That's me, apparently.
It is a compliment. No, honestly. Cognate with Snoop Doggy Dogg, anything 'big' is good and no-one who is anyone is called by their right name. In short, it means She's all right, she lets us feed."
Oli, now sixteen, in possession of a creditable set of GCSEs and with more time on his hands than we can possibly afford, has taken to inviting his mates over during the day so that they can converse in the unintelligible patois of the young and grunt at each other in peace and quiet, not all mothers having the good taste to be out of
the house for hours at a stretch, leaving their kitchens to the mercy of The Crew.
Our lovely home, previously a haven of adult serenity, mostly contains a daily and perpetually hungry perm of Hayward, Gord, Chink, Beav, J' (the only way to shorten Joe's name whose parents – so thoughtless – didn't give him several syllables to be lovingly hand-mangled by his mates) and Oli, who has so many nick-names I occasionally wonder if I gave birth to quintuplets and if so, shouldn't I have had some more washing?
Henrik solves the Banzai Ridiculous Name Conundrum ("What silly idiot he called Crisk?") by referring to anyone under the age of 30 as Gerald and to their credit they all put up with it, although he mayn't realise that it's because he's absolutely ancient – prehistoric really – can only have days left, weeks at the most and given it's unlikely his grieving relict is going to want to mourn him by howling round Gloucestershire on a Honda Fireblade, this very desirable item may be available for use by several Geralds real soon now.
Having tried to sort them out by their shoes and given up, since one malodorous canoe looks much like another, I have developed a different formula for separating the Weave from the Chas.
Gord is a chocolate mousse man. Chink likes curry. Hayward will eat anything that is put in front of him as long as it's lots, J' will sit at the table with us, hoovering up the scoff and chatting animatedly, because he's a bright lad and is utilising his Life Skills (Dear Diary, today I spoke to Old People, I'm sure it will be of use....) and Oli...well love him as I do and ours though he is, I sometimes wish I hadn't passed on the hospitality gene and shown him how to make a fry-up.
Enter our kitchen and the first thing you'll come across is the fridge. Open it during the holidays and - no matter how often I fill it - it will be empty. It's as if Mrs Beeton has re-materialised from beyond in my absence and taken three dozen eggs, a pint of cream, most of a pig and......hang on a minute....unless the Shade of Isabella is experimenting with Sausage and Bacon Brulee for twelve this can only mean one thing. A weary glance at the sink will confirm my suspicions. Every piece of china has been eaten off and every implement employed. Fish slice, tongs, knives, meat bat, rolling-pin, cherry-stoner, more knives, wooden spoons – cherry-stoner???? I hardly dare peer at the cooker. It looks like a beached chunk of the Torrey Canyon. Seagulls are slopping around dejectedly in search of kitchen roll and washing-up liquid.
I can hear 'dunk dunk dunk' coming from afar. The lads have
considerately moved upstairs, tactfully allowing me time to wash up
enough crockery for what would pass as a good day in any 600-cover
restaurant and I see they have also moved their canoes far enough
away from the front door to allow the house plongeuse to take off
her apron and trudge to the supermarket for more supplies. They
should be able to listen to several more tracks of 'dunk dunk dunk'
before they need to feed again.
On a recent foray, I heard a voice shouting "Val! Val!" down the entire length of Cricklade Street. It was Gord. "Yo!" I shrieked back, idly wondering why he wasn't in our house, eating. I saw him turn to his mates, whom I didn't recognise and thought I saw him explain that it was OK, that was Big Val Dogg.
And I have to say that I was absolutely thrilled.
