Holiday Limbo.

"Assume and you make an ass out of you and me" - Oscar Wilde

We've been planning this holiday for a year.

During the week, my girlfriend Krissy and I had discussed the paperwork involved with traveling with a family of six. I'd talked about the drama of having to have passports up to date and residents permits updated. I had a quick look at my own passport that night and was relieved to see my residents permit had plenty of time before it expired, as did G's. What I'd got wrong was I assumed the children's expiry dates would be the same as mine. I still don't know why they're not.

Last night the first little traveler sent me an email while I was at dinner, it was all in caps "WE'RE GOING TO GO TO LONDON TOMORROW!!" I shared her message with everyone at the table, we all grinned at her excitement. "She's sooooooo excited I told them - both of the girls want to stand on London Bridge and sing London bridge is falling down".

We took two cabs to the airport, girls in one, boys in the other. We talked about what the weather would be like, the double decker bus and Hamley's toy store. After the baggage was checked in and the boarding passes were handed over relief began to set it. We were officially on holidays. We'd made it with plenty of time to spare, it was just a matter of getting on the plane.

When the immigration official stopped to flick through the fourth travelers passport I didn't think anything of it. When he then handed it to someone else who disappeared towards the side office with the more official looking officials, I looked toward G with a should we be worried about this face. He shrugged his shoulders. There was no explanation.

"Come" said the official looking official. "Three of your children's resident permits have expired, you need to go to immigration and have them renewed".

Time stood still.

"Can we do that here?" G asked.

"No - you will need to go on Sunday, it will take two or three days"

We remained standing in the same position, our boarding passes in our hands. People were beginning to stare. We had rented a house in London, we'd done the math on a hotel but it was cheaper to find a home. Part of the deal was paying a huge deposit upfront, we'd discussed what could go wrong, this wasn't one of the things we thought of.

"You need to leave" said the official has he motioned us towards the door.

This couldn't be happening.

The little travelers began asking questions "What are we doing Mummy?" "Are we still going to London?"

We went back to the check-in counter, they suggested the visa department on the other side of the airport. As we ran across the car park in clothes that were meant for a different temperature, I saw the faces of the little travelers falling apart, but by far, G's face was the worst. G's always good in a crisis, there's never a voice that is raised, there is always logical thought. He's the opposite of me. Over the years we've had a myriad of travel dramas but they are rarely of our own doing. How could we not know that their visas had expired? How did it get missed?

I listened to him tell our story to the woman at the visa desk. It became clear that there was nothing we could do. I took the children outside and sat them against a wall. The first little traveler began to cry, and then the third, the second and the fourth sat with their head in their hands.

When G came to join us he looked shattered. "We'll just have to go home, we can't do anything until the Immigration Office opens, I'll go first thing on Sunday".

I thought about our accommodation, the cost of our tickets, the friends we'd arranged to meet. G had been talking about this holiday for months. He needed to get away.

"You go -  you need the holiday, I'll sort it out on Sunday" I really wanted him to go.

"I can't - I'm their sponsor, I'll need to be here to sign the paperwork - you should go"

While G changed the tickets, paid extra costs and stared at the wall, wondering how this had all happened, I sat with the little travelers and learnt how each one of them handles a crisis. The fourth little traveler had moved on, the third little traveler sat pulling at his wobbly tooth wondering if he'd still get British pounds from the tooth fairy, he'd had it all planned. As they hugged the second little traveler goodbye they gave pinky swears on what she could do in London on their behalf. "Promise me you'll ring me from a red telephone box" asked the first little traveler.

This morning the second little traveler and I woke up in Nottinghill, we are 200 yards from the Kensington High Street and we can see people making their way to the Portobello road markets. The house is beautiful but empty. It's so quiet without the extra bodies and the added layers of excitement. Over toast and tea the second little traveler and I have discussed heading out this morning. "Let's just look around for now Mummy - let's save the double decker bus and The London Bridge for the others when they get here".

I have my fingers and toes crossed that their permits can be organized quickly but I've heard the horror stories. We'll just have to wait and see. In the meantime I remain in holiday limbo, I'm at my destination but only half of me is here, the rest is back in Doha, waiting.


How about you? Have you had a holiday nightmare recently?

The joke police.

On the way to school today the third little traveler yelled out from the back seat.

"Mum Mum, I've got a joke for you"

The joke telling is progressing. We've moved from knock knock jokes, to riddles, to changing the words of songs, and then suddenly out of nowhere, we've arrived at the age where jokes have a beginning, a middle and an end.

This should be a good story right?

Not always.

There's been a few times of late that I've found myself half way through one of the third travelers jokes (he's our resident comic, you can find him here all week) and instead of my usual encouraging smile I've found myself shutting the joke down with parenting greats such as "that is not appropriate!" or "where did you hear that?"

I have become the joke police.

Nobody likes the joke police.

Sure, I giggled when he changed the words of "I'm a barbie girl, in a barbie world, I'm so fantastic, my boobs are plastic" - maybe I shouldn't have, but I did -  but when he told the joke with what he considered to be an Indian accent I stopped him mid sentence.

"Why are you talking like that?"

"That's how they talk"

"How who talks? Who told you that?"

"Atman, he's Indian, he told me the joke - that's how he said it"

"I'm not sure you can tell the joke like that darling. If we were Indian and that was our accent, maybe - but that would be your choice to tell it - and you're not - so you can't".

The car was silent.

"What nationality can the people in my jokes be?"

Four sets of eyes waited for the answer.

"Do they have to be anything?" I asked trying to stall for time.

"Yes, because everyone is from somewhere"

"Okay - well make them Australian"

And that is how I came to hear the story of three Australian men shipwrecked on an island. They were helpless and I imagine a little alarmed when the local inhabitants of the island told them they were going to eat them. There was only one way out. The locals would let them go if they could put ten pieces of fruit up their bum without changing their expression.

No that wasn't a typo.

"Are you sure this joke is appropriate?"

"Yes! I promise, I promise!" said the third little traveler.

The first Australian was given apples, and began the task. One, two, three, four, five...his face winced in pain. He was gone, they threw him in the boiling pot and made him their first course.

The second Australian smiled as the locals passed him ten grapes - this was going to be easy. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...a smile escaped from his lips, it was no use, he began to laugh uncontrollably.

The first Australian was waiting at the gates of heaven when the second Australian arrived. "I don't get it - you only had two more left? They were only grapes? How hard could that have been?"

The second Australian smirked "I saw them walking in with the pineapples to use next".

Even the joke police giggled at that one.




How about you? Heard anything risqué lately?

New friends - Old friends.

We sold our house in Houston on the first day it hit the market. We couldn't believe it. We were the god and goddess of house selling. After the second bottle of champagne and the fifteenth self congratulatory pat on the back, we went to bed ten feet taller and completely bullet proof.

And then the sale fell apart.

We had two weeks before we were leaving the country.

It was a disaster.

With the house half packed and both G and I reeking of desperation, there were no further bites. The jig was up. Buyers knew we needed to sell and they were willing to wait it out. We were going to have to leave the country with a rather huge investment in the hands of a real estate agent who had really bad dress sense and a bad attitude.

And then it got worse.

On the day we were leaving, a water pipe burst in an internal wall. We saw the damp making its way down the wall. The drips were large enough that the beagle stopped for a drink as she wandered by.

And then the real estate agent arrived with a prospective buyer as a surprise.

Surprise!

We had an hour to get to the airport.

I stood on the front lawn of our unsold leaky house with the beagle on a leash, 20 suitcases around my feet and 4 children in different stages of pre moving hyperplaneactiveness. You think that's not a word? Wait until you move country.

By the time we got to the airport I'd had enough. Forget emotional roller coasters, it had been two weeks of an emotional high speed rail with a catastrophic crash at the end. We'd only moved 12 months before and now G was changing company. We were heading to the unknown. We were exhausted. Done. At the end of the line. We'd reached our limit.

We arrived at the airport in a state of chaos, there was a problem getting the beagle on the plane, the children cried as they whisked her away and we had too much luggage. We stood in the line being jostled between one attendant and another with minutes to make our flight. We have to pay how much? And then my necklace broke. I heard it bounce as it hit the ground.

As I reached down to pick it up I pictured my girlfriends handing it to me on my birthday. Women I'd known for over 20 years. I'd fallen in love with it immediately. It was perfect. Someone who knew me well had bought this, and while it was perfect for me, it reminded me of them. I hadn't taken it off since the day I'd got it. Whenever I was anxious I would twirl the love heart in my fingers, I'd done it unconsciously. And now it was on the floor of the airport. The line began to move - I quickly grabbed the chain and the heart, and stuffed it into my pocket before getting on the plane.

Don't cry. Just get on the plane. Don't cry.

A week later I sat in a coffee shop in Doha looking at a sea of faces - none familiar. No-one was particularly friendly, I felt self conscious, I was beginning to plan my exit. Out of the blue, a women arrived with twinkling eyes, a devilish sense of humor and a bag of jewelry for sale. I looked down at the silver pieces and recited the story of my love heart, I was melodramatic "I'm devastated, I had something similar" I pulled my love heart from my handbag "my girlfriends gave it to me". She got it. She could see it was more than just a necklace.

"I think I can fix it - I think I know someone"

And she did.

I'd made a friend. My newest friend had helped me regain a little piece of my old ones.

Today I showed an old friend my daily life. She came on the school run and I introduced her to my new world, my new friends. We sat in the school cafeteria, her children with mine. My two worlds collided for just a moment. I had what I thought was a brief hidden moment of bliss. And then a message from a new friend came through tonight:

"you looked very happy today. A dose of good old aussie friends that know you inside and out does the soul a lot of good. enjoy their company."


I'm not sure how I got so lucky - the old friends are fabulous. The new friends - I'm so glad I met you.

Keep making friends.

It's time to get your knickers off again.

The very first move was to Perth. G went ahead, he found a house for us to live in and began his new job. I continued on with my life in Adelaide while having conversations about the wedding, the dress, the flowers, and the food. There were a lot dinners with friends, catch ups and coffees. I may be the only bride who had to have her dress let out rather than let in, before the big day. I was trying to squeeze everything in before I left (literally). One last visit to the favourite Thai restaurant, one last coffee at the cafe. G sent flowers to the office on a regular basis, we wrote letters and talked on the phone until two in the morning.

I had to ask G for the details again this morning because when I thought back to the logistics, I realized how crazy we must have looked to our friends and family.

No-one said a thing. Not one person asked "are you sure?"

Three weeks after we began seeing each other, we were engaged. Twelve weeks later, we were married and moving city. I left it all behind, my job, my house, my family, my friends. Twelve weeks earlier I had no plans of moving anywhere, none.

"So, we'd been together for about eight weeks and you moved to Perth?" I needed to double check the facts.

"I think so, I came back a few times before we got married though - I think we were only apart for about four weeks"

We spent our first night in Perth, in the spare room of a friend of G's. While G and I were newly married, G's mate was newly single - and bitter. He and his wife had broken up, she'd met a guy online. She didn't tell him she was leaving, she just went on a holiday and never came back. He found all of the details after she'd left, the hours of online chat that she'd saved. He told us he'd read through it all, piecing it together. She'd pretended to go to the office when she was actually going to a hotel room to meet her lover who had flown in from London. "I'll never trust another woman again". I decided to go to bed.

I opened the wardrobe in our room to hang something - she'd left her wedding dress behind. It was just left hanging in amongst some faded jeans and unwanted shirts. It had no use, no value, it had become a symbol of something that was broken and discarded. Our first night of our new adventure and we were smacked in the face with the reality of how badly a marriage can end.

G drove me to our first home the next day. It was stinking hot, the house didn't have air-conditioning and there was a multitude of dead cockroaches laying belly up all over the floor. There was no door between the bedroom and bathroom. I am girl that needs a door between the toilet and her husband.

The honeymoon was over.

We lived in that house for a year. I have the same memories and visions each time I think of that house. The prostitutes who lived next door, the naked woman who appeared in the middle of a dinner party, the break-ins, the very first pregnancy test. We sat up late discussing budgets, trying to work out how to have a baby and buy a house. We made the decision to move to Indonesia. We saved like crazy in that first year of marriage, one wage went straight in the bank and we lived on the other. We barely went out but once a week we'd do a really fancy dinner at home. G perfected his seafood risotto. Every time I eat seafood risotto I think of that house. It remains to be my favourite G meal.

It's been a busy weekend. Actually, it's been a really busy week. G's been heading to the office at 5.30 each morning and falling asleep with his laptop open each night. We've been doing the morning routine without him and we've all missed him. We've emailed and sent texts, we've barely talked. He made up for it all by making his seafood risotto. Yes, it's that good.

Last night we sat together with a glass of wine and a plate of risotto and talked.  We talked about plans, about ideas, about schools, about how we're okay.  Lots of talking, lots of catching up. A conversation that was overdue.

"So the risotto?" he asked looking down at my empty plate.

Yep, it's still a get your knickers off meal.

I need to show the little travelers my wedding dress. It's wrapped in tissue and tucked away safely in a box at my mothers. I didn't love the dress, I'm not a wedding dress person; but I love the memory of the dress, the fact that it was there on the day and the day was good. It was the beginning of a conversation.

For the history of the "Get your knickers off" meal. Look here.

And here's the recipe.


Seafood Risotto

3 tablespoons of dry white wine
1 cup aborio rice
250 gram piece of salmon, 4 scallops and 250 grams of prawns
olive oil and butter
3 tablespoons of sour cream
1 litre of chicken stock
1/4 teaspoon of white pepper
1/2 cup dill
parmesan cheese - to taste
black pepper - to taste
arugula lettuce - good hand-full

Finely slice spring onions and garlic.

Prepare a pot of chicken stock in a saucepan - maintain at a hot but not simmering temperature.

Add a slug of olive oil to a heavy pan.

Slowly cook the spring onions and garlic, mashing them lightly as the cook.

Do not brown the onions and garlic, they should remain translucent and shiny as you cook them.

Add aborio rice to the pan,mix the rice, garlic and spring onions until the rice is shiny and all coated.

Add dry white wine and reduce. 

Add 1-2 ladles of warm (but not simmering) chicken stock to the rice.

Stir as the stock is absorbed, add white pepper.

Continue to add 1-2 ladles of stock until the rice is cooked.

When the rice is close to ready add the salmon and prawns.

When the salmon and prawns are cooked, add the dill and two heaped tablespoons of sour cream.

Fold the mix of the rice, sour cream, seafood and dill together.

In a separate pan melt the butter. 

When the salmon and prawns are a nice pink color, start cooking the scallops in the pan with the melted butter.

When the salmon and prawns are pink and the scallops have a golden colour, you are ready to plate up.

Place the risotto mix off center on the plate, dress with two two scallops.

Add a small handfull of the argula lettuce.

Parmasean and black pepper to taste.

Special Guests.

We're a little bit excited here in Doha, we have guests arriving from Australia on Monday. In an episode of Love Boat - this would be a definite "special guests" week. I met Krissy when I was 15, ahem, just a couple of years ago, when we were heading off with a mutual friend on a Easter camping trip. I can't remember too many of the details. It was cold, the drive was long, there were giggles, chocolates and a lot of a roaming around waiting for something to happen. At the end of the trip we went to see Footloose and I preempted every scene by telling Krissy what would happen - she wasn't impressed, she reminds me about it every few years. What I didn't preempt though, was that in years to come, we would end up having our first babies not only the same day, but at the same hospital. Like I said, special guests.

When they rolled me back to my room after the first little traveler was born I received a message that Kristina had gone in to labour. I kept pestering the midwives "Can you go and check? Is she okay? Has she had it yet?" and they just kept shaking their heads saying they couldn't tell me anything. I knew they didn't understand. 

We'd shared a flat, been in a car accident and gone to each others 21st birthday parties. We'd been there for the dramatic breakups and the inexplicable makeups. We gave readings at each others weddings and then got silly at the receptions. Kristina had watched me attempt a series of jobs in a spectacularly bad fashion until I fell into the right one, while I'd seen her be her usual reliable, hardworking self, she was always 'the girl most liked'.  Krissy is the girl you call in a crisis. By the time we both arrived at the front steps of the hospital that day, we'd crammed a lot of friendship in to those sixteen years. 

We're part of one of those intertwined groups of friends that all have a connection. It's the same faces each year when I go home, I seek them out. We know each others history, we rehash and retell all the good bits and then pretend we've forgotten the bad. Sometimes we forget to forget and that's when things can turn a little pear shaped, but it never lasts for very long. At an annual lunch one year, a new girlfriend to one of the boys told me she was finding it hard to work out who was married to whom, everyone appeared so comfortable with each other. I couldn't imagine myself married to any of the boys - but I couldn't imagine my life without them.

At a quick breakfast in Sydney last year, G and I giggled continuously with two of the guys, really silly, naughty giggling. I hopped in a cab afterwards thinking I hope the little travelers make friends like I have, but I really hope my girls get to have man friends like mine. I never ring these guys, I email sporadically, but I love being in their company. Krissy happens to be married to one of them. At our beach house last year, one of the guys arrived with his beautiful wife and three boys, holding a copy of the weekend Australian. "There's a story in here about a woman who's returned to Oz, she's has her own column, she writes really well- I reckon you could do that". I want my girls to have friends like that. It's the simple things that make the strongest friendships.

Amongst us, there has been a succession of share houses and weekends full of sport, drinking games and inside jokes that don't make sense to anyone else. A story begins to take form and the laughing is immediate, because we all know where it's heading. We've farewelled each other overseas, danced at weddings, christened children, given up smoking, taken out loans, renovated houses and moved interstate. We've giggled like teenagers while having a cheeky cigarette, and wondered out loud about how it's all going to turn out. When we talk about it each other - it's because we care - there's a difference.

I often wonder if we were put in the same room now as complete strangers would we gravitate to each other or would we chose someone else? It's unimaginable because somewhere, in all of these years, we stopped being friends and began being family.


Special guests.



How about you? Do you have an old group of friends that feel more like family?

The Best Advice.

At the birthday party of a ten year old girl, a group of mothers looked on anxiously while talking about their children. While the little girls danced to Taylor Swift and compared their collection of silly bands, the mothers were deep in discussion.

"How long did you breastfeed for? Was it exclusive or did you supplement with a bottle?" asked one mother.

"Was she dry at night by two, or just dry during the day? We moved to pull-ups by eighteen months" said another.

"Did she have a sippy cup or did she go straight from breast to a cup?"

It sounds unbelievable doesn't it?

That's because it is.

It never happened.

By the time your child is ten, your nipples will be safely tucked away inside your bra. If you were to pull them out at the local coffee shop it's possible you may be arrested. There will have been 964 new experts in children's sleeping patterns, and you will groan and change the channel each time they pop up on the telly to promote their new book. The aisle in the supermarket with the wet wipes and the boxes of Huggies will be a complete mystery to you.

Children will win awards at school and no-one will say "I hear she was the first in her baby group to use a straw". No-one looks at a child and says "I really like the way they walk, I bet they walked by ten months, they look like they've been doing it longer than everyone else."

The game of my child is going to turn out better than your child has ended, because everyone has realized it's irrelevant. The baby that could point to the blue blocks and stack the hoops faster than anyone else is now failing Language Arts but blitzing in Geometry. Parents have learnt that each week there will be another hurdle, maybe it will be social, perhaps it will be scholastic, we all pray it wont be medical.

Your challenges this week may involve not making the basketball squad or falling out with a best friend. You will try and stay calm while you work on fractions, listen intently to the project on sharks, and be genuinely interested while you are given the task of quizzing the religious definitions of certain aspects of Judaism.  You may find yourself wiping away the tears at the orthodontist (both yours and hers), and then bursting with pride over the courage displayed while being vaccinated, again, both yours and hers.

First words, first teeth, weening and first steps are all captured in photos and video clips, their dates are immaterial.

Having four children in four different countries has meant that I have received four very different approaches when it came to parenting advice. To wrap or unwrap, to control cry or to attach, to breast-feed for at least 4, 6, 12 months or more. To circumcise, to what in the hell would you do that for? You can have one drink. You can have no drinks.

My four children, unsurprisingly, have different levels of intelligence and physical abilities depending on what it is that they are doing at the time. I would hazard a guess that none of it is related to whether they sat in a stroller or spent more time in a baby sling. The one pregnancy that I technically got everything right for, has not resulted in a child any more brilliant than another. The unplanned pregnancy, the one that didn't receive the vitamins and the forethought, is interestingly the child who is supposedly quite gifted. This could be luck, this could be life.

When I look back at everything I was told and every book that I read, one piece of advice stands clear of everything else. It came from my obstetrician in Malta. A brilliant man with the kindest heart. A man with six children of his own.

As I was packing my bag ready to leave the hospital with a brand new third little traveler, Dr Muscat walked in to my room to check on how I was and joked about how the easy bit was over. I was now heading home to three children under four. He stood over the third little traveler and looked down at him with a very sincere smile and said "you are very lucky" and then he looked in my direction. "Both of you - you are very lucky".

"Take him home and cherish him. Remember to take a moment to really look at him and love him. It is the very best thing you can do for him".

It's simple but it's true. Don't get caught in the hype, don't beat yourself up, don't over think it.

Just love them.

False Alarm.

I set off this morning with a list of jobs, we have guests arriving next week and I'm doing a few last minute things, you know, like having the spare room painted! I rang G this morning to tell him I hadn't been able to get to the mall as there'd been a fire. As I drove closer to the building I could see they were diverting traffic and had closed the doors.

"Oh yeah, sorry, I should have rang you - I saw the firetrucks and ambulance outside when I was on my way to a meeting". G knew I was heading there - we'd discussed it earlier that morning.

Ten minutes later, as I drove to the next location, it occurred to me that he obviously hadn't pictured me blazing away inside the bedding section of Debenhams.

I would have.

I would have had him burnt to a crisp, me an immediate widow. I would have pictured me answering the door to find someone from the office with their head bowed. "I'm so sorry".

And then I would have started planning.

What would I do? Who would I ring first? Would my parents come here or would it be better if G's parents came? Would the little travelers and I have to leave straight away or would the company let us stay in the house until we got organized. Where would we live? What sort of car would we get? We wouldn't need a big car as they'd only be five of us.

I've done this a thousand times.

Late home from the office? Massive car crash. Take a little longer to whip to the shop for milk? I begin to envisage a guy with the balaclava and a gun madly grabbing clumps of cash from the register while G lays on the floor fighting for his life. If the beagle takes a longer walk than normal in the morning - I just know they've both been left for dead on the side of the road, a terrible hit and run.

Crazy. I know I'm crazy.

I remember reading an article years ago (when I was pregnant) about why pregnancy will make a woman worry more about the death of her partner. It was all about primal instinct - reverting back to our original roles of hunters and gatherers. And although the logic is a perhaps outdated, I get it. We become a little more vulnerable when we're pregnant, we can't run as fast, jump as high, or dodge the wild bear as well as we used to - but I had my last baby five years ago? And I know where the supermarket is.

If I had to, I could hunt and gather on my own. If I had to. I would be stoic and strong. I know - I've thought about it.

Is it possible that someone who lives in a state of change and adjustment, just needs to throw the worst possible scenario her way to feel like she has some control?



How about you? Do you ever think the worst?

Get ya knickers off - again

I've been told that you'll realize you've become truly local in the Middle East when you stop explaining to friends at home that Friday is actually Saturday, and Saturday is now Sunday.

I'm obviously not a local yet.

Our weekend in Qatar is Friday and Saturday. Sunday mornings are no longer sleep ins and Sunday papers, they're back to school and first day at work mornings. This isn't the first time we've lived like this, it was the same in Libya - it makes no sense but I still miss my Sundays.

G made a trip to the vegetable market on Friday morning and came home with 2 crates of tomatoes and a mammoth amount of peas. He was making tomato sauce for the little travelers but the peas were a secret. You'll have to wait until tomorrow night he said with one of those nudge nudge, wink wink smiles.

"It's all part of this weekends get ya knickers off meal".

If you weren't here last weekend, here's the story behind the "get ya knickers off meal".

Saturday was fantastic. A sleep in. A little bit of unfinished homework, a couple of morning birthday parties, G spent some time in the kitchen and by 2.30 we were at the pool. It was one of those really gorgeous afternoons where everyone got along, we relaxed and had some giggles. There may have been an incident where someone wanted someone else's goggles and a small fight broke out but I am choosing to forget that.

When we arrived home G headed into the kitchen, while I helped people into their pajamas. When I came downstairs there was one of these waiting for me:

After a day at the pool - prawns, mango, dill, lettuce with a little hint of cointreau.

YUM!

The little travelers had pasta with the homemade tomato sauce.

G and I had this:

I will never be a food photographer so I haven't done it justice but it was delicious. Lamb with mint peas and a pomegranate sauce. OMG - It was so good. The peas were fresh, and when they were combined with the pomegranates they all popped in your mouth like little taste sensations. The lamb was cooked to perfection.

Everyone else had strawberries and ice-cream for dessert but I was still in pomegranate heaven (there may have been champagne).

I've learnt from last week that I need to attach a recipe so I asked G to write it all down.


Spice mix (to rub in to the lamb) - ground cinnamon, ground black pepper, ground cardamon, ground coriander, salt

Peas, butter and mint

Pomegranate, white wine, nutmeg and cloves




Mix spice rub together

Roll lamb in the mix and leave in the fridge for 4 hours

Brown lamb on all sides in a heavy oven proof pan.  After browning place in over for 20-30 minutes

Allow to stand covered for 10 minutes before carving

For the peas, bring to a boil with a pinch of salt and sugar

Remove from boiling water after 3-5 minutes

In a separate pan, place a dob of butter and saute mint leaves, add peas and saute for 3-5 minutes.  add juices from the fry pan

For the pomegranate sauce.

In a saucepan, add seeds, white wine, cloves and nutmeg

Bring to a simmer, then leave to cool

In a blender, zap the mix to separate the flesh from the seeds - leave a few of the seeds aside to add to the sauce later.

Push the mix through a sieve to separate

Prior to serving add additional pomegranates to the sauce

Place peas on a plate, carve lamb and decorate with the pomegranate sauce


Now obviously I'm speaking metaphorically, but for me, this was a definite get your knickers off meal. I imagine if you were a vegetarian or not a lover of lamb...well, you've probably stopped reading by now  - but it was definitely one of my favourites.


How about you? Did you have a good weekend? Eat anything tasty? Would the lamb do it for you? 

Picture This.

I'm linking up with Edenland again this week.


"You want to share some of your photo favourite photos lately?"


Why yes, I think I do.


Although I was miserable this week without my voice and without the usual contact of friends. There were a few giggles. Like these:


I don't know why, "Baby on Board" car thingy's get up my bum, but when they say "Baby in board" they make me giggle.

When I was miserable about losing my voice and sitting in silence, Ms 11 made this on her plate with the sauce bottle. Ms 11 will one day stand at the top of a tall building, convincing someone not to jump. She's that person.

After I wrote a post about the beagle and her eating habits, and Ferrero Rochers and my eating habits, the beagle got all ironic on me and ate the rest of the box of Ferrero Rochers that I'd started. True story. I found her in the bathtub, having a drink. I imagine all that chocolate made her a bit thirsty. This is the beagle making an exit when she realized I'd caught her.

Tomatoes from the market, which are now bubbling away on the stove in their new role of tomato sauce.

This piece of artwork that arrived from Australia. I love this artist. The excitement that came as G was unrolling the canvas was like Christmas.

The fourth little traveler wanted a photo of him and I being crazy. Somehow I ended up looking crazy while he just looked cute?

And finally, this morning I drove the second little traveler to a birthday party that involved going off road. As I drove over the rubble with my boobs giggling up and down and our teeth rattling, she said through fits of giggles "Maya is so lucky to live down here, I bet this is her favourite bit of the ride home from school". 


Sometimes we need to see the world through the eyes of a nine year old.

My voice is back. I've been to a party. It's a new week. And after blogging every day, writing two articles and finishing a chapter of the book I've realized that maybe I needed to lose my voice to discover a few things.

Just Call Me Beagle.

Yesterday, after taking the little travelers to school, I walked in through the front door and found the beagle standing on the dining room table. To get in this position she has to stand on the couch and leap across the room. I know this because I caught her mid flight last week. The beagle is not a lap dog, the beagle is a mid sized dog. She looks a little inconspicuous when she's at eye level in the middle of the room.

As I opened the door, she immediately froze. She didn't move an inch, she just stood motionless as if she was in the middle of a jewel heist and the security guard was making his nightly wander through the halls. Completely motionless, she didn't blink. Her tail remained in exactly the same position, not the slightest hint of a wag. At this point I imagine she seriously believed I wouldn't notice there was a tri colored, four legged, mid sized dog with cornflakes on it's nose in the middle of the room.

I have given up on scolding the beagle for her food issues. I've come to accept that she is a beagle and therefore has absolutely no control over food. If we let her, the beagle would eat continuously, she has shown us this on a regular basis. The beagle has eaten an entire frozen chicken and nine donuts only to arrive at her bowl an hour later looking for dinner. I have had it explained to me by a vet, that beagles don't have the mechanism that others have, to tell them to stop eating. There's no trigger that says "I'm full"or "that's enough".

I think I might be a beagle.

I have just happily eaten four Ferrero Rocher's without even thinking about it. I could blame it on being sick, on having lost my voice and feeling a bit down but honestly - I reckon I could be as happy as a guy called Larry and still eat four Ferrero's and not think about it. I have no guilt, no shame and no problem with my Ferrero activities either. Is this wrong? I know I have friends that would find my chocolate overload a little piggy. Dare I say it. Distasteful (it wasn't, they were really yummy).

As I get older I notice that particular women around me are eating less. None of them are admitting to this, but I can see it. Plates are left half full, orders are cut to half serves. "I ate earlier" is often the excuse. There are two possible reasons for this, their appetites have inexplicably shrunk with age or they find that maintaining their weight is getting harder as they get older.

I understand that choosing the salad is a healthy option but it's more than that. I watch women scan their menus ruling out bread, potato, pasta, red meat, dairy, sugar and any other food that has been recently been labelled as toxic or unethical. "I'm not eating sugar" or "I'm not doing carbs" is a personal choice, but surely you can still eat? And are you going to be scanning the menu like this for the rest of your life? Surely, you can give yourself a break and allow those extra few pounds that come with age? Please tell me I'm not going to be 70 and still listening to women discussing their weight. When do we get old enough to get comfortable?

I think about Kate Moss and her words of "nothing tastes as good as skinny" and all I can think is Kate, you're eating the wrong food. How about a nice big breakfast at the markets with a really good coffee? Or a hearty slow cooked Moroccan lamb with a nice glass of red wine on a winters day. Fish and chips at the beach? A green curry with a glass of white (can you see a theme here). Pancakes in bed on a Sunday morning.

I love food but most of all, I love sharing food with friends. I'm not saying let's get together and eat like vikings returning from battle, but please, let's eat.

Introvert or Extrovert?

Years ago, when I used to get excited about psychometric testing and key performance indicators, I took part in a Myers Briggs workshop. In the nineties, Myers Briggs testing was as popular as the Scrunchie. In the world of Human Resources it was used as a recruitment tool, but for others it was akin to discovering your professional horoscope. Suits would stand in a pub on a Friday night and relay their newly acquired initials:

"I'm an E.N.T.P." one suit would proudly say.

"No way! I had you pegged as an I.N.F.J." said the other.

And then everyone would have four more beers and end up with exactly the same psychometric result of N.F.I. because they were all to D.R.U.N.K. to remember that the "J" stood for.

The recruitment industry attracts extroverts. So it was no surprise when halfway through our workshop the moderator divided introverts and extroverts to discover we were a little unbalanced. We had one solitary introvert in the office, who was now starting to question her career choice.

The moderator of the workshop saw it as an opportunity for the introvert to ask the extroverts some questions. "Think about your differences. Is there anything the extroverts do that you don't understand?"

She thought about it for a moment.

"Okay. Why do you need to talk all the time?"

I'm on day six of not having a voice and I'm not speaking metaphorically. On Friday morning I woke up with laryngitis and no hint of a voice. It is now Wednesday and there is still no sound coming out of my mouth. I've been instructed not to whisper and to avoid speaking at all. Did I mention I have four children?

The past six days have taught me many things, Ive discovered it's not just that I like to talk, it's that I NEED to talk. For an extrovert, not having a voice is a little like being banished to the naughty step, you can see and hear what everyone is doing - but you're not allowed to join in.

My voiceless life is making me lethargic and flat. Dare I say it, a little depressed. Can you be a little depressed? Okay, I move back and forth between stabby or miserable. On the upside, I've developed sign language for "the beagle is behind you and is about to eat your snack" and "get your finger out of the nutella jar or you will die". I've noticed a lot of my sign language to my children ends with "you will die" I find the melodramatic hand movements achieve the best results.

This week I have listened, I've nodded, I've smiled and I've frowned in five different ways. I'm not sure if I've laughed though, and if I did, it was silent laughing which just doesn't feel the same. Try it. I've stood with friends and thought "Shit, are you all REALLY this quiet or do I really talk THAT much?" And then worried for the rest of the day that I obviously speak too much. After standing for five minutes with a group, my girlfriend Lisa said "Okay, this is just weird, it's weird standing here with you and you're quiet". And she's right. It is weird.

Although I spend a big chunk of my day working from home in complete solitude, it appears that the moment I stop working, I'm talking. I'm talking to friends, to my family, to the woman in the supermarket and the man at the corner store. I strike up a chat with the guy at the petrol station, the man at the gym and the mother at the park. I love a chat. I don't think I'm loud, I just love to hear peoples stories.

Often there is the misconception that we extroverts are just chatty, overstimulated performers. The clowns in the group. The loud obnoxious guy with the Hawaiian shirt calling out "are we all having fun yet?" There's a little more to it. The extrovert needs to engage, but as much they like to talk, they need to hear from others. They want everyone to talk, not just themselves. When you talk to an extrovert you're providing them with an opportunity to recharge.

I can't remember what answer we gave our introverted colleague all those years ago, but I know what I would say now. We talk because we have to. We're energized by the energy of others. We need an interaction. We want to hear your story, we want to ask you questions. We need to have a giggle (out loud), we need to share. We need to know why you think the way you do. We don't need to do it all day, but we NEED it.

If you haven't watched Susan Cain's TED talk about Introverts, I promise you won't be disappointed, if you're an introvert or are close to someone who is an introvert you'll LOVE it. Susan Cain raises concerns that I share as to how our workplace, and in particular our schools are heading towards more of a group approach to learning. Even as an extrovert, I'm someone that requires a quiet place to think, and a cave to return to. I do it on a daily basis.

"The courage to speak softly"


How about you? Extrovert or Introvert?

The Age Gap.

My sister is six years older than me. This was an arguably convenient age gap for my working parents, but as far as my sister and I were concerned, it was redundant when it came to any form of fair and rewarding play. For the first six years of our relationship, in my sisters eyes, I was completely useless. For the following ten, I was mostly annoying and occasionally, on a good day, barely tolerable.

Growing up, she employed some strategies to deal with my vexatious behaviour. There was the time she asked me to say every swear word I'd ever heard so she could secretly tape me - she then played the tape to my Grandparents. Then there was the time she convinced me to walk in to one of my parents dinner parties, lift my shirt and shout "FLASHER". That one went down well. And of course there were the hundreds of times she threatened to physically abuse me for doing a range of things from breathing to standing in her room.

I thoroughly deserved it. Using a scale of one to ten for annoying little sisters, I would rate myself a solid eleven. I knew exactly how to push her buttons. My list of offenses is long. I'm not sure which event would be classed as my best? Maybe it was the time I set her room on fire when she was in the middle of a chronic asthma attack, or perhaps it was the time I went on a date with her to the drive-in. I can still picture the mixture of horror and disgust on her face as I begged my mother to let me go with them.

As you can imagine, the real winner in all of this was my mother. She adjudicated every argument, shut down every fight and begged for the whining to stop. On my mothers luckiest of days we would both turn on her and unite as one.

When we united, we were unstoppable.

When I was fifteen my sister was given the task of driving me home from boarding school. For four hours we talked, laughed, took the complete mickey out of each other and then somehow, became friends. It's entirely possible she may have let me have cigarettes and hot chips. We were Thelma and Louise, except I was wearing a maroon school uniform with fawn colored socks, matching knickers, and brown school shoes and she was driving a rusted out Kingswood with a really bad eighties perm.

When I was 16, she woke me up one morning with tears streaming down her face "I found him in bed with someone else". I handled it badly, I had no idea what to say, I suddenly felt sick and my heart hurt. I couldn't help her. I was too immature to be practical. So I sat outside her door with silent tears falling down my face as I listened to her cry. That's what sisters do when they can't do anything. They just stay by your side and wait for things to get better. Like labradors.

We've worked together, played sport with each other, got drunk together, giggled through each others weddings and to this day we continue to find ways to escape from my parents house and sneak off to the pub.

At my first child's sixth birthday, I stood with my 4th child in my arms. I had squished four babies into the same time that my own mother had produced two. I had a plan, I figured having them close, would make them close. I wanted them to look across the school yard and see each other. I wanted them to be mates.  And they are, (most of the time), but this is only the beginning. A snippet in time, compared to what comes next.

You never stop being a sibling. It's there forever. Those memories in the early years can take any shape, from friends to rivals to complete distance, but as adults we get to decide if we're there because we have to be, or because we want to be. My children have to spend time together, they have no choice. One day they will. And I hope they feel the same way about each other as I feel about my sister.

Happy Birthday for tomorrow Smelly Shelly.

Comments

I was reading an article on blog comments last month. Unfortunately I can't link to the article or copy and paste it for you, because I got half way through, stopped reading and moved on. It was an article written by a tech blogger informing me on why blog comments were redundant. I was going to write and ask the author about community and how he felt about sitting at his computer talking "at" people rather than "to" people, and then I remembered he was a tech blogger. And he didn't like comments.

I've tried to find the article again but I haven't had any luck, although in the process of looking I've found a few similar ones. Interestingly, all written by men, all stating the same issues, the main one being that comments just take up too much of their time. They all outline the arduous task of having to talk to someone who has a question and what a pain in the butt their audience can be when they start making demands. 

I realize that technical and business blogs are very different to news and personal blogs, but it got me thinking. I love reading comments, but I rarely comment myself. 

Waiting.

Waiting.

Nope. Safe. I thought the god of blogging may have just struck me down with my admission of sporadic commenting.

I can read something that is ground breaking and brilliant and not comment. Sometimes the better the piece, the more difficult I find it to comment, solely because I really can't think of anything to say that hasn't been said. Quite often I'll start to write "when you said..." and then realize it all sounds a bit lame. When someone has written of deep personal loss and grief "thinking of you" or "one day at a time" or the absolute worst "hugsxxx" just doesn't seem appropriate.

I had one of those moments today.

There was a piece on Mamamia today about a women who had lost her son to cancer. It was called "Learning to Live Again" the story may have been short, but its content was heartbreaking. It made me think of friends near and far, and the indescribable grief that comes with losing a child. I was wiping away the tears as I scrolled down to the comments and once again couldn't think of what to say. And then I saw this from a reader:

The only comfort I can give you is this -

My wonderful daughter nurses children with cancer and she and the vast majority of her colleagues are in no doubt about there being something on the other side.

For a time before they pass, very often a child will ask who the person in the room is (when no-one is there) or they’ll tell you that grandpa is talking to them or that a little child with a bald head has kissed them on the cheek.

Some nurses can feel, and sometimes see, the spirit who has come to take these babies home. Some of them get used to it – others don’t last long!

My daughter wasn’t raised in a particularly religious home and during her teenage years she thought that when you die that’s it but the half dozen years she’s spent in this ward has convinced her that these babies are not alone when they pass – there is always someone who comes to take them home and she says that most of her colleagues would agree.

I know that this isn’t going to fill your empty arms or mend your poor heart but I hope it gives you a little comfort. xx

I don't know if the author of the piece gained any comfort, but the sentiment felt incredibly genuine. "There is always someone who comes to take them home". 

They're not alone. It's okay. They're not alone. 


All comments are great. Some comments are worth copying, saving and reposting.

Comments are a gift. I've giggled and cried at stories that have been told via comments, both stories that have been very similar to my own and others that couldn't be further from daily routine. I couldn't imagine writing this blog without having you guys to talk to BUT I also know that many of you sneak in here each day and never comment - which is fine, I get it. You will when you have something to say.

Get ya knickers off.

Day three and I remain without a voice. I finally gave in yesterday and went to the clinic. I had a temp of 39, a throat that felt like it was coated in glue and the cough was just starting to gain momentum. The doctor placed her tongue depressor in my mouth, took two steps back, screwed up her nose and then threw the tongue depressor towards the bin. I wrote her notes on a piece of paper, she wrote notes back - until I reminded her that I could still hear perfectly well. As I left the doctor's office I sent G a text.

"I have laryngitis. Not to speak at all. 3 days of antibiotics, it's bacterial. I have 6 different forms of medication. Need lots of fluid. On my way home"

His reply?

"Can you still bonk?"

I promise you, I could have a mixture of leprosy and the pox and my husband would still wander by me in the kitchen, pinch me on the bum and say with a wink "I'll be looking for you a little bit later on tonight". There have been many times in this scenario that I have been nine months pregnant, had baby vomit on my shoulder or dressed in pajamas with last nights make-up half way down my face.

None of this deters him.

Mostly, I pretend that these comments annoy me, but to be honest, it's safe to say I quietly enjoy them. Particularly when life is at its height of ridiculousness, you know, when the children are arguing and there's no milk in the fridge and then you discover the dog has pee'd on the carpet. You have to have a bit of a giggle somewhere.

The reason I'm telling you this is for a little background. G loves to cook. Every weekend G will whip up something that not only tastes but also looks amazing. The grunt work (no pun intended) during the week, you know the boring as bat shit stuff (schnitzels, spaghetti and casseroles), remains my domain - but come the weekend, G will usually take a trip to the markets and throw something delicious together.

Along with each meal. Will come the inevitable question from G. His own little voting system. With a twinkle in his eye he'll ask;

"So, the meal. What do you think? Is it a get your knickers off dinner? Or was it just okay"

He became so impressed with his voting system at one stage he contemplated putting together his own men's cookbook. He would call it "This'll get her knickers off" and of course it would be full of his own well researched recipes.

This weekend it was creme brûlée.

For a girl with a sore throat he couldn't have done any better. I voted it a definite "Get ya knickers off meal". Unfortunately for G, the antihistamine had a different idea. I'd passed out by 8pm.

What do you think? Is the creme brûlée "get ya knickers off" worthy?

Chopsticks

The third little traveler enjoyed his role of the youngest child, and the only boy, for the first two and half years of his life. He was born into an ideal setting on the Mediterranean Sea in Malta.  My very generous in laws joined me for the first six weeks of his life - it was heaven. While they spent their days with the two girls at the park, on the bus, and by the beach, I got myself sorted out and marveled over the third travelers newness. I had the knowledge of two babies behind me, combined with the appreciation of the fact that this could be the last baby. I savored every minute of it.

The first little traveler would hover over the third, desperate for cuddles, the second little traveler at 15 months offered her help by throwing "gifts" in to his stroller and cot. There were many times that I would find a "gift" of a sippy cup or a wiggles guitar next to my newborns head. Those first six weeks were the calm before the storm. When we arrived back in Libya we were back to reality. No parents, no walks along the beach to the park. I remember sitting in my kitchen breastfeeding the third traveler while I spooned food in to the second travelers mouth, "can you come and wipe my bottom" screamed the first traveler.  I thought back to the view from our apartment in Malta.

Two and half years later we were living in Canada, and I was pregnant with number four. The third traveler was desperate for a brother. DESPERATE. To the point that I'm pretty sure if we arrived home from the hospital with another sister he may have packed up and moved out.

I must remember to remind him of that.

We went out for Japanese last night. It was a reward for the third little traveler, he was set a challenge and reached his goal, he asked for Tepanyaki, he wanted to sit up at the bar and watch the chef cook it. I went to take a picture of him and realized I had the video on, and then I became distracted by the fourth little traveler. He was chatting away to himself, he'd been told to put the chopsticks down but he was in his own little world - until he got bored and decided to see if he could get a rise out of his older brother.

I think this video captures the essence of siblings. I love it because the third little traveler has a moment where he could have taken the chopsticks and shoved them neatly into each eye of the fourth little traveler - but he didn't. The fourth little traveler looks in my direction with a look of pure naughtiness. It is his signature look. There is a moment where he contemplates trying to pinch the third little travelers nose and then decides against it. Wise decision buddy.

Voiceless

I have lost my voice. When I woke up this morning it was gone. It began with a sore throat yesterday at breakfast and ended with red wine and a couple of sneaky cigarettes at a dinner party last night (I know, I know - sneaky ciggies have to stop).

Henry Hotdog woke both G and I up with great urgency this morning and announced that he'd looked in the fridge and his 'cake in a cup' was gone. "It's goooown" he yelled.

Not knowing that the eldest little traveler had run her own version of junior master chef and everyone had made a 'cake in a cup' while we were out the evening before, we both took a moment to register. I opened my mouth to ask what he was talking about and nothing came out. G began to ask but was interrupted with a very melodramatic "You don't understand me - you never understand me". He slammed the door on his way out. He is five. He has more drama in his life than Judy Garland and Lindsay Lohan put together.

Within five minutes he'd found his 'cake in a cup', it was on a different shelf in the fridge than he thought. Immediately our little Sybil switched back to his chirpy self again.  In those 5 minutes he'd managed to find himself a Harry Potter cape, some gold rimmed round glasses and he'd drawn a scar on his forehead. In his mind he was now Harry Potter. He'd put a spell on a couple of Polly Pockets, unloaded two buckets of toys over the carpet and life was good.

Five minutes.

I can't help but wonder if this is the life of the fourth child. Don't bother taking time to discuss and request because no ones listening. Your voice is too small and it's too busy. Just scream, jump up and down, get everyone moving and then sit back and wait to see the action.

A few hours later when he knocked his leg quite badly on a bathroom cabinet and burst into tears he cried "it's awful being the smallest, I can't reach the toothpaste, I can't see the hand soap and everyone else can do it without trying". I wiped the tears from his eyes, straightened his glasses and carried him to my bed. He sobbed while I held him and then he stopped, looked me in the eye and said "I like your hair like that".

Switch. Moving right along.

We'd forgotten about the injury, we were now talking hairstyles. Without a voice I was forced to just sit and listen. We moved on to the mystery bag at school, the sausages we had for breakfast, and the hard core family issues such as the fact that he says "bye Fred" every morning to his brother but his brother just says "bye" and didn't I think he should say "bye Henry". He told me about the 72 year old author with grey hair that came to speak at school. How old do you think she'll get? I shrugged. Is 72 older than Granny? I nodded. How old will Granny get? I shrugged. What would we do without Granny? I shrugged, bit my lip and shook my head. Granny's not 72 for ages right? I nodded. His eyes opened as wide as they could when he told me that his friend had told him London has earthquakes and bad, bad floods and were we sure we wanted to go there later this month? I giggled and whispered "that's rubbish" and he smiled and said "I'll tell him he got it wrong, I'll tell him my Mum said that's rubbish".

And then it occurred to me that Henry Hotdog really didn't require me to speak all that much. And that it was highly possible that in amongst the homework, soccer practice and writing deadlines, this was the most listening I'd done with the Henry Hotdog all week.

"You don't understand me - you never understand me"

I'm listening.



And just incase you're wondering. Here's the recipe for the much coveted 5 minute 'cake in a cup'

4 tablespoons flour
4 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons cocoa
1 egg
3 tablespoons milk
3 tablespoons oil
3 tablespoons chocolate chips (optional)
A small splash of vanilla extract
1 large coffee mug (MicroSafe)

Add dry ingredients to mug and mix well.

Add the egg and mix thoroughly.

Pour in the milk and oil and mix well.

Add the chocolate chips (if using) and vanilla extract, and mix again.

Put your mug in the microwave and cook for 3 minutes at 1,000 watts.

The cake will rise over the top of the mug, but don't be alarmed!

Allow to cool a little.

Purdy

When I think of the little travelers as a group, there are possibly two things I love the most. The chats we have in the car and the enjoyment I get out of being able to observe them in their daily lives. Whether it's playing sport, taking part in a birthday party or just messing about with their friends. There's something incredibly beautiful about simple childish fun, watching the four of them dig a hole in the sand and seriously discuss the possibility of making their way to other side of the world, or seeing my two little girls, nose to nose, eyes as wide as saucers, deep in conversation about the flavour of the birthday cake.

I miss being a child. I miss cartwheels on the lawn and handstands up against the wall (so does G) - I'm joking! Seriously though, I miss how slowly time moved and how much fun a game of chasey in the school yard could be. Today I was reminded of that when I met a fabulous woman called "Purdy". As she was introduced this morning I immediately said "Oh Purdy, I LOVED Purdy!" I was thinking about Joanna Lumley playing the role in the Avengers. She was so cool. In my games of make believe in Grade Four I was always Purdy, I karate kicked and shot down anyone that got in my way. The more sophisticated of us at the table (not me) were thinking of Purdita a character from Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale. My new breakfast companion said that she was very pleased when Purdy from the Avengers came along as her name suddenly became a little cooler. I was suffering from name envy.

Sometimes names just don't translate though. 

A little later in the day I was getting the girls hair cut. I struck up a conversation with an American woman who had a very thick southern accent. She was really good fun. I love women from the South. I talk too much and tend to over share and it was for this reason I imagine that I felt the need to tell her that I'd had breakfast with someone called Purdy. And then I wistfully said "I used to be Purdy - back in the old days, in the school yard, I was Purdy".

"Why darlin - you're still pretty!" she said.

For a brief moment in time we stood staring at each other, crickets hummed, I blinked, she blinked and then I clicked and realized what she'd thought I'd said and nearly wet my pants in hysterical laughter. It wasn't just the Purdy/pretty thing. I had a little flashback.

I was thinking of Liam.

My Aussie girlfriend in Houston took her new son Liam on a journey that involved heading into the deep South in the US, they stopped at a cafe/restaurant for a break. A very nice woman enquired as to what Liam's name was. When my girlfriend told her the woman looked perplexed.

"Liam?"

"Yes, that's right - Liam"

This went on a few times until the woman finally said

"You mean like an arm and a leg limb?."

Said with an accent from the south Liam/Limb. Same.

Said with an accent from Ireland.

A whole different story.

Has anyone got your name wrong lately?