight girls and one boy - so it proved quite an expensive visit, and that was without the essential coping fuel of Mr Decaf Latte or Mr Cappuccino. The minute she walked through the doors into a cacophony of shouting, crying and piercing shrills; she knew why ball pools were number one on her Mrs Bennet Dislikes List. Miss Bennet Number Five immediately clung to her hip, threw her tiny arms around her neck and whimpered, making it extremely difficult to negotiate Miss Bennet Number Four round café chairs and tables to the toddler play area. Having been a late walker, it was in fact the first time Bol, alias Miss Kezia Bennet, had been properly introduced to a ball pool. A yellow plastic ball hit her on the chin, and like a ten pin, she wobbled over, quickly grasping her mother’s leg as an anchor in the moving sea of coloured balls. Miss Rosie Bennet, slightly more confident, allowed herself to be lowered into the sea, but feeling out of her depth, immediately shouted to be rescued.
Meanwhile, Miss Bennet Number Three, refusing to take off her glasses and proving she was now a big five, literally flew down the death slide – something Mrs Bennet had never plucked up courage to do. Her children took her to places and heights she never dreamt she’d go. But even though they’d taken her to the edge on several occasions, it was up to her whether she actually wanted to throw herself off. May be when she was 40 she’d do it! She had been up in a balloon, parasailed, rock climbed and abseiled in the past so she wasn’t really a wimp. And she’d just promised another female friend, who turned 40 a few hours before she did that she would go to Alton Towers with her, without children. Knowing how adventurous and adrenaline hungry her mate was, she did wonder whether her pelvic floor would recover. Having said that defying the law of gravity might do it good!
The older two Miss Bennets were lost in the medley of ropes and bodies. But they soon appeared, pink-faced and frazzled; one complaining of slide burn, the other complaining about her sister. She decided to help matters by entering the noise hub, and thinking Spag might like a ride on a bumpy slide, proceeded to push and pull the chubby babe up through holes to the top. It helped one complaining daughter laugh. Clutching on to a slightly scared Miss Bennet Number Four, Mrs Bennet proceeded to descend, unaware the slide had been polished extra well this morning. Miss Bennet Number Two watched in awe as her mother literally took off as she went down the first bump, missed the second bump altogether and landed with a thud on the third, thankfully with Spag still in her arms. Shaken but not stirred, Miss Bennet Number Four looked shocked but smiled at the ordeal. Shaken and stirred, Mrs Bennet, somehow managed to get up, rubbed her sore back and vowed not to do that again - well not today anyway.
Within half an hour emotion was rife. Both twins were crying, the middle Miss Bennet whining her siblings didn’t want to play with her and Miss Bennet Number One was still wincing and rubbing her poorly arm. The four children belonging to her friend were however happily running about and thoroughly enjoying themselves without a moan between them. Mrs Bennet longed for her octopus to come and wipe eyes, soothe wounds and lift them all out of the ball pool and transport them to a place of peace, calm and joy.
Two hours later, the invisible octopus arrived. Four children and a mother were relieved. Miss Bennet Number Two was not and blamed everyone else for pulled her out of the ball jungle before she was ready. Mrs Bennet breathed a sigh of relief, strapped the Miss Bennets in their seats, and put her head on the steering wheel. She then sent a text to her husband, who was child-free in Italy.
“I HATE BALL POOLS! Just thought you might like to know!” she tapped into her phone. After eating a waiter-served Italian meal, accompanied by proper adult conversation, when sentences were finished and food was enjoyed hot, Mr Bennet sent his thoughts on the subject.
“Oh come on, all that screaming and noise, you love it really!”
She did not reply. Instead as Miss Bennet Number Three was due to return to Mrs Bennet’s torture chamber on Saturday for a party, she made up her mind that Mr Bennet would be taking their daughter. He could also remove every tea bag for the next decade as his punishment for flying abroad to a different country three weeks running.

That tooth fairy again...

2009-04-04T15:15:00.000-07:00

Thursday, April 2 09

“She didn’t come Mummy,” declared a very forlorn Miss Bennet Number Two as she emerged from her quilt cocoon.
“Who didn’t?” mumbled a half-asleep Mrs Bennet, grateful her friend had just rung her mobile to act as a wake-up call.
“The tooth fairy. She didn’t leave me anything and she didn’t take my tooth either,” replied her toothless daughter.
Mrs Bennet inwardly kicked herself. Emotionally she wasn't yet ready to write about it but life was so surreal right now, the tooth fairy obviously had her mind on other matters and as the male tooth fairy was away on business abroad, he hadn’t reminded his companion to fetch the all-important molar.
“I remember when I was a little girl that the tooth fairy forgot to visit me one night, so I put the tooth back under my pillow and she ended up giving me double the money the next. So don’t worry,” replied Mrs Bennet.
Mr Bennet was in Lyon. Next week he was flying to Milan and the following week he was heading off to Dubai. He was probably doing more mileage than the Bennet tooth fairy. This morning it was lucky the children were awake. Mrs Bennet had forgotten to put her own alarm clock forward an hour. It suddenly made all the little Bennets jump when it sprang into action at 8.20am. It was just as well Mrs Bennet’s friend had called. She knew mornings were not Mrs Bennet’s strong point.
Meanwhile bite-size Pemberley was still not finished. The lounge was currently out of action due to a face-lift operation, leaving nowhere for Spag and Bol to play - although they would have quite happily have reenacted sword fights with paintbrushes smothered in turps if allowed. With their playground out of bounds it meant Mrs Bennet had to time it so she arrived back at the house ready for their lunch-time nap, get them up promptly at 2.50pm and out of the door to pick their sisters up from school.
Right now though her priority, as well as clearing the lounge, getting two nappies on two bottoms, clothes on six bodies, five heads of hair brushed (hers just warranted a bit of gel), finding twelve matching shoes and socks, three book bags, three lunch boxes, a nappy bag with adequate supplies and a set of car keys, was to fix the tooth fairy issue. Miraculously a coin appeared on the front door, stuck there by a piece of Sellotape.
It was Miss Bennet Number Three who discovered it.
“Mummy, what’s that on the door?!” she inquired.
“I don’t know love, ask Emily.” To which toothless Miss Bennet Number Two was quickly summoned to the front door and asked to examine the mysterious object.
“Look Mummy, she did come after all but obviously ran out of time and didn’t get chance to take my tooth!” declared a delighted daughter.
“Perhaps with all the building work, she was too scared to go upstairs afraid the builders were still there,” replied Mrs Bennet.
“I’m still going to leave my tooth under my pillow to see if she comes back for it, “said the toothless one.
Following the sad saga of her own tooth problem in the summer, the pain had returned which her new dentist (the young dishy Darcy one had left) had informed her this week was in fact an abscess. There was no chance of saving the tooth and it would have to come out. Mrs Bennet did wonder whether the tooth fairy would visit her when the time came and perhaps leave £30,000 so they could finish bite-size Pemberley as originally intended. She could but wish.
As the male tooth fairy had returned from Lyon, she prodded him at 1am and asked him to kindly go and see to the tiny tooth which lay underneath a top bunk pillow. As he did so, Spag, Miss Bennet Number Four, cried out. While her elder sister had lost her baby tooth, hers was coming in and she didn’t like it too much. Mrs Bennet didn’t like the pain hers was causing either, so grabbed a pain killer, rolled over and dreamt about drills.

Spag and Bol

2009-03-26T02:17:00.000-07:00

Thursday, March 26 '09

Spag and Bol were a pair of comedians. They were poles apart in many respects, yet they had one delightful attribute in common - a sense of humour. Mrs Bennet affectionately referred to them as Spag and Bol (although not to their faces) simply because they were like the combination Spaghetti Bolognese: different components, yet together a delicious item. Miss Bennets Numbers Four and Five were Mrs Bennet's gin and tonic. They kept her going and never failed to make her smile or laugh no matter how stressed, hormonal or sleep-deprived she might feel.
Mrs Bennet was crouched down behind Spag and Bol's bedroom door with her radio microphone held to the gap. They were doing what they did best - an excellent impression of two animated old ladies leaning over the garden fence. Both girls were holding on to their respective cot bars bouncing up and down and giggling at each other.
"Woobedooodeegoooaaahhh. Goodeeebaaa?"
"Woobedoooo, ahhhh."
"Hee hee, hee hee."
From an audio point of view, it reminded Mrs Bennet of The Clangers or Bill and Ben. Mrs Bennet thought she was probably the Soup Dragon or Weed, as the two lead characters always got suitably excited when she appeared. Her hand wobbled from holding the microphone still for so long, but she had what she needed. This was Spagbolese - the Bennet twins' official language. A language which excluded their mother, who hadn't been given a Spagbolese dictionary. The authors however were fluent and felt they didn't need to learn English. Oh, they knew what Mrs Bennet said alright. When she said: "OK girls time to go up," they proceeded to climb the stairs as fast as their little legs could take them. Over the past few months they'd uttered Mummy, Daddy, gone, baby, down, up, Kezzie, Jannie, bath, biscuit etc. but apart from the first two words, they had said these only once and refused point blank with a "no" and a nod of the head to repeat them. Kezia Bennet had even announced "see you soon," after hearing a toy phone declare the sentiment. But no matter how hard Mrs Bennet tried to persuade her to repeat it, Bol kept her lips sealed. Both twins were forever chatting and singing in Spagbolese and Mrs Bennet wondered if she should try and learn it for herself, because whilst her nearly two-year-olds had a vast vocabulary, it was unfortunately not understood by anyone else.
"Your child should now have a vocabulary of about 200 words," a recent email had informed her. If it had referred to Miss Bennet Number Three at 22 months, then it would have been quite accurate.
"Mmm..two more like," she muttered, "What do they know? And what do i know more like, I've never had twins before." She wasn't too worried though. She'd met up with two fellow twin mums and their boy/girl combinations were conversing in a similar way. The boys took great delight in pulling their sisters' hair on a daily basis. Mrss Bennet hadn't had this issue to deal with, but Spag and Bol were far from perfect. Their comical tendencies just outweighed the strops and mini scraps which sometimes broke out over a toy pushchair.
Mrs Bennet put her recording equipment away and decided to do something creative with the sound effects, perhaps presenting it to her daughters in 16 years time.
At six o'clock, the time when World War III was at its most dangerous, Mr Bennet came home.
"Woobedegoootea,do bego?" Mrs Bennet asked him.
"Sorry...."
"My dear, it's a new language. It's "do you want a cup of tea," in Spagbolese."
"Never heard of it, but yes please," he replied.
"Well we had better both start learning it. It's been devised by our youngest daughters who already have an A level in it."
As if on cue, Spag and Bol burst through the lounge door, ran to Mr Bennet and proceeded to excitedly babble away in Spagbolese.

Mrs Bennet’s lost bubble

2009-03-22T15:16:00.000-07:00

Saturday, March 21 ‘09

The signs were there all around her indicating that she was a mother under stress, overwhelmed by life’s responsibilities. She was run down; empty and just wanted to hide away from everyone. Mrs Bennet had lost her bubbly-ness. Her bubble was last seen floating in the Bristol direction, preferring a city life for a while no doubt. Mrs Bennet listed the evidence of her bubble-less-ness.
1. She’d poured herself a cup of coffee without boiling the kettle first.
2. She’d tried feeding her Boots advantage card into the hole in the wall.
3. She’d turned the dishwasher on, with the newly-cleaned dishes and pots still inside.
4. She’d put her favourite cream cardigan inside the washing machine, turned it on, forgetting there were already pink and red items inside. The cardigan came out an uneven looking pink.
Some would argue that this was quite normal for a mother of five. Perhaps it was but she prided herself on doing one of those things now and again, NOT all in the same morning!
Mrs Bennet was cheered up somewhat when her own dear mother – known affectionately to her daughters as Jannie – announced that not only had Mr Jannie, Mrs Bennet’s father, mistakenly sprayed the fence with weed killer instead of wood stain and had subsequently killed the plants in the flower beds, but had locked his car keys in the boot after watching his beloved team Bristol City lose a vital match. They eventually got home six hours later.
“You’re becoming more like your daughter every day,” Jannie had told her husband.
Mrs Bennet didn’t know if that was a complement or not. She didn’t ask. Instead she hoped her father had managed to trap her lost bubble in the boot as well. Unfortunately it hadn’t been seen for a couple of weeks and any chance of survival was pretty slight, particularly if it had hovered over Ashton Gate. It would have got burst by angry City fans.
However hearing of her own dad’s mishaps Mrs Bennet was reassured. Perhaps her sense of clumsiness or scatty-ness wasn’t due to her losing her bubble. Perhaps it was after all hereditary.

The Darcys and de Burghs

2009-03-19T14:57:00.000-07:00

Thursday, March 19 ‘09

Mrs Bennet was grateful there wasn’t a Mr Collins in her life. Jane Austen’s version sent Mrs Bennet in a frenzy, particularly as he stood to inherit the estate at Longbourne when Mr Bennet died. Ordered to marry by the insufferable Lady Catherine de Burgh, considered “far superior to the handsomest of her sex”, he aimed his so-called affections at Miss Jane Bennet, then quickly transferred them to Elizabeth, when told Jane may well be taken.
As far as she was aware Modern Mrs Bennet didn’t have any Lady Catherine characters lurking in the background either. Although at times she did quiver in her size three Dr Marten boots, if in the presence of overwhelming forthright females. It probably stemmed back to her days at an all girls grammar school, where “truth, honour, freedom and courtesy” was the motto, and respect for authority drummed in. Times were different now and long were the days when girls had to wear six-panel A-line skirts, six inches below the knee and beige socks that really didn’t go with the shocking cerise tie and striped pink and white shirt. If caught without the top button done up, with its partner in crime, a rebelliously threaded tie, it meant an instant order mark or worse still detention.
The voice of authority, the voice of someone who could easily have played the part of Lady Catherine de Burgh, still echoed on occasion in Mrs Bennet’s ears. But they were only echoes. She did wonder whether there might be a few Mr Collins about in the infant playground. Some – according to her daughters - seemed to change their affections towards certain little ladies on a daily basis. There were always the faithful Bingleys though who remained glued to the side of only one female and remained on good terms with her by Year 2.
Amazed that the search for Darcys began at playgroup, Mrs Bennet was intrigued by the Miss Bennets’ thoughts on the subject of marriage, which regularly popped up. What she hadn’t anticipated was the subject matter arising at such a young age. All three of her elder daughters’ quest for the ideal man had begun before they even knew what a playground was. Their mullings over the latest dish in the home corner or sandpit had been a frequent topic of conversation as their role plays with each other, various plastic characters or dolls revealed.
School and the introduction to a new batch of boys just added to their intrigue and interest. Miss Megan Bennet was particularly drawn to a sweet dark-haired little Darcy, slightly smaller than herself. After the first week in reception class, she boldly announced:
“I just love him, he’s so cute!” And this from a four-year-old! Miss Bennet’s teacher had also noted this particular attraction.
“I don’t like to say this, but I think you may have a Lydia Bennet on your hands!”
Mrs Bennet made a mental note to keep Miss Megan away from soldiers. Much as she wanted her to have a Darcy, she didn’t particularly wish for her daughter to elope at 16.
“I did want to marry Harry first Mummy, but he wants to marry Hannah, but Sean says he’ll marry me,” Miss Bennet explained.
So that was alright then. At four, life was so simple. At 40, Mrs Bennet knew it was not.

Knocked out by Chicken Tonight

2009-03-13T08:40:00.000-07:00

Friday, March 13 ‘09

Mrs Bennet rubbed her head. It hurt and had a funny spongy feel when she pressed it. The Chicken Tonight had done a good job and had almost knocked her out. She was only looking in the cupboard to see what she could cook for the Bennet’s nightly nosh and promptly got attacked by a bottle of Soya sauce. In ducking her head, while her hand skilfully caught the falling bottle, a jar of Chicken Tonight creamy mushroom sauce had walloped her where the Soya sauce had missed and stunned her momentarily. Half an hour later she was at the school gate, with chirping twins, still feeling out of it. Mind you it was a feeling she felt regularly these days.
Before marriage and babies, Mrs Bennet had been a morning bird. Up at six and in bed by 10pm on the nights she wasn’t working. Nowadays, she was often rudely woken up by a five-year old, demanding where her school tights were, or a Mr Bennet politely informing her he was now leaving the building and perhaps it would be a good idea if she surfaced. It was a miracle how she ever left the building herself and she hoped the teachers didn’t notice that she’d missed brushing one of the Miss Bennet’s hair or that their shoes hadn’t been polished for quite a while now. She was lucky to get to bed before 1am. With five packed lunches to prepare, school books to write in, trip money to find, nappy bags to stock up, toys to put away and her own work deadlines to meet, Mrs Bennet would often find the bath water she ran two hours before, stone cold; but not wanting to waste it, washed herself in it anyway before crawling into bed exhausted.
“You must get to bed earlier. I’m concerned about you,” said her husband on a rare date out at a local restaurant. Going to bed earlier was not a passionate invitation by the way.
“You’re always on the computer working when you get a spare moment. You never watch the television or sit down and read the paper! If you went to bed earlier, you’d get up a lot fresher,” he declared.
And of course he was quite right, but she was in a Catch 22 situation. It was a chicken (tonight) and egg case. It didn’t help that she disliked living in her house right now. Six months on – although the extension was built, it wasn’t in a liveable state and the Bennet septuplets, cooped up in the living room womb desperately wanted to be born into a bigger world. For the past two weeks a strange and eerie silence had enveloped the bite-size Pemberley. As the mortgage hadn’t yet been cleared, the money wasn’t available to finish what could be finished and as the Darcys in the Dirt were going through what could only be described as a “family crisis,” the work had quite suddenly come to a halt. One of the Darcys had in fact run away and if the truth be known, Mrs Bennet was rather concerned about him, as were his colleagues. But at risk of upsetting them, she pledged not to elaborate any further.
But today with her Chicken Tonight egg head pounding like a chick desperate to break through its shell, Mrs Bennet faced a sudden surge of activity. The sub-contractor Darcys were back. This time to drill holes in the lounge and ceiling to sort out the electrics. Dishy and charming as they were, Mrs Bennet couldn’t handle any more disruption. She knew she had no choice, but she also had nowhere to go. The little Miss Twin Bennets – who she now affectionately called Spag and Bol – were giggling loudly cot to cot, showing how much they intended to have their lunchtime nap. Mrs Bennet walked in as they shouted in unison: “Mummy!” The whiff of dirty nappy gave her the information she needed. Spag – the older twin was not going to settle until she was cleaned up.
Mrs Bennet knew the power was about to be turned off, so got to work before she couldn’t see what she was doing. A knock at the door, followed by a
“There’s a man here to pick up the scaffolding!” made her work extra fast. Putting Spag back in her cot, she ran down the stairs with her smelly present in hand.
It was times like this she felt like swearing. But as she didn’t know any appropriate words, she muttered “Sugar!” and went outside to sort out Mr Scaffolding.
Jannie, Mrs Bennet’s mum was clutching a mug of Mr Peely Wally (hot water) and watching the circus of activity move around her.
“Why don’t you go off for a break,” she urged Mrs Bennet, convinced her mother was an angel in disguise.
Glad of the invitation. Mrs Bennet handed in her RSVP and ran out the door. Her Chicken Tonight egg head finally hatched, relieving the pressure on her brain. Perhaps she would think straight again.
“I may not come back!” she shouted as she tripped over her feet and landed on her face. Perhaps the Chicken Tonight had done more damage than she had feared. She vowed to take revenge and watch it bubble away in the oven when she got back.

Mrs Bennet off her leash

2009-03-11T16:05:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, March 11 ‘09

Mrs Bennet watched Miss Bennet Number Two cartwheel into the lounge. Most children walked in. This Miss Bennet generally bounced in – not always taking note where she landed or on whom she landed. The object in question was usually a smaller sibling, her mother’s foot or a baby doll’s head. Miss Bennet was in many respects like Winnie the Pooh’s Tigger friend, or a puppy dog. And the more Mrs Bennet got to know the intricate workings of her young daughter, the more she realised she was a mini version of herself.
Mrs Bennet also regularly needed a run to release her energy. But it was largely due to the fact she wanted to escape from responsibility for half an hour. It was mental space. Space where there were no demands, no sticky fingers clinging onto her legs, no runny noses to wipe, no nappy smells to deal with and no hungry mouths to feed.
The road or the treadmill didn’t expect anything of her. They welcomed her pounding footsteps and asked no questions. They provided a place where she could disappear to and forget she was a mother just for a few minutes, until the crèche lady came and asked if she could kindly sort out a stinking bottom or two. As the rain was in full pelt mode, Mrs Bennet joined the line-up of joggers on their respective running machines and got to work. And work it was. Running in heavy rain would have been easy compared to this. She stared at the machine. It was swaying side to side as she stood on it. And that was before she’d even started moving. The sheer force of the pounding feet in front and behind her was giving Mrs Bennet’s own running machine an inferiority complex. It couldn’t cope with the pressure. Trying to put aside the increasing seasickness, Mrs Bennet pushed the buttons and attempted to run. But after a mile, the swaying motion hadn’t ceased. She was beginning to feel quite peculiar and decided to wait until the running sharks had left and the waves had calmed down.
Incidentally Mrs Bennet knew the sharks were harmless. Indeed they were very friendly, but for a mother who wanted a quiet, uneventful run into oblivion, the waves were just too much.
A few minutes later, the sharks were off climbing mountains and rowing across rapids. She jumped on her favoured machine, turned up her MP3 player to drown out everything and everyone, and pretended to run away into a world, where for 35 minutes, no one demanded anything of her and her mind was allowed to drift off, turn off and enjoy the moment.
Tired, but refreshed, Mrs Bennet returned to reality. As she walked through the door, the Tigger child came towards her, landing a perfect cartwheel at her feet. It was obvious this puppy dog needed her daily run too. Mrs Bennet made a mental note to buy a lead and a tin of Pedigree Chum.

Toothpaste goo and passing go

2009-03-07T14:05:00.000-08:00

Friday, March 6 ‘09

Absentmindedly, Mrs Bennet pushed the plunger on the liquid soap, nestling on the bathroom sink. Only it wasn’t soap. It was toothpaste. The little Miss Bennets preferred the dispenser method of extracting their striped toothpaste and had placed it at easy reach.
“Yuk,” cried Mrs Bennet, trying to wash away the sticky goo in her palm, which now matched its caked companions in the sink itself. At least it wasn’t on the floor or down the front of the Miss Bennets’ clean green uniform sweatshirts this morning.
“They’re aiming straight at last,” she muttered as a mother of boys would perhaps for another purpose.
Counting to 10, Mrs Bennet ventured downstairs to resolve a conflict with Miss Bennet Number Two. Miss Naomi Bennet, being a proud school councillor had left early that morning for an important breakfast meeting, where hot chocolate and croissants were readily available for the young politicians. Perhaps a little jealous of her sister’s VIP treatment, Miss Emily Bennet wanted some VIP treatment of her own. And so to get it she refused to pick up her lunch box. The Scooby Doo van had to leave in five minutes to guarantee an on-time arrival at the school gate. With four children to get strapped in – one of them refusing to budge – Mrs Bennet feared the Scooby Doo flight might be slightly turbulent.
“Mummy, I wanted school dinners today, not sandwiches!” declared the miniature teenager.
“I’m sorry, but you can have them tomorrow. I didn’t have any change today,” explained the mother.
“But I wanted them today!” replied the persistent seven-year-old, with a stamping action from the left food for good effect.
Mrs Bennet chose to ignore the fine acting, scooped up a surprised twin and carried her to the car. Miss Megan Bennet – knowing it was perhaps wise to keep quiet right now – meekly followed, while Miss Rosie Bennet waited patiently for the scooping mechanism to return.
Mrs Bennet did note Miss Megan’s behaviour. Why was it that as soon as one sibling was told off, another immediately went into perfect child mode? Even the little Miss Twin Bennets did this.
Amazingly because Mrs Bennet clearly wasn’t biting at Miss Emily’s bait, the issue resolved itself, partly because Miss Bennet realised she could so easily lose her lunch altogether – to her youngest two sisters who would have readily ripped into it, and had done on occasion.
Some days the effort of passing go – i.e. the front door – was such that Mrs Bennet felt she'd run a marathon by the time she got to the school gate. Some days she didn’t get her £200, others she felt she’d been sent to gaol and the days when there weren’t any hiccups, she’d felt she’d bought Mayfair and Park Lane. Today she would have been lucky if she’d acquired Old Kent Road. One finished house would be nice. Thanks to the credit crunch, the Bennet’s six month building project looked likely to stretch to a three year one. But at least the roof was on.
The school bell interrupted Mrs Bennet's monopoly thoughts. It was nine o’clock. She wondered if she lifted the Miss Twin Bennets out of their pushchair and allowed them to follow their sisters into their various classrooms – which they most definitely would do – the teachers would notice? Then she could slump over their double buggy, bottom in one side, feet in the other and sleep until 3.15pm. It was a nice thought.

Love Tank Empty

2009-02-28T12:28:00.000-08:00

Friday, February 27 ‘09

Mrs Bennet’s Love Tank was empty. There wasn’t a single gold penny left in it. She’d ensured her daughters’ love tanks were full, but hadn’t anticipated them emptying hers in the process.
Earlier that day while the Miss Twin Bennets were having their lunch time nap, Mrs Bennet was preparing a session on emotional security for a parent facilitator’s qualification. The illustration she was using was a love tank – representing a child’s emotional bank account. By adding credit through praise, encouragement, kind works, spending time and having fun, a child’s love tank could be filled so they felt good about themselves. Love coins were lost if a child hurt himself, was treated unkindly by friends or shouted at. By the end of the day, although Mrs Bennet had done her utmost to ensure her five children’s bank accounts looked healthy; her own love tank was anything but.
She was sitting on the bottom stair, nursing a scorched shin. She had pulled out one of the oven shelves too far, causing her prized expensive square stone baking dish to tip out and smash its hot chicken contents on to the tiled kitchen floor and its boiling hot olive oil over the unsuspecting Mrs Bennet. The double pain of burning fat and watching her favourite dish crash to the ground was just too much after a trying and torturous afternoon counteracting an onslaught of moans, groans, whines and demands. She burst into tears, rubbing her stinging leg while Mr Bennet rushed to her aid, ordered her to put cold water on it and proceeded to clear up the mess.
A few love tokens were added to her empty tank by that gesture alone. She had thought she was in credit, but once school had ended, it didn’t take long before her bank balance was in the red.
To have one of the Bennet girls go off on a rebellious tangent was bad enough. To have four of them do so – and in full view of a very captive audience in her favourite supermarket café - was too much for one mother to cope with.
“Emily’s been nasty to me and Naomi Mummy. When you weren’t looking she punched me and pulled a face!” cried an unhappy nearly five-year-old.
Before she could answer, an avalanche of woos followed.
“I didn’t like the sandwiches you gave me today Mummy!” yelled daughter number two.
“Why did you put those crisps in my lunchbox? You know I don’t like them!” joined in daughter number one. Not to be left out, daughter number three added: “And Mummy why do you only give me water. It’s not fair because my friends get blackcurrant in their lunch bags and you never give me any!”
At this point Miss Kezia Bennet, who had been quite happily munching on her modest flapjack portion, noticed her sisters had something far more exciting and protested with all she was worth, causing heads to turn and eyes to stare. How could this angelic looking child make such a racket? And please not now, I am trying to enjoy a quiet cup of coffee, thank you very much.
Try as hard as she might to control and contain her children, Mrs Bennet knew it was a losing battle. Although her parents were there as reinforcement, her Dad was trying to pluck up the courage to tell his wife that in trying to fix a shower he had somehow caused a flood in the kitchen. He was therefore not engaged as he normally would and being deaf in one ear, conveniently blocked out the Bennet discords. Mrs Bennet was quite relieved her own husband didn’t have a bodging talent. She knew her mother’s silent frustrations only too well. Mrs Bennet’s dad was sent home to locate a friendly neighbour who, being a plumber, had conveniently bailed them out when bodges had gone wrong in the past.
Mrs Bennet tried to patch up her own situation. She needed to get her children out of the shop and into the car as quickly as possible. Miss Bennets Number One and Two however quickly reminded her that they had been promised they could spend their pocket money. Miss Bennet Number Three had already picked a magazine before the rude eruption and therefore it was only fair they could do so. Mrs Bennet should have refused, but the trouble was daughter number three had behaved no better than they had. Of course apologies were given very freely then and because Mrs Bennet was desperately trying to turn down the noise volume on Miss Bennet Number Five, she allowed them five minutes in which to choose their chosen item.
A minute later, as Mrs Bennet was tucking an angry twin under her arm, her eldest daughter returned.
“Mummy, can I have this please? It was on the shelf with all the books,” she asked, producing a small box called “Sleepovers,” naturally the “in” word for nine-year-olds.
Mrs Bennet held it with her free hand and read the small print.
“Pads with wings to ensure extra comfort.”
“Naomi, I would put it back and look for something else,” Mrs Bennet responded gently, slightly annoyed (and amused) that a shopper had abandoned such an item next to a collection of children’s books. It wouldn’t be long before she’d have to broach the whole subject of “wings” with her daughter.
Helped by her mother, Mrs Bennet arrived safely at the car. Relieved to have got out alive, she informed her children that never again would she take them en masse to her favourite café. One to one, yes. One to five, no.
Exhausted, Mrs Bennet ushered her children into the building site, and clumsily prepared tea. The moaning hadn’t stopped, sibling fall-out was high and the twins were fighting over a baby doll. She pretended she was deaf, worked on auto-pilot and tried to put a six pint bottle of milk in the microwave instead of the fridge. It was hardly surprising then that the chicken decided to adopt the “wings” she’d left behind in the supermarket and fly out of the oven.
For once she was grateful that there were no Darcys in the Dirt around. The empty bank account meant a sudden lull in activity. No money, no work. Probably the underlying reason as to why Mrs Bennet’s own love tank had drained more quickly than it would normally.
Tears brushed away, leg sufficiently nursed; the love tank was soon to be refilled. One by one, her children silently surrounded her and hugged her. Concerned by her cries, they each threw their small arms round her legs and knees, causing the love coins to refill her tank.
“We’re sorry Mummy,” announced Miss Bennets One, Two and Three remorsefully.
“And I’m sorry I got upset,” she replied, looking at her boot, now boasting an olive oil glow.
“Look at my boot!” she cried. “It’s all shiny.”
“That’s probably the cleanest it’s been since you had them,” shouted a voice from the kitchen.
The panda-eyed Mrs Bennet smiled. Her largest love coin was displaying his care by taking over tea, mopping the floor and picking up broken pieces of ceramic without one word of complaint.
Her love tank might lose credit on a daily basis, but the very ones who drained the coffers, were the very ones who refilled her love tank. She was a rich lady indeed.

Surrounded!

2009-02-17T11:59:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, February 17 09

Mrs Bennet was surrounded by children, plasterers, electricians, builders, rubble and dust - and it was half-term. She had done her best to get all five daughters and herself out of the way. But it meant dividing the day up into bite-sized chunks and ensuring she wasn’t in one place too long to cause rebellion and boredom amongst the ranks. It wasn’t the older three girls so much she had to worry about, it was the smaller two of her brood who if allowed to sit still too long, wriggled and writhed so much it caused all heads to look and stare. Mrs Bennet was already a talking point just by walking into a shop or building. Like a mother duck with all the baby ducks following, she could hear the whispers around her. If anyone of them started quacking even more eyes looked at her. She felt like walking around with a sticker on her back. The sticker would read something like this: “Yes, I know I have my hands full, so if you have a spare one and you can lend it I would be most grateful.” Going to the toilet alone was a major expedition and not to be considered unless the utmost preparation was in place – i.e. one or two of those wet wipe bricks, spare vests, nappies and clothes for herself as inevitably one of her girls would spill a cup of water over her trousers in an embarrassing place.
Because there was only one room to play, eat and work in, this room - once a comfortable lounge – was now a dumping ground for coats, toys and endless creative productions the Miss Bennets generated. Mrs Bennet had an article to write, but for some reason she couldn’t think. The room was in such a mess, it bugged her and she knew she’d have to tackle the mountains around her before she could climb her own. Armed with a bottle of root beer – which was she knew an acquired (peculiar more like, according to Mr Bennet) taste, she pulled every thing off shelves, out from under sofas and anything offending her. She was in the mood for tackling it and had that ruthless edge and any armless, headless or legless animal or doll a chance wasn’t going to stand a chance. Even the sock bin, now overflowing with 143 man-black, school-white, ballet-pink, baby-striped and lady-spots was in Mrs Bennet’s firing line.
“Why have I still got oodles of oddies desperately waiting for their sole-mates when I know full well they’re never going to find them! I’m just going to take them out of their misery. Seven years of waiting is long enough!” And with that she emptied the Bennet collection into a black bin-liner and thus removing their hope.
It was just as well the Bennet girls weren’t in the room. Their mother worked relentlessly, trying to regain an inch here and there to make the lounge - and week - more bearable, largely for her sake rather than for anyone else.
The caffeine fix from the root beer kept her going until midnight, when she sunk into a now cold bath to prepare herself for another day. She couldn’t sleep but watched her husband enjoying his. She wondered where he went when he dreamt and whether she was part of his dreamful world. Eventually at 3.30am she dropped off refusing to believe it was morning when the alarm informed her it was day two of the half-term holidays. She put a pillow over her head and pretended it wasn’t.

Valentine Love

2009-02-15T14:41:00.000-08:00

Saturday, February 14 ‘09

The little twin Bennets were sitting at Mrs Bennet’s feet contentedly feeding each other Cheerios. Miss Rosie, the elder and more confident sister was pushing the tiny hoops into Kezia’s mouth. They both were grinning. Occasionally they lent forward, touching noses and giggled. As they did so Rosie pinched a few more cereal snacks from Kezia’s bowl and fed her twin again. They were biding their time. They did not want to go to bed.
This was Valentine’s weekend and Mr and Mrs Bennet were staying in a four star hotel. It was just as well it wasn’t a romantic break because the room they had been given had two single beds which had no intention of becoming a couple. They were firmly attached to the wall and no amount of reconciliation was going to unit them. The fact there were two travel cots in the room was a double insurance of uninterrupted passion.
It was a church leader’s conference and as there were crèche facilities for the under two’s during the day sessions, Mrs Bennet decided she would join her husband. Finding childcare for three daughters was slightly easier than five. She was used to handling the needs of five little people at once. But most of her friends and indeed family, were not, apart from Mr and Mrs Bennet Senior who had brought up five children of their own, albeit of the male species. They were now having a taste of the female variety. Hopefully it wasn’t too much of a shock.
The little twin Bennets were relishing having their parents to themselves – happily running down corridors, invariably in different directions and wooing both hotel guest and staff alike with their cheeky and mischievous grins. As the conference didn’t provide childcare in the evening, Mrs Bennet stayed back with her daughters. Sleeping – certainly in strange cots and in a strange room – was clearly not on their agenda, even it was on Mrs Bennet’s. One of her friends had instructed her: “Get some rest!” But his children were 21 and 17. Hers were 21 months and rest wasn’t yet part of their vocabulary. So for the next four hours Mrs Bennet did her best to entertain them. Although they did quite a lot of that themselves by doing a pretty good impression of the Andrex puppy, pulling toilet paper and running with it, stretching it as far as they could from the disabled bathroom the Bennets had been allocated, to the bedroom. Thankfully the twins didn’t think to pull the red emergency cords which dangled from both rooms. Mrs Bennet thought about it though. As both girls spent two hours crying and protesting about bedtime, she did debate calling for help. In the end, she turned the lights down and shut herself in the bathroom so she could sit on the toilet seat and read a chick lit novel until the sounds of her angry daughters dissipated to more of a whimper.
This was Valentine’s Day and her evening was spent cooped up in a bathroom. It would have been easier if she had a bath to soak in. But a hole in the floor didn’t quite do the trick on the relaxation front. To keep her spirits up, she rang her older three girls from her bathroom throne, who were only too delighted to tell her about their adventure that afternoon. Granddad’s car had broken down and they had had to be rescued in a tow truck. Just hearing their cheerful voices was a great compensation for the grumpy ones filtering through the bathroom door. Half an hour later, the cries from the cots were still strong. A further call was needed. Mrs Bennet rang her mum, affectionately known as Jannie, who made her laugh. Away for the weekend with Mrs Bennet’s dad, Jannie answered her mobile phone rang while she was in her hotel bathroom in Torquay - also sitting on the throne. That alone made Mrs Bennet giggle. Loo to loo, their chat was almost surreal but enough to maintain Mrs Bennet’s sanity. Although she knew she was in for a long night.
She was right. Having forgotten any spare socks for the twins, Mrs Bennet tried washing and drying the ones they’d been wearing. Having rinsed them with soap in the sink, Mrs Bennet realised her only drying option was the room’s hairdryer. In trying to quietly unplug it so she could do her laundry in her throne room, Mrs Bennet pressed the on switch, and promptly woke one sleeping baby and upset the one who was almost asleep. She was back to square one. Mr Bennet returned to find three unhappy ladies in his room – one jumping up and down in her cot, the other trying to escape from hers and the other knelt on the floor trying to dry four baby socks with a hairdryer. He sent his wife out for a much needed drink at the bar, calmed both babies and dried the socks in the trouser press. Mrs Bennet decided a man’s “fix it” qualities were sometimes just what a woman needed.

Out of control – and not liking it very much

2009-02-10T15:26:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, February 10 09

The Scooby-Doo van was in trouble. It was slipping and sliding. Mrs Bennet was in trouble. She was streaming and screaming. The more the car cruised out of control, the more the driver cried. It was a horrible sound. Mrs Bennet turned the steering wheel, pressed the accelerator, but the car couldn’t obey. Caught on a patch of ice, it could only swerve.
Mrs Bennet – with the twins on board – was in a car park, which like most of her home town, was based on a slope. She was desperately trying to avoid crashing into the collection of metal objects before her. So many tears were forming in her eyes, the cars no longer resembled cars. They looked more like a colour swatch. Earlier, a blob of snow had fallen off the car roof onto her head as she got into the driver’s seat. Now it had melted and was joining the tear stream. Mrs Bennet sat crumbled over the steering wheel. The Scooby-Doo van sat motionless on its ice blanket. As Mrs Bennet’s mobile phone was sitting on the dusty kitchen work top, the crying mother couldn’t ring for help. Instead she sat like Alice in Wonderland in her own pool of salty tears, with her twin dormice for company. Of course it wasn’t really the scary-out-of-control-feeling of this experience which had provoked the outburst. Rather it was the fact the experience epitomized what she felt inside. Last night Mr Bennet had walked through the door with such a long face, she feared a death had occurred. But it wasn’t the death of a person, it was the death of a dream. A dream that sometime soon bite-size Pemberley would be finished. Mr Bennet explained that the house – with all its extended glory – was, in the current climate, only worth £10,000 more than what it had originally been valued. As the next phase of the build was dependent on borrowing 75% of that figure, it now meant Pemberley could not be completed. It would be built, but there would not be enough funds for carpets, windows, furniture, cupboards, driveway, bathroom refurbishment, porch and even a front door – all the essentials which made the house a home. Today it was too much for Mrs Bennet’s nerves and she cried - cried because she was fed up with dust and upheaval and because even after all of this, the house would not be finished.
After her emotional outburst - made even more dramatic with the twins’ whimpering discords - she felt marginally better and somehow managed to cajole the Scooby-Doo to swing into a car park space. It was only when the snow had melted, she realised just how badly she had parked. Thankfully she was not alone. Cars were jutting out at strange angles all over the place.
Momentarily back in control, her emotions and car in order, Mrs Bennet got through the day. Wearing her heart on her sleeve, she later revealed her frustrations to a couple of ballet mums, who had asked about the building project. Eager to help, one of them came up with the obvious solution.
“Well you can always sell one of your girls!” she announced.
Mrs Bennet smiled. She would live in a shack rather than do that. And some people did live in shacks which to them were their mini-Pemberley and they were grateful. Mrs Bennet knew really where her riches lay. After all without her five daughters and Mr Bennet there would be no need for a home. It was just that sometimes life didn’t always go the way she wanted. But press on with a smile she would.

Mrs Bennet decides it’s time to fly

2009-02-04T06:06:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, February 4 09

The duster was fed up. She felt overwhelmed. Mrs Bennet couldn’t fault any one of the builders. The Darcys in the Dirt had become her friends and it was reassuring to have them around. She’d missed them this morning. It was strangely quiet as snow and ice prevented the Darcys living on steep hills and isolated lanes reaching her quiet cul-de-sac. The little Miss Twin Bennets didn’t like it either. Their mother’s attention was no longer enough. They wanted more. Mrs Bennet hoped it wasn’t a sign of what was to come.
Drilling filled the air once more. The Darcys in the Dirt were back, determined to finish the job in hand. Mrs Bennet couldn’t wait to have her home back. A tent would do if it was spacious, dust and clutter-free. There were now four chests of drawers in Mr and Mrs Bennet’s bedroom. And four chests in one bedroom were far too many!
Mrs Bennet was furiously writing at her computer, frantically hammering the keys. There were only two things in life which made her unwind, writing and running. And as she couldn’t physically get to the gym because of the weather, she did what she knew would boost her spirits: write.
To be honest she was upset. She had just been told her weekly column and creative page was to be dropped due to the recession. It meant more to her than money. It was her lifeline. She loved meeting the plethora of artists and inspirational people her town was proud to have. And she would miss them. Writing for her was like a window – a window into another world where imagination, and freedom prevailed as well as an ability to be who she wanted to be. At the moment her lounge had no light filtering into it. The double doors were so dirty, you couldn’t see out and it made those sitting inside feel claustrophobic and trapped. Mrs Bennet had her back to it and gazed at the computer screen in front of her.
“Well, if this particular publication doesn’t want Mrs Bennet, maybe it’s time she spread her wings and fulfilled her dream. Mrs Bennet, let’s get published! Let’s get a book off the ground to help save your sanity and that of fellow mums and dads who at times feel overwhelmed by this emotional parenting roller-coaster,” she told herself.
“And if that fails, Mrs Bennet you can always get a job being a teas maid to the Darcys in the Dirt!”

Where's the wife?

2009-02-03T13:03:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, February 3 ‘09

A year ago Mrs Bennet had very strongly suggested to Mr Bennet that if he wanted a wife at the end of the proposed building project, he had better consider moving out. To his credit, he did consider. To her dismay, he then reconsidered. So being the good wife she was, she agreed to live through it. But now, four months after work had started, Mrs Bennet wondered whether she really was a good wife and questioned where the wife had in fact gone? She no longer recognised herself. She had a strange tinge of grey about her, which, if you touched her was so tangible, it rubbed off. Mrs Bennet had surreptitiously turned into the duster. It was the house’s pay-back time – revenge for all the years she had failed to clear, duster or remove its cobwebs. The Bennet duster was huddled next to a small halogen heater, which radiated light and heat, subsequently melting any ice in its wake. As the Darcys in the Dirt had now broken through in two places: in the hallway as well as the landing, it meant the unheated brand new half of bite-size Pemberley stole the heat of its older half, at a time when Britain was experiencing its worst winter for 18 years. Mrs Bennet didn’t do cold well. She couldn’t function, think or concentrate. She drank far too much tea on these occasions and no matter how many layers she wore, she couldn’t get warm. She took great delight in robbing Mr Bennet of his body heat with her icepack feet. It was his punishment for not allowing her to move out. Of course the older three Miss Bennets were oblivious of mess and disorder; their twin siblings just relished the attention from the growing breed of Darcys in the Dirt and Mr Bennet had left the building before work started and returned when work had finished. So why should any of them complain? Thankfully the duster had a sense of humour. But it was getting drier. The wit was edging towards sarcasm and she didn’t like it. The day was drawing near when she’d have to pack the kitchen away as well. Today Mrs Bennet, feeling and acting like a whinge-bucket, had snapped at the children and had felt even worse for doing so. Then she apologised and spent the rest of the evening undoing what damage she may have done. Perhaps there was one consolation. Having never been very religious about dusting, she felt no obligation to start now when the house was at its worse.“My dear Mr Bennet, I promise to duster every day for the rest of our married life, so long as I don’t have to live through another building project!” she informed her warm-blooded-who-never-feels-the-cold-husband.“Are you renewing your wedding vows? Because I’ll need a witness for this,” he remarked. The duster hit him, covering him in a shower of grey soot.

Meeting the Italian Mr Cappuccino part two

2009-02-01T12:55:00.000-08:00

Friday, January 30 09

Apart from the frisking, the journey itself to Milan was painless. No children to worry about or chase, Mr and Mrs Bennet could read at leisure and shut their eyes, without the fear of a little Miss Bennet pushing up their eyelids.
Despite it being such a short trip, Mrs Bennet did manage a small taste of Italy. Mozzerella balls, which Mrs Bennet mistook for eggs; nuggets of aubergine accompanied by battered zucchini flowers (courgette) stuffed with melted cheese; toasted bread, dripping with olive oil and topped with tomato, fried chicken, salad and tiramisu to end. This was a true Italian restaurant and plates of endless tasty morsels appeared from nowhere; the waiter only too keen to educate Mrs Bennet who was intrigued by what was set before her; he, equally intrigued as to why she ordered a cappuccino at the end of a meal. It was past six o'clock and obviously not the done thing. But he gave her one anyway, much to her delight. At least she hadn't ordered a cup of tea!
They were leaving before six the next day, so she could avoid making the same mistake. She did think about home, her children, her parents, her Darcys in the Dirt and wondered how they all were. But she did so need this break. She needed the sleep, but unlike Mr Cappuccino who obviously managed to recharge his batteries. Neither Mr or Mrs Bennet could do so. They both woke continually throughout the night thanks to an extremely noisy fan in their room, which neither of them knew how to turn off. Mr Bennet worked out where the off switch was in the morning - far too late.
He left Mrs Bennet early for a breakfast briefing and then for a morning of meetings. She felt oddly alone. For weeks she craved some quiet, some space, some time where she didn’t pretend to have six heads and twelve arms to meet the demands of Mr Bennet and the Bennet brood. But now, sitting alone in the hotel’s dining room, sampling Italian cheeses and meats, the romance of Italy had left her. Surrounded by men in suits, talking animatedly in their singing tongue, she missed the familiar noise of home. Who would want to spend hours in a hotel room tied to a computer, sitting on their own at a table looking lost and jumping from plane to plane to make the next meeting? One night away was enough. Italy without a partner must be tough. The last time she visited, she’d got lost in Venice, the capital of romance and had spent two hours aimlessly wandering the streets and attractive arched bridges looking for her friend, who was aimlessly wandering about looking for her. All Mrs Bennet remembered was celebrating their reunion with a cappuccino. Both single at the time, they then questioned what they were doing in such a romantic place without a beau. A question Mrs Bennet was asking herself some 14 years later...and she was married. She spent her time writing, reading, researching and putting together a feature on Bourton-on-the-Water, the Venice of the Cotswolds, for a glossy magazine. Sad as it was, it was refreshing to be able to use what was left in her brain without the interruption of drills and demands from little children. But after 24 hours confined in a small hotel room with just a bottle of carbonated water for company, she was ready to go home. A shuttle bus, a Metro experience, a double decker train trip (her first), a bumpy flight and car journey later, Mrs Bennet arrived back at the part-built bite-size Pemberley and dashed upstairs to kiss all five sleeping heads. That night, Mr and Mrs Bennet slept fitfully - he dreaming of business deals going wrong; she of handsome young Italians making her go through a never ending tunnel of security arches.

Meeting the Italian Mr Cappuccino

2009-01-30T01:13:00.000-08:00

Thursday, January 30 09

Mrs Bennet was stunned. She was fortunate to be in the country that smelt of rich strong coffee, but Mr Cappuccino didn’t exist after 6 o’clock. He was obviously very passionate and needed his beauty sleep. What Mrs Bennet hadn’t realised was the night shift belonged to Mr Expresso, who being slightly more resilient, could last longer. Although that didn’t make sense to Mrs Bennet because he was only dolls cup size. She’s learnt all this in a quaint Italian restaurant.
She was in Italy, a country full of noise, hand gestures, romance and chat. Here for just 24 hours, as she had tagged along with Mr Bennet who was needed for a business meeting in Milan. Here because she was no longer the cow feeding a calf or two, here because she had the opportunity to fly without a babe in arms, here because she had the opportunity to go somewhere. Mr Bennet flew all over the world: Malaysia, Canada, Spain, Dubai and Egypt, and sometimes did so without much warning, leaving her with the five Bennet girls and on occasion with a packed-up boiler, stomach bugs, diggers and foundation specialists. But the first time in 10 years, thanks to very accommodating set of parents, Mrs Bennet was able to go as the extra luggage, for good behaviour. She felt guilty leaving her mum and dad with the new extended Bennet family of plasterers, electricians and the original Darcys in the Dirt - the builders - but not guilty enough to refuse such an invitation. Just to fly away was an adventure and the thought of spending time with Italian Mr Lattes and Cappuccinos was thrilling; that and having some mental space of her own. She knew Mr Bennet would leave her to her own devices most of the time, and as the hotel was in the middle of a built up industrial site, Giotto and Giovanni would be spared a visit from Mrs Bennet, who did so appreciate a bit of culture.
Bristol Airport was unbelievably quiet: no queuing, no buzzing of people whizzing off to various countries and no delays. It was nothing like her previous life of flying. Procedures had changed, and staff appeared a lot more serious. It brought out her mischievous side and she could see exactly why Mr Bean had pretended his hand was a gun when queuing up to get his holiday luggage checked in. What was it about airports and security staff which instantly made you feel guilty? Perhaps she looked it.
“That guard followed you with his eyes until you were out of sight,” observed Mr Bennet.
“I smiled at him, is that so wrong?!” Mrs Bennet questioned.
“And how come I set the alarms off and you walk through that radar arch and nothing! I’m not sure I liked being frisked by a woman,” she added.
The buckles on her boots and jeans belt had set the alarm off. Mrs Bennet was immediately accosted by a stern looking woman, asked to remove both items and hold her arms out in surrender position, while she endured being frisked. It was not a pleasant experience. It could have least been a dishy Italian. And anyway, her belt held her jeans up, and with that now removed, she felt the waist slipping down. What can you do but allow the humiliation to increase. With arms outstretched she watched helplessly as her black jeans started to slide downwards. Thankfully the frisking stopped in time for her to reclaim what dignity she had left. She made a mental note to strip before walking through the arch on her homeward journey. Sadly it prevented a dishy Italian getting his hands on her.

The placenta ate Mrs Bennet’s brain

2009-01-28T15:54:00.000-08:00

Monday, January 26 09

After the birth of her first child, Mrs Bennet was convinced, having caught herself putting semi-skimmed milk in the washing machine instead of fabric conditioner, and trying to pay for her shopping with a library card, that the placenta had in fact eaten her brain.
Four more children later, her suspicions were realised. Having seen the size of the twin’s placenta, and the fact Mrs Bennet could no longer get her children’s names right let alone remember why she had gone up the stairs; she knew it had to be true.
And so it was in this state – with all her brain cells swallowed up – she was attempting to be a student, 23 years after she’d last written an essay or had faced the challenge of digesting so much information. It was a parenting group facilitator’s course, which if she survived, would enable her to lead parenting courses. Not that she had the answers – after all she was on this emotional roller coaster ride along with fellow mums and dads – it was just so she could encourage others, who like her were only seeking to do their best. She was no yummy mummy that’s for sure. She didn’t make her children’s birthday cakes and she didn’t look immaculate. Very often she left the house with a silvery trace of snail-trail snot on her shoulder, a Weetabix hand-print on her knee and a soggy patch on her backside, because she’d sat down on a wet-wipe snowball one of the twins had just made, after pulling the entire contents out of the packet. No, if anything she was a slummy mummy, who lived each moment at a time, invariably sank under the constant demands and occasionally came up for air. Which, incidentally wasn’t pleasant at the moment, because it was full of dust, thanks to the Darcys in the Dirt who were now inside the building.
Mrs Bennet observed her fellow students. They looked so together, so professional and so sure of what they were doing, she felt a bit of a fraud. This was her first day off from child-care since Miss Bennet numbers four and five had arrived. Would they notice if she fell asleep on the table in front of her, surrounded by a sea of delicious chocolate biscuits and her Mr Latte? And would they notice her quietly panicking at the thought of writing assignments and assessments? She drew herself up to her full height of five foot and told herself she could do this. It may well break the recurring and annoying dream she always had at this time of year that she hadn’t revised enough for her history “A” level. She usually woke up trying to work out which of Henry VIII’s wives hadn’t lost their heads.
Numbed, exhausted and completely brain dead after a long day, Mrs Bennet returned home trying to recall which learning theories were what, and flopped in the nearest chair. Miss Megan Bennet instantly presented her with a headless Polly Pocket doll.
“Mummy, look what’s happened to this one? She’s lost her head!” announced her daughter, amused.
“Well, I know how she feels! I just left mine behind at the course I was on. I don’t think I would have been any luckier if I had been one of Henry VIII’s wives!” Mrs Bennet declared.
Miss Megan Bennet looked a bit confused by her mother’s statement, but simply answered:
“Mummy, I am sure Daddy can go back and get it for you!”
Mrs Bennet appreciated her concern, but decided she’d leave it there until the next course session. Perhaps by then it might have recharged!

Mrs Bennet’s Bust Fairy

2009-01-23T08:32:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, January 20 09

The Tooth Fairy had a collection of milk teeth she kept hidden, but now and then she looked at the tiny molars and marvelled how they had once been part of a tiny mouth as well as debating how much money it had cost her. Mrs Bennet respected the Tooth Fairy. At least she remembered to visit – unlike the Bust Fairy. Mrs Bennet yanked at her broken top drawer and looked at her miserable array of bras with front, back and shoulder fasteners, of varying cup sizes and various shades of grey. None of them fitted now, apart from one and it provoked too many humiliating memories, Mrs Bennet refused to wear it. It represented her first and last bra fitting experience.
“I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Bennet, but you are only a 32 double A,” declared the matronly bra-fitter - who obviously took great delight in making young(ish) women feel good about themselves – loud enough for all vulnerable top-less ladies in adjoining cubicles, dreading their own fate, to hear.
Mrs Bennet didn’t know quite what to say. So what if she had moles rather than mountains? And why tell her in a tone she heard at school when a pupil hadn’t made the expected grade? To ensure Mrs Bennet felt really good, the army major bra-fitter, pointed her in the direction of the teenage bra rails, where the only bra in her size was a starter bra.
It should have been the finishing bra, because it finished her off. Never again would she let a bra fitter near her. She’d rather wear chicken fillets.
Two twin babies later, her bust had grown impressively to the largest it had ever been, but the babies had eaten them all up. Her cleavage now gone to Cleavage Heaven, she could however run again without the risk of black eyes.
So when a dear image consultant friend informed Mrs Bennet and her chums that a bra fitter would be coming along from a rather posh lingerie line, Mrs Bennet made her feelings felt.
“I won’t be coming. I do not like bra fitters, who consider I don’t have a bust to fit,” she informed her friend.
And that was that. Her companion to her left, whose bust and wit she wished she could buy at her favourite supermarket, joked:
“Didn’t the bust fairy come to your house then?”
“She did for a while, but obviously decided to take her precious commodities back!” moaned Mrs Bennet. “But I’ll give her one more chance!”
That night she shoved her pathetic bra collection under her pillow in hope. The next morning, the bras were gone, but a note was in its place.
“There are not enough busts to go round. I have five more sets to make for this household. That is more than enough for one Bust Fairy!”

Midwife Darcys announce: “The waters have broken!”

2009-01-23T05:44:00.000-08:00

Friday, January 23 09

It wasn’t very often Mrs Bennet remembered the details of her dreams. But last night was such a strange cocktail of ridiculous images, she couldn’t help but recall them. Mrs Bennet had to physically shake herself to prove they couldn’t be real. She’d dreamt her own mum had given birth to twins at 64, but her father didn’t appear once. Twin granddaughters were enough, and no doubt the thought of having any more children of his own, shocked him out of the picture, probably because he knew they couldn’t possibly be his. Mind you if Mrs Bennet’s recurring dream of having twins, triplets and quads ever came true, she would most definitely be suing the NHS.
Equally as strange was a dream which quickly followed her mother’s twins - that the Bennet house was in fact pregnant, with Mr and Mrs Bennet and all five Miss Bennets tucked tightly in its belly, which of course was the lounge.
Mrs Bennet remembered only too well how it felt to have two little Bennets growing inside her, pushing her organs up so tightly she could hardly breathe. At one point she feared her ribs would break. It was like being a human “Stretch Armstrong,” a super rubbery childhood doll which would stretch when you pulled its arms and legs – only all its faculties went back to where they should afterwards. Mrs Bennet’s stomach would never be the same. She realised that the house dream was really about space. Crammed inside a lounge, the Bennet babies were head down and ready to come out.
Ironically an hour after waking up, the Darcys in the Dirt announced that they would be breaking through that very morning. Now the scaffolding had disappeared, they needed access to upstairs which meant the inevitable. Armed with saws, they marched upstairs. Mrs Bennet couldn’t resist sharing her unusual dream with them.
“Today’s the day then. This is the exciting part. The waters have broken!” declared one of them.
Too right the labour pains were starting. Mrs Bennet had the urge to push – push the front door and escape and leave the midwives to it. Yet, they were right. This was exciting. Soon the birth of bite-size Pemberley would be over and the space she so yearned for would be deliciously hers.

Naked babies in the dark

2009-01-17T14:46:00.000-08:00

Saturday, January 17 09

Bath time was an endurance test for Mr and Mrs Bennet. It required both of them to wash Miss Rosie Bennet who quite literally screamed the house down if a sponge or jug came anywhere near her. In fact mention the word wash, she’d howl and try to climb out of the bath, pleading with her big blue eyes: “Somebody please rescue me!” Her smaller twin sat like an anaemic frog on her lily pad – a sponge bathmat - and carried on bobbing the heads of her duck pals, ignoring the distressed pleas and waves created by her unhappy water companion.
This evening Mrs Bennet was embracing the calm before the storm. The bath babes, with their adorable matching round tummies were enjoying a splash. Shampoo, sponges and anything to do with washing were out of sight. Mrs Bennet was sitting on the toilet seat, quietly reading an escape novel. Keeping one eye on the children, she noticed Miss Rosie was sitting on something. Unfortunately it wasn’t a plastic duck. The bubbles in the water confirmed her worst suspicions. It was too late; an explosive deposit meant a swift scooping up of babies and offending objects. It was time for evacuation. Leaving the naked babies to roam around upstairs, she risked not putting nappies on them, while emptying the bath in order to carry out a swift clear-up operation. Happily entertained by their eldest sister, the twins bounced on Miss Megan Bennet’s bed as fresh water filled the bath tub. But as Mrs Bennet bent over to turn off the water, the house plunged into darkness, causing an instant double cry of panic from the tiny Miss Bennets. Fumbling around, Mrs Bennet managed to find two naked children, who instantly clung to her, digging their chubby fingers into her arms and wrapping their legs tightly round her middle.
“I’m here girls, it’s alright, it’s alright – just don’t you dare wee all over me!” she told them.
Mr Bennet, outside the house at the time, re-entered to an orchestra of cries. The two smallest girls refused to be consoled, despite reassurances from Miss Naomi Bennet and their mother, while Miss Emily and Miss Megan Bennet simultaneously whined that the programme they’d been watching had disappeared.
Mrs Bennet, pined to the spot by crying limpets, couldn’t move. So her Darcy did his best to rescue damsels in distress by lighting candles and winding up torches. Scared of the flickering lights and unsure what was going on, the twin Bennets cried all the more. Their volume control turned up a notch as their source of comfort began searching for bottom protectors to prevent certain spillages. Dressing a frightened baby in candlelight was not an easy task – neither was picking up hundreds of Polly Pocket clothes, shoes and accessories, which covered the lounge floor.
Without Mr Latte and Mr Google, Mrs Bennet felt a little lost. Having not had any tea, she took comfort in a bowl of olives, a chunk of bread and her favourite Jarlsberg cheese. But then she remembered olives weren’t such a good idea. Her mother was convinced that’s why she had so many children. Power cuts resulting in no light and no heat, often led to a baby boom nine months later. In her case, it didn’t bare thinking about! She went to bed with a bar of chocolate instead.

The zapping power of Mrs Bennet

2009-01-15T13:59:00.000-08:00

Thursday, January 15 09

It was a sad day for Mrs Bennet. It marked the end of a very long baby era. Miss Kezia Bennet had finally – five months after her twin sister – started walking. She had mastered, what Mrs Bennet’s friends considered a brilliant impression of Charlie Chaplin minus his mustache. To add to this comical walk, Miss Bennet, rather partial to a certain Dora the Explorer umbrella, used it like Chaplin’s walking stick, waving it as she went, with a Cheshire Cat grin on her face. Mrs Bennet thought she resembled a penguin, her tiny feet fanning outwards as she carefully waddled her way around new territory.
Up until this point Mrs Bennet had therefore been spared the issue of two walking twins. But finally at 20 months, the real fun started. She unfortunately made the mistake of lifting the legs out of the supermarket trolley. Now free to roam along the wide aisles, the chubby legs were in their element. Being independent, they went in opposite directions, making it all the more impossible to catch them or shop.
Eventually Mrs Bennet scooped them up as best she could – and plonked them inside the trolley rather than in the seats as their little legs pedalled furiously.
Observing rebellion in the camp, a warm friendly lady, with funky white, purple and red hair and trendy glasses bounced up to her.
“Have you ever thought of using one of these?” she asked, holding up a zapper.
“Not really. I thought you had to be a store card holder,” she replied.
“Oh no anyone can use one. I think you'll find it really helpful and it means you don’t have to queue at the till,” announced the lady, who like Mrs Bennet, was clearly a fan of Jenny Joseph’s award-winning poem, Warning.
“Sounds good to me…and by the way I love your hair. I’ve decided to grow old disgracefully and have purple streaks too,” chuckled Mrs Bennet.
“Absolutely!” the kind zapper lady replied. Mrs Bennet liked this lady.
The zapping lesson didn’t start until the next morning as Mrs Bennet had abandoned all hope of buying the few items she needed. But now armed with this impressive gizmo, she was looking forward to shooting a few things.
Her trainer showed her how to zap the bar codes, check how much she was spending and more importantly how to remove objects if she found something better.
Zap, zap, zap went Mrs Bennet. Ooh, Ooh, Ooh went the Misses Twin Bennets, intrigued by Mummy’s new toy.
It was quite liberating. Mrs Bennet wished life could be this simple. She thought about her five daughters. If only she could go shopping for Darcys. Just imagine shelves full of future son-in-laws! How great that would be to zap a few, then eradicate them if she saw one who looked more suitable!
The Zapper lady checked her apprentice’s progress.
“I’m off for a tea break and wanted to see if you’re OK,” she said.
“I’m fine. This is great. I only wish I could use it on everything and everyone,” Mrs Bennet joked.
The minute her trainer disappeared, Mrs Bennet got into trouble. She’d zapped a pot of double cream by mistake but in trying to unzap the item, she managed to add one and then another, and then another, until according to her zapper, she had six pots in her trolley. By this time the Miss Twin Bennets were no longer enthralled by their mother’s toy, and started to object. Determined to master her zapper, Mrs Bennet tried zapping with the minus button. It worked.
“Hey this is easy when you know how!” declared a victorious Mrs Bennet, proceeding to the zapping counter, which of course had no queue. Queues and children didn’t get on.
“I can pay with cash can’t I?” she asked a lovely young girl, who shared Mrs Bennet’s sense of humour.
“You can pay with anything, apart from pounds of flesh,” she wittingly replied.
“I don’t really have any to spare anyway,” said Mrs Bennet, exhilarated by her first zapping experience.
To have a sizzling hot Mr Latte and to be introduced to her new friend Mr Zapper in one morning, was almost too much. She went back home to the Darcys in the Dirt – half wishing she could try out the zapper on them!

Outnumbered by Darcys

2009-01-14T10:34:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, January 14 09

The Darcys in the Dirt were breeding. There were now seven of them working on the house and to say Mrs Bennet felt surrounded was an understatement. The sub-contractor Darcys were now on site, wiring up and putting sockets in place and asking Mrs Bennet questions she wasn’t sure she was getting correct. She didn’t have a manual to consult, only a man, who didn’t know the answers either, so together they muddled through.
It was one of those days, when the hormones were raging, the head was pounding and the belly was aching and all she wanted to do was curl up in a black room and sleep. But there were sub-Darcys in her bedroom and nowhere to go. The little twin-Bennets were asleep so she couldn’t escape either. Instead she shut herself in the lounge and eventually fell asleep on the sofa – ignoring the comings and goings of sub-Darcys running up and down the stairs and the banging and drilling all around her.
For the first time in her life she was outnumbered by men. She was now having a taste of what Mr Bennet’s mum must have gone through bringing up five boys. She must have given up asking them to take their shoes off and not leaving the toilet seat up. Mrs Bennet didn’t really mind having so many men around. It was almost reassuring, but she longed to have her house back. But then again, she would miss her original Darcys, who only this morning had yet again helped her de-ice the Scooby Doo van, which just didn’t want to de-ice. It took at least 20 minutes – 20 minutes she didn’t have – to see through the windscreen. The scraper was in Mr Bennet’s car and a credit card wasn’t so efficient – especially when it came to scraping the large windscreen inside.
“Girls when it comes to have children, take my advice, only have two children! You’re car won’t be so big!” she declared, feeling more stressed as every minute passed. In the end she resorted to ringing the school and apologising in advance that the Miss Bennets would be late – better that than driving a car which had no visibility.
The Darcys in the Dirt were her heroes that morning. Their reward - a box of biscuits. They could breed as much as they liked, drink her coffee as much as they liked – so long as they rescued her now and then.

Little Darcy comes for tea

2009-01-12T04:37:00.000-08:00

Friday, January 9 09

It was clear how male-deprived the little Bennet girls were when a member of the opposite species came for tea. They almost couldn’t handle it. The excited high-pitched squeals reached decibels Mrs Bennet didn’t think possible of her five daughters.
This small Darcy however was oblivious to the impact he had on his young females and happily engaged with each, enjoying their company. He had secretly been Miss Bennet Number One’s Darcy since the first day at school, but now the relationship had changed to a more comfortable and level-headed one. Miss Bennet decided she wouldn’t be getting married for a while so potential fiancés were not to be considered just yet. Although it was strange that a year ago or so when this young Darcy had sat at their table, she had suddenly acquired a taste for broccoli and gravy, because a certain gentleman did.
As there was currently not much room in the living quarters, it was therefore rather brave of young Darcy to walk into a room of giggly girls. But he was here to do business. As school council representatives, he and Miss Bennet had set themselves a challenge to write a blog on council meetings, decisions and what they’d like to see happen at school. So Mrs Bennet sent them upstairs to work – away from the younger Bennets who clearly wanted young Darcy to play with them.
“If this happens in 10 years time, I’d quite happily have them working at the dining table where I can see them. Sending a young man into my daughter’s bedroom, would probably not be such a good idea!” she thought.
“Then I’ll be 50, have three teenage daughters and two in the wings of the hormone phase. Think of all the boyfriends? On the other hand don’t!” she told herself.
The upstairs blog writing didn’t last long. One paragraph later, they were ready for tea and downstairs they came, much to the delight of the four younger Bennet sisters, who were thrilled with their guest.
This young Darcy held his own. He left none of them out and had fun with them all. Mrs Bennet only hoped that when the time came for the grown-up Darcys to dine here, they would be as polite as this younger model. Whoever could get her daughters to eat broccoli deserved the Darcy status.

The return of the man from Milan

2009-01-09T03:46:00.000-08:00

Friday, January 9 09

The man from Milan arrived back just before 2am. Mrs Bennet was conscious of someone creeping around the bed, with not a lot on, and presuming it was her husband, grunted and went back to sleep. Unfortunately Mr-Smiley-alarm-clock wasn't too pleased by his arrival. In her sleep, Mrs Bennet had thrown out the now cold teddy bear and it had landed on the clock, almost suffocating it. Hence it didn't ring in the morning so Mr and Mrs Bennet overslept. Neither of them were quite with it and Mrs Bennet did her best to put the military procedure into action, but it lacked the authority it normally did and rebellion set in.
"I'm not going to school unless you help me do up my shoes Mummy!" cried out an indignant Miss Bennet Number Three while she desperately tried to keep a bottom on the changing mat before it ran off in its full glory. Mrs Bennet suddenly realised she'd left porridge in the microwave too late and it merrily spewed out its white lumpy gunge. She left the uncovered bottom and ran to the kitchen, trying to clear up the gunk before the inevitable cry came from the lounge.
"Mummy, Rosie's done a wee on the carpet!"
"Oh, great.....Ok coming!" Mrs Bennet grabbed the essential cleaning tools and got on her knees to clear up the next spillage.
"Right no one else dare cough, wee, whinge or spill anything down them!" she announced to the half-dressed brood.
How they got out of the door, she didn't know. Yesterday, with the man still in Milan, she was able to function quite well, was organised and efficient. Today, with him back, she couldn't even put on matching socks and as she left the building, managed to skid on a tiny plastic Dora figurine, and had to grab on to the rather hot radiator to stop herself falling.
"Ouch!" she yelled, still not quite awake. She stumbled outside, nursing her fingers and smiled at the Darcys in the Dirt who had just arrived for the day. They were used to seeing the Mrs Bennet early-morning-look. May be they secretly admired her for coping with five daughters, or more likely they thought she was utterly mad. Mrs Batty Bennet didn't care, she smiled at them, and made a note to grow old "disgracefully."....then noticed a blob of lumpy porridge on the back of her black jeans.

Stranded in Milan

2009-01-07T15:31:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, January 7 09

“It doesn’t look like I’m coming home tonight after all, the snow’s pretty bad here and many of the flights are being cancelled as I speak,” explained Mr Bennet with a sigh. The thought of a night sleeping on an airport bench didn’t obviously appeal to him. Mrs Bennet didn’t care whether she had a bed, chair, floor or bench so long as there were no teething twins or crying children anywhere near her. So an airport sounded quite pleasant.
Mr Bennet was in Milan. She didn’t blame him of course. Living with six females must be a bit much for the poor man. But it was a bit drastic flying to Italy and then coming up with a lame excuse not to come home. If Mr Bennet had expected to get away from this particularly cold snap and sub zero temperatures, he had been disappointed. It seemed the snow in Milan was worse.
She missed her husband when he was away. Mr Smiley-faced alarm clock was not a very good bedfellow. He was active and kept her awake for sure, but his monotonous tick was grating and as bad as finger nails scraping down a blackboard – an associated annoying sound which instantly took her back to the classroom - and did nothing for her.
However he did wake her up.
She hated admitting this to Mr Bennet, but the real reason she wanted him home was because he was kind enough to scrape her windscreen for her on these icy mornings. The fact it had iced over again by the time he left was beside the point – Mr Bennet got rid of the worst of it. The thing was she couldn’t reach the windscreen. Being 5ft, even on tiptoes, she only reached a quarter of it.
The Darcys in the Dirt were always willing to lend a hand with their trusty credit card and teased her.
“You need a step ladder to reach that!” they told her. She didn’t fancy standing on a stool in the middle of the road. So she resorted to throwing a towel over the windscreen late at night, praying it would stay there and not slide down.
Not sure when she’d see her husband again, she took herself to bed with a bar of chocolate and her microwave teddy bear for comfort. Mr Smiley-alarm- clock was still wearing his ridiculous grin, so she wound him up and stuck him as far away from her head as she possibly could. As much as she loved Mr Bennet, chocolate and a hot water bear would do just fine until the ridiculously loud clock he had bought her for Christmas (via the hands of Miss Emily Bennet) rudely awoke her to greet the bracing cold morning air. She happily dreamt of being stranded on a white sandy beach in The Sechelles.

Mrs Bennet’s “New Year Tries”

2009-01-05T05:25:00.000-08:00

Sunday, January 4 09

“This present comes with a special message,” Miss Emily Bennet boldly informed her mother, who was ripping off its wrapping.
“That’s lovely Emily,” replied Mrs Bennet, thinking her daughter meant a message of love and warmth.
“Mummy, what I mean is when the alarm goes off, you have to get up and not stay in bed which you normally do,” notified Miss Emily, with a grin.
The mini wind-up smiley-faced clock lasted 36 hours if properly wound up and had such a powerful tick which Mr and Mrs Bennet later discovered wouldn’t let them sleep in the first place. She did think about stuffing it under her pillow, but ended up putting it under the bed. She was yet to try out the alarm, but as the early morning school run was looming fast, she knew she’d have to use it. Getting up earlier was therefore was one of her New Year Tries. Resolutions implied commitment, and she couldn’t guarantee she would adhere to Miss Bennet’s very clear message.
“Well, she has got a point,” Mr Bennet announced. “You were leaving it a bit fine in the weeks leading up to Christmas. I mean getting up at ten past eight on a school morning is a bit much!”
“Alright you, who pretends “I didn’t really hear a twin crying on Saturday and Sunday mornings!” Mrs Bennet softly punched her husband.
“Well, you have no excuses now!” replied Mr Bennet, who had just reminded her that he was flying off to Milan on Tuesday morning and Mr Smiley Clock might be the ideal sleeping partner while he was away.
Mrs Bennet tried not to think about January too much. The Darcys in the Dirt were back first thing on Monday and in the next few weeks; they would be knocking through, removing windows and dismantling her kitchen in order to move what units they could to the back of the house.
So her New Year Try number two was this: “try not to get stressed and don’t worry about the dust on your head - it doesn’t really mean you or the babies have gone grey.”
Coupled with this “try,” was a quest to “get out of the house as much as possible.” Mr Bennet had told his wife that in rugby, every time you scored a try, you had chance to score a conversion. Trying as this New Year may be, at least she’d get the Bennet Conversion at the end of it.

Some things don't change

2009-01-05T05:24:00.000-08:00

Thursday, January 1 09

The New Year was starting just as the old one had ended. Miss Bennet Number four was sitting on her twin sister’s head; Miss Bennet Number three was coughing and spluttering, informing the world for the umpteenth time that she had a runny nose; the older Miss Bennets were accusing each other of cheating at a board game and Miss Bennet Number Five was understandably upset that her hairstyle was now ruined. It was however a vast improvement on last year. Mrs Bennet had rapidly left a New Years Eve party as one of the twins had vomited violently over one of her friends, transforming his favourite t-shirt from black to white. Mrs Bennet and Miss Rosie Bennet ended up at the local hospital, as the baby clearly wasn’t well and her mother wasn’t taking any chances. Just before the party started, one of the older Miss Bennets had picked Miss Rosie up, but accidentally dropped her on the carpet. A bumped head, followed by sickness didn’t look good. The doctors wanted Rosie in Gloucester overnight.
“But she’s a twin and I’m feeding them both, she can’t go until I go home and get her sister!” exclaimed Mrs Bennet. So off the babies went, milk bar in tow. The cow slept on a put-me-up bed, enjoying the most peaceful New Year’s Day ever, with two happy babies – Rosie clearly fine and enjoying the attention.
This year, with five mobile, vocal excited daughters and a confined space to live in, the word “peace” didn’t come into the equation. However, now the cow days were over, 2009 marked a new start – a new decade - for Mrs Bennet. After carrying and feeding five calves, she finally had her body parts back – even if they did feel like the unwanted Christmas present wrapping. The big four-O loomed and toy boy Mr Bennet frequently reminded her she was getting old. But Mrs Bennet no longer cared. Vowing to keep her purple and red streaked hair, she determined to stay young on the inside, and as long as her humour was in tact, she would laugh her way through the teenage phase. Yes her home was chaos, but a happy chaos. And as 2009 began Mrs Bennet promised herself to escape to her office when she could and employ Mr Latte as her shed companion.

Santa, sleep and a certain nightly activity

2008-12-31T07:31:00.000-08:00

Thursday, December 25, 08

Mrs Bennet was suitably impressed with Santa this year, although she was a little put out that he hadn’t eaten all her mince pie. It was only a mini one and he still hadn't eaten all of it. He’d drunk the bottle of beer though. Still, he had taken into account that there was literally no room in the inn for large and unnecessary presents. The Misses Bennets didn’t seem to mind. They were thrilled with their toothbrushes, personalised baubles, pens and doll's house treats. The twins were impressed with the wrapping paper. Miss Emily Bennet couldn’t believe Father Christmas had slipped three mini tins of tuna in her stocking and Mr Bennet couldn’t believe his wife had given him an ironing board cover. It was to pay him back for the t-towel and dish cloth he’d bought her the Christmas before.
Unlike last year, Miss Naomi Bennet got up at a reasonable hour. The three o’clock wake up call was replaced by an even earlier alarm from Miss Rosie Bennet who decided she’d like to play thank you very much and wouldn’t hear otherwise. As Mr and Mrs Bennet had only hit the sack half an hour before, it was yet another sleepless night. It was just as well their family was complete, because the Bennet tribe may have stayed at two, if the twins had arrived first. They shared a room with their parents for the first 12 months because there was just no where else to put them. Being spied on by active babies, who liked to peer over their cots and stare at Mr and Mrs Bennet late at night, meant passionate moments were non-existent. The little twin Bennets had front row seats and were quite happy to stay awake to get their money’s worth. The fact that the parental bedroom door didn’t shut properly didn’t help matters either. Children had a habit of sniffing out intimate embraces as they did chocolate, and would suddenly appear from nowhere. Thankfully Mr and Mrs Bennet had a good sense of humour. The fact they had more than one child was an achievement in itself.
But this year, the cot was not at the bottom of the bed. Mrs Bennet was no longer a cow and for once did not have to get up to feed a calf. After almost nine years, her husband could feed the child by getting a bottle of milk from the fridge and she could resume her once close relationship with her good friend Sleep.
Of course she didn’t mind a warm embrace with her husband, but as disturbed nights were still the norm, an extra few minutes with Mr Sleep was far more appealing.
It was almost a relief to wake up on Christmas Day. Nothing more could be done. The baby Jesus was happily sleeping in his crib and hadn’t been lost as in past years. A friend had told her to keep him in the cutlery drawer so he didn’t get thrown out by mistake. The Christmas presents, neatly wrapped were now undone and the turkey was bronzing nicely in the oven.
Mrs Bennet was content. She lacked for nothing. For once there were no colds, no bickering, just five little children, faces excited and a Mr Bennet who, this year, didn’t have a broken arm and could give her a hug without the risk of knocking her out with his plaster.
Instead of a kitchen utensil, which he knew would have been thrown at him, he’d given her a brain trainer game - no doubt to put right what five births had destroyed - but as the gentleman on her eldest daughter’s Nintendo DS had informed her that unfortunately her brain age was 80, she decided she’d better get practising. Still, it was better than trying out a new ironing board cover!

Cat food aisle proves festive refuge

2008-12-23T13:57:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, December 23 08

It was the morning before the morning before Christmas and Mrs Bennet was sleep deprived. She’d just wiped cream all over her face to discover it wasn’t cream at all, but hair gel. Half asleep, her eyes hadn’t registered the difference in the two pots. But her skin quickly did when the stinging started. It was with a certain red glow about her person, that she made another mistake – venturing into a certain supermarket with the twin Bennets due to a desperate need for wet wipes and nappies. She hadn’t meant to leave supplies so empty, but festivities, present hunting, wrapping, delivering, card writing, visiting and nursing poorly children had been her main pre-occupation. It was only when the twins were wearing the last nappies in the house, she realised something had to be done. She didn’t want to be caught short like last month, when Miss Rosie Bennet had been wearing a make-shift nappy – a t-towel of the Scottish Highlands, knotted either side of her hips – because once cleaning a rather dirty derriere, Mrs Bennet realised she had nothing to put on it.
Running on empty was something she was guilty of doing as was running out of nappies. However the rest of the town were not buying nappies, but were ravaging the store of every sprout, carrot, brandy butter, chestnut and indigestion tablets.
They were so short of trolleys, Mrs Bennet had to opt for a double trolley consisting of a baby and toddler seat, which suited the twins perfectly.
“You’ve left one of the twins at home I see,” remarked one of the supermarket assistants. Mrs Bennet raised her eyebrows, bemused.
“No, they’re both here.”
“Oh, I thought you’d brought your middle one along instead. Gosh they’re so different aren’t they?”
The twins just grinned, lapping up the attention. And off they went, happily pointing at people in Clanger-like voices as their driver swerved sharply to the right to avoid the vegetable scrum. A double trolley and a determined mass of bodies vying for the last bag of parsnips was a recipe for disaster and Mrs Bennet felt exhausted from her game of dodgem cars with shoppers and shelves. She took refuge in the cat and dog food aisle. It was empty. Five daughters and husband were enough mouths to feed, but she was half tempted to buy a pet just to stay in the oasis of Pedigree Chum.
On her return, she vowed not to go anywhere near the place again until New Year. But realised with horror, she’d forgotten the nappies after all so promptly used up her “phone-a-friend” card for assistance. As she did so, the doorbell rang. A handsome man presented her with a large festive bouquet as big as her dining table.
“Oh are they for me?”
“No Madam, they are for a Mr Bennet,” came the reply, “Does he live here?”
“Yes he does. Who are they from?” Mrs Bennet asked a little peeved that her husband had a secret admirer.
“He will have to look at the envelope attached Madam.” And with that the messenger had gone, before Mrs Bennet could reply.
“He won’t. I will,” she muttered, and tore open the accompanied note, which, she discovered, had been sent by another man.
Confused, she rang Mr Bennet, who laughed and confessed his so called “lover” was “another man and his wife” and the flowers were really for her.
Although Mrs Bennet’s gel-stung face matched the festive floral display, her relief helped her hot cheeks to lighten somewhat. After all Mr Darcy falling for Mr Bennet was definitely not in her plot.

And lo the infant was found ..in a Barbie shoe!

2008-12-22T11:33:00.000-08:00

Monday, December 22 08

The Bennet children’s excitement and anticipation were rising as Christmas Day loomed near. Their festive spirit was contagious and it rubbed off on Mrs Bennet. She fondly thought back on Christmas Past and wondered what Christmas Present and Christmas Future would bring. Christmas Day two years ago, Mrs Bennet, then four months pregnant with the twins; had been persuaded by aspiring actress, Miss Bennet Number One to play the part of Mary in a home impromptu nativity production, inspired by three grass skirts – a dressing-up present from Africa – which transformed into a realistic manger and stable straw. Jannie, Mrs Bennet’s mum, obediently wore a t-towel on her head and carried a lamb; Mr Bennet played the part of all three kings while Grampie, Mrs Bennet’s dad, took great delight in being horrid Herod. He was so convincing he made Miss Megan Bennet, then two, cry.
Last year, Mrs Bennet endeavoured to be a “yummy mummy” and bake her own mince pies, but outbursts from the lounge prevented her culinary skills reaching perfection. An angel in the form of a small tornado appeared before her, whizzing into the hallway and coming to a sudden halt. Deliberate in its actions, the angel demanded a listening ear.
“Something terrible’s happened Mummy! We’ve lost baby Jesus! He fell into the toy box and we can’t find him!” the tornado cried.
Mentally ordering her curling lip to stay straight, Mrs Bennet tried to speak, but Miss Emily Bennet got their first.
“What are we going to do? We can’t possibly have Christmas without baby Jesus!”
“Well, that can’t do. I’ll come and help you find him,” replied Mrs Bennet, knowing this mission to find a 2cm-long baby, required divine intervention.
An hour later, mince pies long burnt and thrown in the garden to prevent a fire, Christmas was saved. Baby Jesus was discovered wedged inside a modern form of crib - a pink Barbie shoe.
But the highlight of Christmas 2007 had to be Miss Megan Bennet. Whilst the older Bennet girls wanted High School Musical gadgets and dolls, she had one desire.
“Mummy,” she announced, her face serious, “I want a real baby Jesus for Christmas. Do you think Father Christmas can get me one?”
Mrs Bennet smiled, reliving the memory.
"It’s moments like these which keep the true spirit of Christmas alive,” she muttered.

Toiletry shares needed!

2008-12-06T12:06:00.000-08:00

Saturday, December 7 08

Mrs Bennet worked out that by the time the little twin Bennets were potty trained, she would have changed about 32,760 nappies. It was no wonder her hands were dry. But she had at least perfected her skill and achieved a personal best in terms of pit stop timing. With two little bottoms performing in sync, it was paramount the cleaning-up process was fast and efficient – to eliminate not only cries but smell.
Standing in a supermarket queue, it was obvious she wasn’t the only one who could do with taking out shares in baby toiletries. The lady in front of her was buying countless wet wipes, stacked like bricks on the conveyor belt. Mrs Bennet couldn’t help but comment.
“That’s an awful lot of wet wipes!” she remarked.
“They’re on offer – buy one get one free. I couldn’t resist and thought I’d build up a supply for my daughter who’s expecting in four months time. I’m buying 40 for the price of 20!”
Mrs Bennet didn’t know what to say. Calculating in her mind, she worked out that in four months, she too would get through the same amount. The thought of finding room for so many wet wipes however completely put her off the idea.
With five daughters, Mrs Bennet knew only full well how many pounds she would have to spend on toiletries in the coming years. Poor Mr Bennet - six lots of PMT were just too much for one man! She recalled getting her own dad to buy her sanitary towels because she couldn’t face the embarrassment of getting them herself. Mr Bennet, one of five sons, had no idea what he would be facing!
“I think I need to set up a “time of the month” account,” she thought.
Only yesterday, Miss Emily Bennet presented her with a small white bullet, she’d discovered on the driveway. Not yet aware of the significance of this highly important item, she happily gave it back to her mother.
“One day, she won’t be showing that around quite so innocently,” thought Mrs Bennet, relishing in her daughter’s innocence.
Mr Bennet followed grinning.
“Emily found it and told me: “I’m going to give this to Mummy. She’ll be pleased because did you know Daddy, she collects them!”
Mrs Bennet laughed. How true. Perhaps she should be collecting in bulk now, ready for the onslaught of Bennet hormonal periods in the coming years!

The cow’s empty

2008-12-06T11:58:00.000-08:00

Friday, December 5 08

Mr Latte was still on strike and so was Mr Cappucino, Mr Mocha and all his frothy milk associates. Mrs Bennet wasn’t particularly bothered as she hadn’t been giving Mr Latte much of her time lately. She’d been feeling a little under par and hadn’t fancy him. Mrs Bennet thought he might be taking the hump, irked that she hadn’t needed him.
Milk was definitely off the menu. The Mother cow was also empty. She had closed the productive milk bar a couple of weeks ago. The calf (Miss Kezia Bennet) and cow (Mrs Bennet) had come to some mutual agreement and were happy to part company. It did make Mrs Bennet a little sad, but having fed five calves over the past nine years, she did think it was about time she reclaimed her valuable assets back. Sadly though they were no longer an impressive size. Her Dolly Parton days were now officially over, although she must admit it was a relief to run again without the risk of black eyes.
When the milk first came in, three days after the arrival of Miss Bennets Four and Five, she could quite easily have posed for Calendar Girls. Freshly returned from Lords, her midwife friend was stunned by her somewhat buxom appearance.
“The cameras would have picked those out in the crowd and panned in on you. Mr Bennet won’t believe his eyes,” she’d remarked laughing.
He didn’t. But Mrs Bennet made it very clear they were not for him.
The cleavage however was short lived and here she was with the dregs, the leftovers. Chicken fillets were tempting, but she couldn’t quite face it.
So the milk was empty. And Mr Latte wasn’t offering her any comfort either.
It was his loss. A bunch of roses was waiting for her when she got home. The Mr Darcy in Mr Bennet had come shining through instead.

Mrs Bennet's cunning plan.....

2008-12-01T15:16:00.000-08:00

Monday, December 1 08

Although Mrs Bennet loved the essence of Christmas, its message of joy and hope and the infectious excitement generated by her daughters, she did not enjoy writing Christmas cards. Mr Bennet shared her sentiments so didn't do any. Last year he even had the lame excuse of a broken arm. Mrs Bennet valued her arm too much to follow his example. Instead she put on her creative thinking cap. Watching her eldest daughters concentrate on their latest masterpieces - one was designing a made-up cartoon family she'd entitled The Wiggleworms; the other was mixing colour and shape in Picasso fashion - Mrs Bennet issued them a challenge:
"Girls, if you each write 25 Christmas cards each, I'll take you out to breakfast!"
Miss Bennets Numbers One and Two promptly put down their tools and instantly turned into festive writing mode. After one card, Miss Naomi Bennet returned to her Wiggleworms. Kathleen Wiggleworm's outfit wasn't quite right and she wanted to perfect it. Miss Emily Bennet however had a bacon roll firmly etched on her mind and wrote mechanically for 30 minutes.
"Mummy, what about me?" asked a voice from behind Pepper Pig's rocket, "I can't write like they can yet, but can I come out with you as well, otherwise that's not fair is it?"
"I'll tell you what, if Naomi does her share, I'll take you out as well. A bit like take two, take one free!" Mrs Bennet informed her third daughter, who didn't quite understand the concept.
Only one child earned the breakfast the next morning. After a disturbed night due to coughing twins, Mrs Bennet was woken up by her alarm clock - a gentle tapping on her arm. An eager fully-dressed second daughter peered over her, determined not to miss out on her wages. Half asleep, Mrs Bennet fulfilled her side of the bargain. Miss Bennet Number Two got her hot bacon butty. But Mrs Bennet did not get her Mr Latte. He obviously didn't approve of her bribery tactics and was on strike. Instead it was a Peely Wally start to the day - a mug of hot water and a longing to return home to the duvet.

The birth anniversary of Modern Mrs Bennet

2008-11-30T05:16:00.000-08:00

Saturday, November 29 08

Modern Mrs Bennet was born the moment she looked up at a tiny television screen and saw two fluttering heart beats. It only took a split second, but it sealed her destiny. Mr Bennet looked as grey and shocked as she felt. And she would never forget that look as long as she lived. It was one of those moments when the enormity was such that it was almost hysterically funny. Although neither Mr and Mrs Bennet knew at this stage what gender their unborn 13 week non-identical children were, the possibility of two more girls hung in the air. After all the sex couldn’t be changed – the facts were there, just not yet revealed to the parents concerned.
Recalling this moment, Mrs Bennet remembered the long walk back to the car, crying and shaking in disbelief and awe as Mr Bennet reassured her at every step.
“I didn’t know how I was going to carry one. How am I going to carry two!” she quivered. And yet here she was two years on, with five fantastically different daughters who had made her what she was – a fulfilled, often batty walking zombie. Her tummy muscles may have departed company since their birth, but she had welcomed two more exquisitely different individuals who made her laugh every day. Five daughters stretched her patience, emotions, management and juggling skills, not to mention filling what use to be a somewhat spacious living area for two.
“I don’t think I can have children,” she had once whispered to her husband in the lounge, now full of lively limbs, daily squeals and squabbles. Of course Mr Bennet no longer believed her. Five offspring in seven years was going some. It did open Mr and Mrs Bennet up to certain remarks and mutterings from those around them about not having a television and wasn’t it about time the “problem” was sorted? Mrs Bennet didn’t care what they thought. Her double surprise had not only taught her an invaluable lesson of living a day at a time, they had been the making (or breaking) of her. Without Miss Bennets Four and Five, there wouldn’t be a Modern Mrs Bennet.
She was however entering a new decade of ducking hormones, fleeing to the shed and one which definitely would not involve giving birth.

Sinking in the arms of Darcy

2008-11-28T15:38:00.000-08:00

Friday, November 28 08

Mr Bennet was sitting on the babies’ table, towel wrapped round his waist, his torso pink from bath heat, attempting to coax the DVD player to hand over a film firmly lodged in its jaw. The words “blocked” flashed up and try as he might, Mr Bennet couldn’t relinquish the DVD or get its mouth to open. Miss Rosie Bennet was like this. If she picked up something – particularly a fistful of Playdoh, Mrs Bennet couldn’t dislodge it. Although she wasn’t clutching on to a bath towel at the time.
The Bennet house was full of furniture badly needing limbs and joints replaced. Chests of drawers littered every room in the current squeeze while the Darcys in the dirt worked on building bite-size Pemberley around them. The lounge chest – dedicated to uniform – was constantly dropping its drawers and causing a scene. As Mrs Bennet pulled out Miss Megan’s drawer, those containing Miss Naomi and Miss Emily Bennets’ clothes, would crash down on top of her fingers. She couldn’t even open her own clothes drawers upstairs.
The fridge had a blocked tear duct and wasn’t draining properly. Instead a puddle of icy water gathered on the bottom shelf, threatening to flood on a daily basis. And the understairs cupboard and kitchen units were so crammed full of “stuff,” Mrs Bennet feared their wrath any time she approached them. She decided to look at something positive. As the seven Bennets had now outgrown Mr Bennet’s bachelor sofa, she was pouring over a certain catalogue to consider corner settee options which would accommodate the Bennet bottoms. She pointed out a suitable design to Mr Bennet, who by now had won his quest over the obstinate DVD player, his towel still in tact.
He nodded in agreement at the child-friendly deep chocolate brown hue, then started to chuckle.
Mrs Bennet did wonder if the bath water had been too hot for him. What was funny about a sofa?
“I don’t believe it," he started."You’ve got a certain gentleman on the brain. This sofa is called Darcy.”
"Let's see!" she cried. Mr Bennet was right. If they did plump for this design, she really could legitimately sink in the arms of Darcy!

Wages in double portion

2008-11-27T10:48:00.000-08:00

Monday, November 24 08

Mrs Bennet no longer required a television for entertainment purposes. She could quite happily live without it. Mr Bennet couldn’t. A certain ball kicked by a certain team meant it still had its uses – that, and taping certain children’s programmes for certain emergency calming-down moments.
Miss Bennets Four and Five deserved glowing reviews for their Oscar-winning dramas and comedies. They obediently sat in their feeding chairs with little rose-bud mouths opening in bird-like fashion as spaghetti came their way, scooping pasta worms as Mother bird gave them her morning’s work. Armed with a spoon, they relished the freedom of attacking yoghurt pots, giving a running commentary as they did so. Then suddenly, without warning they swapped pots and carried on eating. Mrs Bennet was intrigued. This habit had become intrinsic to meal times. If she gave them each a bowl containing a medley of bananas, raisins, apples, breadsticks and cheese, they’d cheerfully tuck in, then after five minutes, push their bowl at the other and finish their sister’s meal.
If Miss Kezia Bennet wanted to really upset her twin, she would crawl off with Rosie’s reassured, well-worn and well-cuddled rabbit. She’d then poke it through the playpen bars and tilt her head as if to say: “na,na,na,na,na!” But Miss Rosie Bennet had her ammunition ready. She’d find Kezia’s soothing tool – the dummy – wave it, chew it, then run off with it, leaving Kezia pursuing her bigger and stronger sister. It made fantastic viewing and their interludes were equally as comical to listen to, such as now.
Mrs Bennet was perched on the stair’s bottom step, listening to their animated babbling. For the past hour, instead of dozing for an afternoon nap, each peered at the other through cot bars, nodding heads and waving arms as if to explain their point. Mrs Bennet knew this as she peeped through the tiny gap where the door was slightly ajar.
Feeling excluded from this intimacy and secret language, she smiled and left them to their conversation, knowing eventually they’d run out of talk and fall asleep – bottoms in the air, limbs hanging out of each cot. It was moments like these when parenting wages were bountiful for Mrs Bennet. They were indeed her double portion.

Darcy goes grey

2008-11-21T07:46:00.000-08:00

Friday, November 21 08

One of the “Darcys in the dirt” was notably more grey than he had been when he first started building Pemberley. Mrs Bennet didn’t like to say anything, but she did hope the Bennet building project wasn’t causing him too much stress. Incidentally, although Jane Austen’s Bennet family lived at Longbourn, the Modern Mrs Bennet chose to go straight for a bite-size Pemberley. As Miss Bennet numbers one and two’s future husbands were currently between the ages of seven and nine, their pocket money wouldn’t stretch enough to provide for their “wives” just yet. It’s why Mr and Mrs Bennet had chosen to step in. As it happened the giddy, youngest Kitty and Lydia Bennet equivalents had already found their men. If they had been boys they’d have been “wowed” by the enormous cement mixers, various diggers and grinders. Full of baby hormones, they preferred to show their dimples at the Darcys in the dirt. Mrs Bennet had given up washing the hand and kiss marks off the lounge window.
It was a strange feeling being surrounded by an assault course of bricks, scaffolding, tiles and steel poles. It was fine during the day with just herself and the twins Bennets. But at six o’clock with seven bodies, school shoes, bags, lunch boxes, pens, crayons, doll’s arms, squashed raisins, a ball pool of rice crispies and a derailed train, it wasn’t so pleasant. Two objects epitomised how the Bennet parents felt at such moments - Dora the Explorer’s dad was spreadeagled on a cushion, while a lady’s voice warbled painfully slowly from a toy mobile phone as her battery was running low.
As light was getting obscured by Darcy activity, the dark winter days felt even darker. But it was reassuring to be surrounded by men, even if they did require the occasional cuppa. However, the leading Darcy in the dirt did look worryingly grey. As she handed him a cup of coffee, Mrs Bennet realised next door’s garage roof had also changed colour.
“I’m having a bad hair day today,” remarked the Darcy, tapping his head to create a dust cloud.
“I had noticed and did wonder if you were OK,” replied Mrs Bennet. “I only wish I could shake my grey hair out like that!”

Hot tubs and Champagne

2008-11-17T13:45:00.000-08:00

Monday, November 18 08

Mrs Bennet drew herself up to her new height of five foot three and promptly fell over. High-heeled boots were all very well in enabling her to feel like an adult - and not just a Mummy - but it didn’t mean she necessarily walked like one. A friend she met 38 years ago in the playgroup Wendy House, was celebrating her 40th birthday, and Mrs Bennet couldn’t wait. She was off to spend a few hours in a luxury spa with fellow mums, who too needed a few hours off child responsibility.
She felt like a care-free giggly girl as she tried her spa slippers on. Her feet looked ridiculously small in the cumbersome white indoor shoes, which both veered sharply to the right, causing her to walk like a crab. And as the over-sized white gown wrapped round her twice, it had the amusing effect of making her feel like a four-year-old who’d raided her mother’s wardrobe, rather than an-almost-40-year-old.
But after a back massage which painfully ironed out her knotted shoulders, a relaxing swim and a leisurely 45 minutes, glass of Champagne in hand, chatting amicably with new friends in a bubbling hot tub in the cold night air, warmed sufficiently by a roaring fire, Mrs Bennet didn’t want to go back to being a Mummy. She wanted to stay here forever.
However as the clock struck midnight, she kicked off her glass slippers and retreated back to being Cinders. The silence of a sleeping house was shattered as an electronic toy teddy sensed her presence and started crying.
“Shhh! You’re not really hungry,” she told it, using the same tone she used on the little Bennets. But she knew if she didn’t stop and feed this tiny bear with its minute bottle, the real children would awake.
“Yum, yum, yum…” went the bear, until it finally sighed and said, “I love you.”
“That’s very kind of you, now go to sleep,” she automatically replied.
“Now I’m talking to toys. I really need to get out more. I wonder if Mr Bennet would notice if I hid a hot tub and a stash of Champagne in my shed?” she daydreamed, adding: “He mightn’t but the neighbours would!”

Bears and Bennets

2008-11-10T16:24:00.000-08:00

Monday, November 10 08

It was a huge responsibility to look after five lively girls. But it was an even bigger responsibility to look after the classroom teddy. Girls were one thing, a cuddly bear was another. The Miss Bennets were extremely vocal if they were unhappy or left out. A cute-faced furry bear couldn’t tell you if he had been left behind. Such was the case for poor Benjamin Bear who had gone missing. This high-flyer, accustomed to travelling all over the world and well-cuddled by four and five year olds, had somehow got lost on his recent vacation in his very own town. Last seen in a certain fast-food restaurant, the little bear was sorely missed. Even Mrs Bennet was sorry. Little Benjamin had been on holiday with the Bennets on numerous occasions. As the school was mourning his disappearance, Miss Emily Bennet walked out with Benjamin’s older brother Barnaby.
“Mummy, Barnaby can come with us to Liverpool!” declared Emily.
“That’s lovely for him!” Mrs Bennet replied, inwardly praying he and his red knitted trousers which were hanging round his knees, (he’d obviously lost weight worrying about his brother) would remain in one piece after a week with the Bennets. To report back that Benjamin’s next of kin was also lost, last seen wearing a red scarf at Anfield would be awful for both Mrs Bennet and school.
As it happened, Barnaby thoroughly enjoyed his time in the European Capital of Culture. He perched on a lambanana, a sculpture half-lamb, half-banana; was pressed against aquarium glass so he could watch humbug and puff fish; and was even allowed to sit on Ring Star’s drums, worth £30,000! Mrs Bennet was constantly counting heads – including Barnaby’s – to ensure no one was left behind.
Thankfully he wasn’t and Mrs Bennet breathed a sigh of relief as Emily with Barnaby and his photographic record of his Liverpool trip in tow, bounced back to school, where jubilations were in the air as little Benjamin had been found.
Mrs Bennet was eternally grateful that her children’s school no longer had real classroom pets. As a bachelor, Mr Bennet had accidentally killed a poor hamster after hitting a cricket bat at the ceiling to stop it running round its wheel in the flat upstairs. It died from shock three days later.
“Hmm, a cuddly bear is a much more sensible option. Five girls and a live four-legged animal on loan would be far too risky,” decided Mrs Bennet, adding: “And too much for the Bennet nerves!”

Glow Baby Glow!

2008-11-04T16:43:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, November 4 08

Mrs Bennet couldn’t believe it. Miss Rosie Bennet was sitting at the end of the bed shining like a glow worm. A strange aluminous green light radiated from her adorable chubby body. She was officially a glow baby in time for Bonfire night. The older Miss Bennets had discovered an unopened tube of glow sticks and decided they’d have their own firework display. Unbeknown to Mrs Bennet, they’ had handed a stick to their baby sisters, who promptly hit each other with their allotted lime green and fluorescent pink wands.
“Mummy can you come up and turn the light off please? We’ve got something to show you!” cried the Miss Bennets who could talk.
Mrs Bennet approached the bedroom with caution, but spotting their sticks, she realised five hands were ready to perform. In turning off the light however Mrs Bennet’s eyes were drawn to her fourth daughter who clearly stole the show.

Rosie’s stick had leaked. Her little arms and vest were now glowing impressively. Mrs Bennet did see the funny side, but concern about the liquid contents forced her to whip the stick and the vest off the glow baby, who didn’t want to be washed down by a warm flannel and shouted in protest.

The line between humour and danger was fine at times. Situations were only funny once the threat had vanished. A few months ago Mr and Mrs Bennet had found a 3cm-long screw lodged in Rosie’s belly button when they changed her nappy. Thankfully the long point was sticking upwards. It was at Rosie’s “I’m-now-a-speedy-crawler-and-I’m-going-to-pick-up-everything-I-find-stage.” She’d quite happily explored a friend’s kitchen floor, picked up the screw and dropped it down her vest.

And yesterday, Mrs Bennet had laughed aloud as she changed Miss Kezia Bennet’s nappy. Obviously not yet aware of belly-button piercing, Miss Kezia had opted for the safer option and a currant was nestling nicely in her belly button, tailor-made for her tiny body! Mrs Bennet couldn’t resist taking a photograph so to embarrass her daughter at a later stage in life. Unfortunately Mrs Bennet’s “safety first” approach, meant there was no photographic evidence of the glow baby to produce at her 18th birthday. But it was a memory Mrs Bennet would never forget.

Mrs Bennet's whale

2008-10-28T17:32:00.000-07:00

Monday, October 27 08

Mrs Bennet was apprehensive about entering the dark mouth of a multi-storey car park. She felt she was being swallowed whole by a giant beast then left to nervously navigate sharp bends of its intestines.
If she was lucky she was deposited unscathed at the bottom. Today she had obviously upset its delicate stomach.
At the ticket machine, she slipped the piece of card through the appropriate slot and waited for the computer to tell her how much she owed.
“Duration of stay: 2 days, 31 minutes. To pay: £10.80.”
“What? You must be joking!” cried Mrs Bennet in disbelief. She looked helplessly at the Miss Twin Bennets who were objecting that their chariot had stopped. Ordering herself to stay calm, she pressed the button labelled “call for assistance,” and was promptly and politely told: “Your call is in a queue, we will come to you shortly.”
Mrs Bennet didn’t feel polite after the voice repeated its message for the third time. By then other ticket holders were congregating around the talking machine. Like her they longed to get out of the dark beast’s belly. Rummaging in her back pocket, Mrs Bennet discovered another ticket and more importantly the reason for the confusion.
“I don’t believe it! Mr Bennet came to town on Saturday and I’ve only gone and put his old ticket into the machine. No wonder the machine thinks I’ve slept here for two nights!”
In laughing at her own mistake Mrs Bennet calmed herself down and noticed a cancel button she hadn’t spotted earlier. She pressed it and Mr Bennet’s ticket was returned. Mrs Bennet jumped as the machine, bereft of its £10.80 suddenly spoke.
“Can I help you?” asked the husky male voice from inside the tin box. Mrs Bennet expected Mr Darcy to open the door and walk out.
“No, it’s OK. I’ve been told I’ve been inside this car park for more than two days and I assure you that is not the case. I put the wrong ticket in, sorry,” she said, hating to admit her stupidity to the invisible man.
“No problem. Glad everything’s alright. Take care,” replied the kind voice.
Driving away, five minutes later, Mrs Bennet felt like Jonah after the whale spat him out – embarrassed yet relieved she was still intact.

Shaken but not stirred

2008-10-26T13:57:00.000-07:00

Friday, October 24 08

The radiators rattled, Mrs Bennet’s bottom shook on her chair while three doors away her neighbour enjoyed a Jacuzzi. It was all thanks to the latest building brigade in the Bennet garden. The Bingleys had moved in. They were foundation specialists on loan for just five days to ensure the Bennet household didn’t crumble.
“If your house feels as if it’s moving, don’t worry it won’t fall down,” one of the Bingleys had reassured Mrs Bennet as they arrived with drills, long metal tubes and cement mixers.
As they drilled holes eight metres deep, she wasn’t convinced. This was serious dental treatment. Mrs Bennet was grateful it wasn’t her teeth on the receiving end.
Miss Bennets One, Two and Three were at school and therefore away from the excitement. But having been deprived of male action for a week, the little twin Bennets were ecstatic. Their tiny bodies were glued to the lounge window, button noses pressed against the glass and rose-bud lips creating kiss marks. The Bingleys gave them the occasional smile but remained focus on the job in hand. Mrs Bennet couldn’t focus so she took the twins out, long enough to tire them. Amazingly, on their return, they slept for two hours as the house – and their cots – shook beneath them. Mrs Bennet tried to edit a radio interview but as she couldn’t hear anything but drilling through her headphones, gave up. As her seat suddenly turned into a massage chair, she let it do its work. Relaxing, Mrs Bennet pondered, recalling her neighbour’s comments as she apologised for the disruption.
“The builders can stay as long as they like. I was having a bath this afternoon and it’s the first time I’ve ever had a Jacuzzi in it!”
Mrs Bennet, now soothed by her vibrating chair, was tempted.
“The twins are asleep, perhaps I’ll have a bath myself!” she contemplated.
Running upstairs to the bathroom, she turned on the hot water tap, then reconsidered.
“Better not. What if the Bingleys need the toilet and come in? That would take some explaining when Mr Bennet got home,” she thought. The Jacuzzi moment had gone so Mrs Bennet went back to her massage chair, stuck cotton wool in her ears and dozed off for half an hour.

A strange peace at Pemberley

2008-10-17T13:32:00.001-07:00

Friday, October 17 08

There was a kind of hush in the Bennet household but it wasn't the sound of lovers in love. Quite the contrary. The little Twin Bennets were distraught. The Darcys in the dirt had disappeared. Their tools had gone, their digger had gone, and so had their smiling faces. Miss Kezia Bennet was most confused. Having had a week of entertainment watching the grown-up boys playing happily in their giant sandpit, she was now looking at an empty muddy back garden. Its only inhabitant was a neighbour's cat, which made her tremble in fright and reach up to her mother for a reassuring cuddle. The Darcys made her squeal in delight and point in their direction, encouraging Mrs Bennet to share the moment, which of course she couldn't because Mr Bennet might get jealous. But after much activity and sweat, this week there had been an eerie silence. Not one muscle or mound of earth moved. And the bite-size Pemberley was not even a morsel. To start with Mrs Bennet was relieved. With drills pounding at full pelt and daughters droning and demanding with equal force, the noise levels had hurt Mrs Bennet's poor ears. But the non-activity was bugging her now. The builders weren't at fault. It was the soil. It apparently wasn't very good and on looking at it, building regulation inspectors had ruled that foundations for the extension would have be of the most expensive variety which needed specialists in to do the job. It meant sadly for the moment the Darcys in the dirt were surplus to requirement. Trying to explain that to a 17-month-old twin was not an easy matter. All week Mrs Bennet lived with a fear that the cost would be so staggeringly high, that she and the rest of the Bennets would be left in a pile of rubble with a demolished garage and conservatory. In a calmer moment, she did think that if plans all went to pot, Mr Bennet could always turn the turned up soil and concrete in the back garden into an allotment. But in the stressed moments - which were unfortunately more common - Mrs Bennet felt she was living in a mess. There was something reassuring about activity. At least something was happening. And today, even she was missing the Darcys in the dirt. She had not yet got round to admitting that fact to Mr Bennet. He wanted to be the only Mr Darcy in her life. But thankfully he knew his wife well enough to know she wouldn't trade him in for another.

Put a sock in it

2008-10-13T13:40:00.000-07:00

Monday, October 13 08

Having emptied the contents of a pink waste bin, Mrs Bennet was surrounded by a sea of socks. Multi-coloured spotty socks, baby socks, white school socks, pink heart socks, "I love Mummy" socks, red socks, purple socks and striped blue and yellow socks surrounded a single male-sized black sock which looked out of place amongst the female foot warmers. To his credit, the male sock was in a minority for the right reason. All his male companions were still attached to their mates. The female versions on the other hand were having serious relationship problems. If they had once been married or committed to their partner, they were no longer attached. It didn't look good. The Bennet Socks were in desperate need of relationship counselling."Mr Bennet just what are we going to do with them all? I have 144 socks in front of me and only 14 are part of a pair. Where do they go? Some of them have hardly been worn!" she looked in desperation at her husband, who was rather proud that his socks obviously carried the anointing when it came to staying together."The vacuum cleaner sucked one up the other day and I managed to retrieve it from the dust," replied her husband. "That's only one sock? What about the rest? Pants and bras don't have this problem, so why do socks?!""My dear, I don't know," mumbled Mr Bennet, preferring to watch a television programme about big cats.Mrs Bennet turned to Mr Google for the answer. He came back with 595,000 references to odd socks. The Sock Monster was largely to blame, but among the explanations, was a suggestion that the socks were cannibals and ate each other up. Mrs Bennet wasn't convinced and was determined to love-match a few lost soles.
"I've found another pair...oh, and another!" declared an excited Mr Bennet, who hadn't given up hope after all. The sock bin was seven years old. With 18 socks now happily paired up, there were only 126 to find mates for. And there now wasn't one black sock among them. Mr Bennet was thrilled. His wife hadn’t noticed the lone male sock was hidden in his pocket.

Four Darcys and a little lady

2008-10-07T11:56:00.000-07:00

Monday, October 6 08

The little Miss Twin Bennets were mesmerised. Never had they seen so many men in a confined space. To watch one male was plenty, to watch four was almost too much. Outside where the conservatory once stood, the building quartet was busy at work, drilling up rubble and knocking down walls. Miss Kezia was particularly hooked. A dainty sandwich which normally went straight into her mouth was stuck half-way between face and plate. She could not possibly watch and eat at the same time. The other hand was pointing at the foreign human objects, accompanied by “ooh” and “aah” sounds which she did well. If the twins were seventeen rather than 17 months, the scene might have provoked a different response. As it was, the Darcys in the dirt, rippling their muscles, were out of bounds, despite Miss Kezia’s efforts to get their attention.
After almost two years in limbo, failing to sell and waiting for planning permission, change was finally in the air for the Bennet family. Builders were building a pint-sized Pemberley out of the three-bedroom semi to accommodate the five Bennet daughters and their parents. Mrs Bennet had only agreed to this on one condition.
“Do you want a wife at the end of all this? Because if you do, the only way I’m putting up with this is by moving out,” she’d told her husband and that was that. But that was not that and they were all still there, living most of the day in a lounge. They were surrounded. Surrounded by a group of very friendly and polite builders, but surrounded none the less.
At least from Mr Bennet’s point of view, the hormones were balanced out by a surge of testosterone, something the Bennet girls knew nothing about - yet. Miss Kezia Bennet watched it all, goggle-eyed through a pane of glass. Miss Rosie Bennet soon lost interest. Pulling the newspapers out of the magazine rack was far more fun.
Mrs Bennet on the other hand, wasn’t sure Mr Bennet would have a wife at the end of it. She had left her mind somewhere. She acknowledged this when she went upstairs to put one of the twins to bed and leaning over the cot, realised the baby was still in the car! Mrs Bennet seriously considered getting into the cot herself.

Nothing fits!

2008-10-06T15:18:00.000-07:00

Saturday, October 4 08

Mrs Bennet shot out of her noisy, cluttered house into the plush, immaculate courtesy car on the drive and sank into its luxurious leather seat. She rested her head on the steering wheel and resisted the urge to press the horn very loudly. This was not good. She knew it was going to be tough, but living in a lounge with six other bodies for hours on end, was doing her head in. The Sat Nav didn't work so she couldn't programme it to take her off to some exotic place, so instead she sat motionless, allowing the silence to wash over her in calming waves. It took at least 10 minutes for it to have any effect. She was so worked up. Never in her life had she felt so stressed. She stared straight ahead at the empty garage. Change was afoot, she knew that, but it didn't take away the immediate problem. There was just nowhere to get a minute's peace. She so related to Jill Murphy's Large Family stories where Mother Elephant couldn't even have a bath without her children following her.
She'd just returned from doing the weekly shop. But she'd bought too many frozen items and had forgotten the garage's chest freezer was now sitting on the front lawn waiting to be collected. The garage was being pulled down within days. The tiny kitchen freezer desperately needed defrosting and wouldn't let Mrs Bennet give it any more offerings. Instead it gave her an offering - several shards of ice which fell on the floor and formed a puddle around the unpacked shopping. Meanwhile, one by one little Bennets appeared, expecting her to respond immediately to their requests.
Miss Naomi Bennet wanted her mother to find oil pastels for an important picture she intended to draw; Miss Emily Bennet needed Mrs Bennet to find two pairs of baby socks for her dolls the twins no longer used and Miss Megan suddenly announced that she had to have a blanket for her doll because it needed a nap. And only Mummy was allowed to fetch it. Miss Kezia Bennet was shaking the milk out of its bottle to create a white mottled effect on the lounge carpet and Miss Rosie Bennet was pulling anything and everything she could out of every drawer she could find. She had also perfected her throwing technique and was particularly good at hurling playdough at her poor mother.
Mrs Bennet was also struggling under a mound of washing, work commissions which had tight deadlines and sleepless nights due to wakeful twins. She didn't have enough arms, hours or space. But for now, this plush brand new car, which she knew would have to go back in a couple of days, was her life saver. She listened to a track which included the lyric, "I'm gonna fly, no one knows where, I'm gonna fly, soaring through the air...."
She looked up through the sun roof and watched an aeroplane overhead leave its vapour trail behind. "One day I'll fly," she thought. Just another six months and she'd have a house to spread her wings in and a shed to fly to when she needed it.
"I just might need something stronger than Mr Latte to help me get there," she decided, "mmmm I think Mr Champagne would do very well."

Mrs Bennet the new cleaner

2008-09-27T14:28:00.000-07:00

Saturday, September 27 08

"Don't worry about Friday, it's fine for you to start on Monday," informed the recorded message on Mrs Bennet's mobile phone. Mrs Bennet looked puzzled and turned to her husband.
"I do believe Mr Bennet I've got a job, probably as a new cleaner."
She'd never applied for the position, didn't like cleaning and to be honest was not much good at the job. The duster was such a part of her daily routine it was still in its plastic cellophane. But Mrs Bennet realised the lady in question was a mother like herself and much to her relief, was having a senior moment.
Mrs Bennet was meant to be interviewing the mother on Friday morning for a radio programme, but when the three older Bennet daughters announced it was their Harvest Festival, there was no alternative. She had to rearrange and had left a message explaining the situation. Unfortunately the name of this lady's new cleaner was very similar to Mrs Bennet's, hence the confusion.
The phone rang. It was the radio lady. Mrs Bennet couldn't resist asking,"Did I get the job?"
"I'm terribly sorry, I thought you were the new cleaner. I'm having one of those days," was the reply.
Mrs Bennet told her about her shopping list blib and the voice on the other end immediately felt better.
"You wouldn't want me as your cleaner. I failed my A level in it," joked Mrs Bennet.
Cleaning was not one of her strong points. The spiders in the house loved her. They were free to make their webs wherever they chose. They only trembled when she was about to give birth and as that was not going to happen again, they were thrilled.
It wasn't the first time Mrs Bennet had been mistaken for the cleaner. Many years ago, the first time Mr Bennet ever saw his future wife, he had thought she was at his workplace to empty the bins and clean the floor. He worked with Mrs Bennet's father, and she and her mother had walked in, hoping for a lift home. What an impression she had made.
Now 15 years later, Mr Bennet knew his wife was NOT a cleaner. She did her best, but it was not on her priority list. With Phil the Builder due to start in just over a week's time, he did admit her efforts to cleanse the place had improved no end. Mind you, Mrs Bennet had no choice. If you moved furniture, you inevitably found grime behind it.
"My dear Mr Bennet, would you employ me as a cleaner if I applied for the job," she asked her husband as he was watching television. His team Aston Villa was playing. Amazingly she got a response.
"When you clean you do a good job," he replied, smiling.
When, was the word. "May be next year," thought Mrs Bennet, "After all a lot of dust will fall by then."

Out of control

2008-09-24T15:16:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, September 24 08

Mrs Bennet’s request was granted. The Sexy Sat Nav did arrive. It came with a brand new space wagon which had gadgets, buttons and lots of fancy stuff. Sliding doors slid open and shut, the boot door lifted up and down all at two clicks of a button. Mrs Bennet felt rich. She’d never driven a spanking new car, which gleamed on the outside as well as in. It came complete with DVD player and Sat Nav. But it wasn’t hers. She was in the driving seat for two whole weeks and then she would have to hand over the keys and the pretence of having a full bank account. The Scooby Doo van was having much-needed plastic surgery. It was operating mechanically, but as Mrs Bennet, who was suffering a severe bout of sleep deprivation at the time, had got it wedged between two gate posts and had made matters worse by moving forward – not that she had much choice – it was now wearing thousands of pounds worth of scratch and dent. The fact Scooby Doo was black, highlighted the scar’s impressive appearance. Mrs Bennet had done a very good job. She liked to do things well. But as they couldn’t afford to pay the £400 excess, six months later, Mrs Bennet’s few seconds of misjudgement was still on show until now.
Hence why the Sexy Sat Nav and all the trimmings. Mrs Bennet thought she had been given her early Christmas present, but sadly she couldn’t tell whether it was sexy or not. In fact she didn’t even know if it was male or female. All she knew was that the body was NOT included and neither was the remote control, which the manual said was essential to make it work.
“I shall never know now,” she nodded sadly, “But one day, when I’ve written my book, I will buy myself my male Sat Nav with a deep Irish drawl and I will buy a car like this.”
Having arrived at her destination without the sexy male voice to tell her so, she pulled up on to the Bennet driveway and proceeded to lift Miss Bennet Number Three and Four out and let them into the house. She found a few toys for Miss Rosie Bennet to play with while she went back into her classy vehicle. As she leant over to unbuckle Miss Bennet Number Five’s car seat, the boot suddenly lifted up in the air and shut again and the door she was leaning through, jolted into life and started closing. Startled she swiftly moved her legs out of the way so they weren’t caught in the guillotine and promptly bashed her head on the car ceiling.
“Ahhh help this car’s alive Kezzie! Perhaps I’ve hit a secret button,” she informed her daughter, looking around to see what she’d pressed.
Mrs Bennet couldn’t even find the keys, but managed to pick up the chirping child, who wasn’t at all bothered by the car's moving bits, and squeezed herself and twin into the front seat and opened the door.
Inside the house, sitting at the farthest corner of the lounge was the four-year-old controller. Holding the keys to Velma – the childrens’ nickname for the car as it was Scooby Doo’s friend – was Miss Bennet Number Four.
“Hey, this is fun Mummy!” she announced, pressing another button.
“So it was you! I can’t believe you managed to make that car obey you through two sets of doors and three lots of wall! I was inside Megan and the doors mysteriously shut on their own.”
“Were you scared like in Scooby Doo Mummy?” the controller asked.
“Well it certainly made me jump!”
“Can I do it again?”
“No!” And with that, the small controller reluctantly handed over the keys to Velma and moved on to train travel and started building a track.
Mrs Bennet was so glad Miss Megan hadn’t pressed the lock button too. If that had happened, she and Kezia would have been serving time for a long while. And Mrs Bennet would have been like a character in one of the Bennet girls favourite television programmes, Trapped. The intimidating voice on this occasion would have shouted out her catch line: “Poor unfortunate Mrs Bennet you are trapped!”

Mrs Bennet chases balloons

2008-09-23T14:28:00.000-07:00

Monday, September 22 08

It was almost 5.30pm and Mrs Bennet was on a mission. She was tracking down a hot air balloon which was taking her mother for a ride over Gloucestershire. Having been cancelled several times due to unsuitable weather conditions, the day had finally arrived. But a few hours before take off, the venue changed. Instead of Stroud, where the Bennets lived, the balloon was now to go up from the Royal Agricultural College in Cirencester. The three older Bennets, having never witnessed a hot air balloon close-up, were keen to see Jannie get carried away in her basket. Handing them a packed tea, Mrs Bennet waved them Miss Bennets One, Two and Three off as they took their grandmother to her launchpad with Grampie. Mrs Bennet said she'd stay and feed the little twin Bennets and get there in time for lift off.
Realising the babies were wearing the only nappies in the house, she made an emergency detour to a nearby supermarket, grabbed a take-away Mr Latte and sped (within the speed limit) to the venue. She soon spotted a large blue and red balloon lying on the grass opposite, half inflated with its insides lit up by a determined flame.
Mrs Bennet pulled into a layby and called Jannie.
"Where are you Mum?" she asked.
"We're in the field behind the college," was the reply.
"I can see the balloon, I'll be with you in a moment," explained Mrs Bennet.
Mrs Bennet was in the field behind Cirencester College but couldn't work out how to get to the balloon in question. Not being able to leave the twins, she looked around for help. A staff member, about to go home, kindly let Mrs Bennet follow her so she could park near to the now roaring inflatable. Out came the pushchair, in went the twins, out came the cries, in went the milk bottles. Miss Rosie Bennet stared in disbelief at the biggest party balloon she'd ever seen, Miss Kezia Bennet cried at the biggest dragon she'd ever set eyes on. Grabbing her camera, Mrs Bennet aimed at the basket, containing what looked like a dozen different coloured eggs. Its occupants were crouched down low and as the balloon took off, the pilot instructed them to stand and wave. Mrs Bennet waved back, frantically looking for her mother's face. But the yellow egg she'd thought was Jannie wore a different face. She was still waving but to a group of strangers, while her stunned twins looked up to see a group of people suddenly take off into the air. Mrs Bennet was as stunned as they. Where was her mother? She rang her. No answer. She rang her dad.
"You've got the wrong balloon," he laughed. "Mum is in a pink balloon and she's about to take off now!"
Mrs Bennet was in the wrong field, wrong college watching the wrong balloon, just quarter of a mile away from the right one.
"But Dad, I've got some brilliant photos. I'll just have to superimpose Jannie's head onto it!"
Mrs Bennet laughed at her own mistake. Of course it had to be a pink balloon - it couldn't be any other with her girly brood. Her parents had realised why she hadn't arrived when they saw the red and blue balloon float by overhead. They too had had no idea they were so close to another launch party.
The next two hours were spent chasing round the countryside to follow Jannie's pink balloon, which elegantly floated over tree, field and countrylane. Mrs Bennet couldn't help thinking it resembled a giant gum bubble. The twins and the three older Miss Bennets were delighted to play hunt the balloon and insisted Mrs Bennet play a certain track on the High School Musical CD.
"This is for you Jannie!" they cried.
"Souring, flying, there's not a star in heaven that we can't reach..." they sang at the tops of their voices. Despite the jollity, the balloon trip had a profound impact on Miss Bennet Number Three. When her grandmother returned safely back to earth, she needed an answer.
"Jannie, did you fly up to heaven?"
"No darling, I don't want to go there just yet."
"Oh, I wasn't sure where you went," the little girl replied.
Mrs Bennet smiled. She was also glad her mother was back on solid ground. Mrs Bennet was just grateful it hadn't been her balloon trip. She would have most probably got into the wrong basket.

Mrs Bennet the Airhead turns to Mr Google

2008-09-21T16:08:00.000-07:00

Friday, September 19 08

Mrs Bennet was born bottom first, three and a half weeks early. By nature she was ahead of herself and at times this characteristic worked against her. Take today for example. Mr Bennet had kindly offered to buy some shopping on his way home to save his wife taking all five Miss Bennets, who inevitably all pointed to various items on shelves which definitely weren’t on the list. All Mrs Bennet had to do was write down the groceries and toiletries needed and email them to her husband. And this she did. Well she thought she had until a few minutes later, two emails arrived in her in-tray. The first was an email to herself from herself. Instead of sending the message to her friend she had sent it to Mrs Bennet. The second was more worrying. It was from a reporter from one of the local newspapers. Mrs Bennet had only gone and sent her shopping list to the paper instead of Mr Bennet!
“Calm down! I don’t think you intended this to be published!” read the reply. Mrs Bennet roared with laughter. She had been accused by her mother of being on another planet and this confirmed it. Only last week she had forgotten her parent’s 44th wedding anniversary. Mrs Bennet never forgot. Her head was so full of shifting, sorting, packing, moving, settling a four-year-old into school and day-to-day living with five children, one husband, soon to be joined by one or two builders, that she had no room for sense. It was just as well her head was fixed onto her body. Because being where she was right now, she would probably leave it in the strangest of places - most likely in the microwave or freezer. She used to be a fan of Worzel Gummidge, a country bumpkin scarecrow with a weird-looking wart on his face who came to life and sang ”you put a wer after W and a wer after O, a wer after R and away we go….” He used to unscrew his head and take it off.
“If I could take off my head right now, I’d put on Mr Bennet’s. It works better than mine. Or actually, come to think of it, Mr Google’s head would be fantastic,” decided Mrs Bennet.
Mr Google was highly intelligent, could speak hundreds of languages, answer every Trivial Pursuit question and was a mind of useful information. He was someone with whom Mrs Bennet kept good company when she wasn’t seeing Mr Latte. She couldn’t have them both. Mr Google wasn’t connected at the venue she met Mr Latte, so she had the best of both worlds. Mr Latte in the day; Mr Google late at night. He often kept her company into early morning, much to the dismay of Mr Bennet.
Mrs Bennet’s mind was wondering. That was the problem, it wondered a lot. She looked at the mug she was holding. At least her friends understood her. One mum friend had given her this mug – one she hadn’t broken - for her birthday. On it was a picture of a woman, book in one hand, cup in another, hanging upside down from a lamp post. The caption read: “I’m in my own world, it’s OK they know me here.”
Jannie, Mrs Bennet’s mother was quite right, her daughter was in her own world at the moment. But Mrs Bennet was happily oblivious. Her mind on overload, she was content with her new friend Mr Google. And hopefully if she spent enough time with him, she’d pick up a few intelligent tips and wouldn’t email shopping lists – or worse - to the wrong person.

Stunk out and stuck in!

2008-09-21T14:13:00.000-07:00

Thursday, September 18 08

Week day mornings were always a challenge for Mrs Bennet. If she overslept or she wasn’t focussed enough (which was often) the race-against-time challenge was verging on the impossible to complete. She had to allow a reserve bank of seconds to cater for the unexpected. This morning she wasn’t concentrating on the task and the reserve bank was empty. And someone had pressed “repeat” on the unexpected button. Mrs Bennet was packing up lunch boxes, buttering toast, brushing hair and finding baby clothes. Mr Bennet, aware his wife had got up far too late, had delayed his departure to give her a hand, and was chasing two tiny bottoms around the lounge floor in an attempt to put outfits on Bennet numbers four and five. Meanwhile upstairs, Miss Bennet number three decided to empty the contents of an old Pringles tube on her bed. The emphasis here being on old. If the Pringles had still been inside, there would be no story. As it was, this tube contained treasures – shells, pebbles, sand, sea water and the foulest smell imaginable. Mr Bennet was informed of the rancid aroma by Miss Bennet number two and quickly removed the offending tube. He hadn’t noticed the slime covering Dora the Explorer’s head. But his informant had and the smell swiftly travelled downstairs as the Dora duvet landed at the feet of Mrs Bennet, ready for a rapid entry into the washing machine. This was Unexpected Incident One. By this time, all the Bennets should have left the building. Mr Bennet was late, but drove Miss Bennet number one, a junior, to school as she had to be there 10 minutes earlier than her siblings; leaving Mrs Bennet with four Miss Bennets. She was changing a rather putrid nappy, when Miss Bennet number three called from her bedroom that she wanted a certain doll in a certain bag but couldn’t reach it. Mrs Bennet explained she couldn’t move and would come as soon as she could. But it wasn’t soon enough and cause Unexpected Incident Two to occur. By now Miss Megan was yelling for a different reason. She was stuck (wedged was perhaps the better phrase) under the bed.
“What are you doing? I said I’d come up! Why couldn’t you wait? We just don’t have time for this!” expressed an exasperated Mrs Bennet.
“But I can’t move Mummy,” whimpered the jammed child as her mother struggled to set her free. Wiping the cobwebs off her daughter’s head, Mrs Bennet brushed her down and retrieved the pink plastic doll which had caused this commotion. The minutes were ticking. The babies were moaning and Miss Bennet number two was now refusing to put on her shoes. Having half-packed the conservatory, Mrs Bennet couldn’t remember where she’d put her own shoes and now the clothes sculpture was no more, the babies’ coats had vanished. She looked at her watch in desperation. They were late. She rang the school secretary to explain they were on their way and immediately tripped over a tiny blue and green dog on wheels, which barked as she kicked it. Miss Kezia Bennet sneezed and as she did so her dummy shot out with such force it startled the baby twin and almost made Mrs Bennet laugh. She couldn’t quite manage a full chuckle but it was enough to bring some much-needed light-relief and calmed her down.
Miraculously the five of them arrived as the bell rang. Once the two school children were handed over to their teachers, Mrs Bennet sighed deeply. She felt worn out and it was only 9 o’clock in the morning.
“My life is a farce,” she acknowledged, “a complete farce – or perhaps it’s just a comedy of errors!”

Open wide please!

2008-09-18T13:57:00.001-07:00

Wednesday, September 18 08

At 10 o'clock Mrs Bennet had the chance to be without all five of her daughters and to sit down for half an hour. The only sting in the tail was the fact she was sitting in the dentist's chair. However unlike the unfortunate tooth incident during a wet week under canvas, this dentist was dishy and if she wasn't married and about 20 years younger, she would have perhaps fluttered her eyelashes at him. But respectable wives with five children, fast approaching 40, didn't do such things. Well they might, but she wasn't one of them. She just flirted with a cup of hot frothy coffee, which didn't count. This morning's drilling, was the final chapter in the holiday dentist saga. To recap, she had woken up a bald-headed middle-aged man on a Saturday morning, forcing him to get into his very expensive soft-topped vehicle and fly to her aid to rid her of the unbearable pain, which three days earlier he'd charged £40 to tell her was a pulled muscle. He'd taken off a filling, to put a temporary one on, and now she was paying to have that one removed and a permanent one put back.
"I'm definitely in the wrong job. But I wouldn't want to look down throats all day long. Although drilling must be kind of fun when it's not done on yourself," she thought.
It helped that her dentist was young, friendly and like Mr Bennet had a nice smile, which showed off his perfect teeth. In her mid 20's when she had first set eyes on the young Mr Bennet, it was his long-lashed blue eyes and gorgeous smile which had impressed her. He was a good advert for teeth, unlike herself, who seemed to be taking a dentist residency. However she wished to add her teeth were fine before she had had children. She'd only had this conversation yesterday with a dear friend and fellow mother who was also forking out a fortune for dental treatment. She'd lost a gold crown and was paying dearly for it.
"My mum told me you lose two teeth for every child you have," she'd informed Mrs Bennet.
"I may as well order my dentures now then!" Mrs Bennet replied, "Although 10 teeth might fetch a fair price from the tooth fairy!"
It was the first question she'd asked the dentist when she sat in his chair. His assistant replied:
"I think the story's got exaggerated in time. My mum told me it was one tooth per child."
"Still five teeth is still too many for me," declared Mrs Bennet, who resolved never to eat another toffee in her life.
She kept quiet after that. Well she could hardly say much, with a drill in her mouth, a numbed jaw and two faces peering over her. She tried to relax as Terry Wogan rambled on in the corner of the room. She shut her eyes and pretended she wasn't there. For a moment, she was on a beach, lying in a hammock, enjoying the warm sea breeze with a rum and coke in hand. Until she had to raise her hand to spit out the potent taste which was filling her mouth. Mrs Bennet could think of a better and cheaper way to spend 30 minutes without children.

The issue of specs

2008-09-18T13:57:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, September 17 08

Miss Megan Bennet was finding her new routine tough. She was used to having a say in what clothes she wore for the day. Now she had no choice apart from grey trousers or grey skirt. She hadn't realise this school business would be every day and she wasn’t sure she liked it. After her sobbing entry on the first day, the tears had subsided, fingers were out of the mouth and the limpet’s suction removed. Having almost completed a week, Miss Megan Bennet was bouncing in confidently and it made leaving her a much happier event for Mrs Bennet. But one issue was troubling both Miss Megan and Mrs Bennet – the issue of spectacles. The tiny delicate pink-framed glasses, which this dimple-faced Bennet number three wore so well, had been part of Megan’s life since she was 17 months old. At one, her noticeable squint had raised a few concerns and various orthoptist appointments diagnosed long-sightedness in both eyes. The prognosis: a possible operation and specs for life, but the option of contact lenses when appearance mattered in the teen years. If any of the Miss Bennets were to have a problem with sight, this sweet-natured, accommodating child was the right one. She sat perfectly still in examinations and for six weeks wore a patch on her good eye (three hours a day) without complaining, largely because Mrs Bennet made matching left-eye patches for every doll in the Bennet household. Miss Bennet hardly ever took her glasses off, only to be cleaned or if she knew she was dropping off. She accepted her accessory.
School changed all that. On her first day, Miss Bennet relayed how one of the little boys in her class had pushed her glasses into her face with his hand. ("Why do children do that?" thought Mrs Bennet angrily) As soon as Miss Bennet had finished her morning classroom session, she took her specs off and refused to wear them. Later when piling into the Scooby Doo Van with her sisters she remarked:
“Mummy, why do I have to wear glasses and Naomi and Emily don’t?”
Mrs Bennet was about to give a sensitive reply, when the eldest Miss Bennet, without tact, did it for her.
“That’s because we can see better than you.”
If Mr Bennet had made such a comment – which he wouldn’t have done – she would have poked him. As it was her daughter, she gave her the look, which spoke a hundred words. The daughter didn’t need an interpretation.
Mrs Bennet managed to sooth her bespectacled-child. But the problem arose again the following day when she came out of the classroom, this time holding a scroll of white paper, with her glasses wrapped up inside.
“I fell over and broke them Mummy. And now I won’t be able to see,” explained the tearful girl, although probably enjoying the fact she looked like everyone else.
A reassuring hug from Mrs Bennet soothed the hurt. The teaching assistant reported how the children had just had a story about a dinosaur who couldn’t see and needed glasses. Mrs Bennet received this as her reassuring hug. Miss Megan would be well cared for, and though she was the only four-year-old wearing specs, so too was she the only one who matched her teacher – the lovely surrogate mother.

Leaving a trace

2008-09-16T09:47:00.000-07:00

Monday, September 15 08

Following Miss Kezia Bennet's police incident, she was now banned from using a phone until her 18th birthday. Having acquired her proficient dialling skills, she was therefore not impressed with either parent. Just as Jane Austen's girls in Pride & Prejudice were well-accomplished in reading, music and poetry, Miss Kezia knew she too must find another aptitude to add to her collection. So she became an artist. She picked up a colouring pencil and started producing works of art. But being an enthusiast, she quickly got fed up with paper and progressed onto canvas, plastic, wood, wall, door, tile and carpet.
Mrs Bennet knew nothing about her youngest daughter's talent until she started working at the computer. As any other artist, Miss Kezia Bennet had left her signature. The entire computer drive was plastered in a multi-coloured array of lines, criss-crossed in every direction. The artist hadn't left a blank mark on her chosen canvas.
Although slightly annoyed by the discovery, Mrs Bennet was rather impressed when she discovered it was her 16-month-old daughter rather than her four-year-old who had been responsible.
Later that evening, she realised that this artistic streak was contagious. Miss Rosie Bennet had obviously received the same flair by twin to twin transfusion, for she had almost tie-dyed her white long-sleeved top. She was sporting the new Bennet design - sporadic purple splodges and a matching purple tongue. The finishing touch was a purple dot on her nose and identical marks on her fingers. Her twin sister however was displeased. Also a victim of the purple felt-tip pen, she was quivering and holding out her stained hand in protest. She did NOT want to be part of the gallery.
The gallery had many exhibits. The conservatory windows revealed a mixture of hand and mouth prints; the carpet displayed an interesting mix of milk marks, paint, wine and other stains which shall remain nameless; the kitchen floor showed off scribbles, crushed raisins and stale toast crumbs and the upstairs rooms had the same contemporary feel as downstairs.
Everywhere Mrs Bennet looked there were traces of her children. Evidence of where they'd been and what they'd been doing. Yet there was a sense of freedom and warm assurance in their markings. It was the home gallery and she was proud of it. Every mark leaved a trace of
her daughters' personality, their joyful expression and creativity. And although at times she needed to remove the evidence, there were other times when it was comforting to leave the marks where they were. One day when they had left home, she would have a spotless house and how she would miss their childhood masterpieces.