J has become quite the young lady ("madam" some may say!)... when we arrived she was busy "doing her hair", which seemed to entail introducing lots of tiny plaits and ribbons into her poker straight, curtain of hair. She was quite shy at first, but after a few minutes asked B (who she relates to well) if he would teach her some more chess moves...the last time they'd been over at our house we'd brought out the board games to try and keep them occupied on a dismally wet day, and she'd shown a suprising interest in learning chess.
M latched onto me, insisting on showing me her bedroom, her books, her cut-out cardboard pirate ship covered in stickers of all sorts of things, including mermaids and cacti (desert island anyone?)...and 'her' Barbies. Turned out they are her sister's and she was not supposed to be playing with them...but "Grumpy Legs" took them from J's room and put them in hers. So, not her fault then...
I soon realised that "Grumpy Legs" (also known as "Grumpylex") is M's imaginary friend....he'd just turned up one day and has been making mischief ever since...
Did you eat the last biscuit, M? No...that was Grumpy Legs.
M, did you spill your water over the floor? Nope, Grumpy Legs was playing with the taps.
Who made a bad smell? Grumpy Legs farted! [Said with the great glee that all children dedicate to toilet humour... and followed up with the "belly-button does a fart trick" her not-always-so-ladylike older sister taught her]
Made me think I could sometimes do with a "Grumpy Legs" of my own, a kind of alter ego that could say the things I really want to say or do, but I know I have to bite my tongue and clench my fists close to my side....because I'm supposed to be a mature and responsible adult.
Take for example a little scenario that arose later that evening. B and I had decided to treat ourselves to a hotel for the night before the Christening. We'd ended up booking a beachfront hotel in Hastings...not our first choice but there was not a room left in Eastbourne as the pre-Wimbledon tennis tournament was underway.
After a good walk along the seafront and through the Old Town, we decided we'd go back to the hotel for a relaxing drink and dinner in their restaurant/bar. The other patrons seemed predominantly French...indeed we'd encountered quite a few in the town already and wondered why the place was so popular with our cross-Channel comrades. We'd speculated they must like Hastings, as it was the setting for former conquests (1066, The Normans and all that). Turned out most of the staff on duty were also partial to les escargots.
Not long after we'd settled down with a glass of red wine, we heard a slight altercation at the table close to ours. It transpired that Le Garcon had served his compatriots' wine....not in a wine glass....quelle horreur!...but in a tumbler! Turns out the staff had had a bit of an early run on wine orders and the dishwasher was on overtime. Not one to let such a gastronomic crime go unrebuked, the outraged Frenchman stormed up to the bar to protest...loudly..."I am French...and to serve me wine like that is an offense!"
Of course it would have been fine to serve it to a 'rosbif'(Brit)....hell, we're happy with a straw in a bottle... or even a trough on the floor!
All right mate, keep your hair on...
Quite a bit later we realised that we'd been waiting an awfully long time for our food...and that there was a plate of something that looked suspiciously like one of our meals rapidly cooling on the side of the bar. Even later, after finally managing to lock eyes with Le Garcon (who was scurrying about no doubt looking for more wine glasses) said plate was brought to our table...but without cutlery and without my food order. The darn dude made a rapid retreat before we could even query the absence of either. I was itching to go up to the bar and say loudly (purely for the benefit of Les Francais)....."Excuse me old bean, hate to bother you and all that...but I have a slight problem....you see, I am English and I eat with cutlery...and typically, I enjoy my meal at the same time as my husband!"
But of course, I didn't....instead B went up to the bar and discreetly queried what had happened to my meal and whether cutlery was supplied. Apparently there had been a mix-up with the order (they'd assumed I wasn't eating....wonder if that's a subtle hint I need to go on a diet)... and I only got my food well after B had devoured his (I did tell him not to wait!).
Did we cause a fuss? Course not....we're English! Stiff upper lip and all that.....
Where's Grumpy Legs when you need him though?
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