I’m Jake Breadman

AKA Man Cannot Live on Bread and Marmite Alone

Zsuzsa is away in Madrid, leaving me as a one-man parenting army, but so far I’m making a mockery of those who moan about the difficulties of single parenthood.  Lola has only gone to nursery once in just her tights, the cat’s were utterly delighted with their meal of the previous night’s chicken drumsticks when we ran out of cat food, and I’ve been surviving solely on one of the finest foods on the planet, marmite and cheese sandwiches.  There was one slight wobble when I forgot to put the bins out on bin-day, but nothing a latenight, stealthy redistribution of rubbish into all of my neighbours bins couldn’t solve.  

There’s only one draw back of feasting on marmite and cheese sandwiches morning, noon and night, and that is that it can leave you feeling a bit bready and yeasty, but surely that’s a small price to pay for dining like a king?  Plus, if needs be you can simply run it off, which is where our story starts.  With our hero (me) on a run, bounding around South East London like some kind of Welsh-English gazelle with Hungarian citizenship.

As I run, I’m thinking about whether or not I should start running seminars or web-chats, guiding and counseling others who may not be as uber-skilled as I, if forced to solo-parent for two or more days, when I find myself standing outside the home of one of my oldest friends.  I glance through his front window and spot the silhoutte of his midlife-crisis man-bun.  My eyes widen with glee as a most wondrous idea hits me.  What if I call him, while standing outside his house!?  He’ll see it’s me calling, answer the phone, curious at to why I’m calling, at which point I’ll tell him to glance to his left. Our eyes will then meet and we will both roar with delight at the shock of him seeing me! This is going to be brilliant! Giggling in anticipation, I call his number.

Ring, ring.  Ring, ring. Ring...(silence).

Hmmm. There must be some kind of signal issue in the area.  

I try again.

Ring, ring.  Ring, ring. Ring...(silence).

So odd.  

I decide to give it one last try.  One final roll of the dice.  

Ring...(silence).

I stand there, starring at his man-bun silhoutte for a moment, then it hits me.  The shit has dropped my call! I’m...I’m Jake Breadman!

Jake who, I hear you cry?  Well be careful what you cry for, for Jake Breadman is a man who haunts my dreams.  Jake Breadman is a soul-crushing demi-gorgon, a relentless demonic hunter who absolutely will not stop moving towards his prey while there is still blood pulsing through his veins.  Jake Breadman is, of course, a salesman who works for a kitchen company.  Before Christmas we popped in on a whim to talk about getting a new kitchen and that tiny whiff of a hint of a rumour of a morsel of an opening, was all Jake needed.  We were his!  Since that moment he’s been haranging me, stalking me, hunting me, calling with savage regularity to try and get me to buy a kitchen.  I obviously try not to answer his calls, but does Jake care?  Jake does not!  He clings onto my trail with the persistence of a particularly nasty case of psoriasis. In an ideal world there would be an anti-Jake Breadman cream that could be simply applied to get rid of him, but as we all know, this is not an ideal world.  There have been the odd moments of weakness when I have accidentally answered the phone to Jake, usually when my phone has decided to play a game of jeopardy with me, presenting me with a caller ID that says simply, ”Maybe Jake Breadman?”.  And on those odd moments of weakness my brain has conspired with my phone to trick me.  ”But what if it’s not Jake Breadman?” I’d think. ”What if it’s actually Steven Spielberg ringing to say that he’d love to turn The BudaNest into a feature film and that Duane ”the Rock” Johnson is lined up to play yours truly?” and nervously I answer.  

”Hi Gareth!  It’s Jake.  Jake Breadman!”  

Shit.

But more often than not I don’t answer the phone to Jake Breadman, just as my dear friend has just done to me.  And as I stand there, like a stalker on a street peering through a window, my imagination begins to run away from me.  What if our friendship of nearly thirty years is all just a sham?  What if everytime he sees my name on his caller ID, his heart sinks, he sighs and he wishes there was an anti-Gareth cream.  Hang on!  I’ve always thought he was an incredibly hard person to get in contact with, but what if it’s just me and that he answers everyone elses calls and returns everyone elses messages almost instantly!?  Wait!  Zsuzsa hardly ever answers my calls either, claiming that she doesn’t have her phone on her 24/7.  I’ve always considered this as just a sly dig that I do always have my phone on my 24/7, but what if she also thinks of me as Jake Breadman!  Is that all I am to my beloved pygmy wife?  A touch of hard to shake off psoriasis!?  Can I possibly be that annoying?  Could I possibly be that utterly tedious? Could I be that dry and itchy?

At this moment of existenial crisis, a postman appears and approaches my friend’s door.  I watch as he rings the bell.  I stand there, mind-racing.  I see my friend’s man-bun silhoutte get up and move towards the front door.  The door opens, the postman hands my friend a parcel and then he sees me standing outside his home, phone in hand.

”Gareth!  Sorry, I’m on a meeting.  Can’t chat now. I’ll call you later, yeah?”

”No worries I say.  Speak to you later.” I respond with a smile and a nod. Deep down I’m still sceptical that my life as I know it could all be just a fascade, but I decide to shove that thought away into a little box until maybe 3am.

I turn and continue my jog.

About ten minutes later, as luck would have it my phone rings.  I stop and take my phone out of my pocket.

”Maybe Jake Breadman?” reads the caller ID.

Of course it does.

I drop the call.

You may get me one day, Jake Breadman, but not today, sunshine. Not today.

Janet

AKA Gareth vs Predator

Clad in my hunting dressing gown

I have a new mortal enemy.  She lives a couple of doors down, her name is Janet and she is a colossal bastard.  She is also a cat. Janet the cat.

I call her El Bastardo as I don’t want my children to understand the constant vomit of filth that her very mention brings forth from my mouths. Although thinking about it, Mila is learning Spanish so it’s only a matter of time before she not only understands what El Bastardo means, but also corrects me by saying that I should be using the feminine name and calling her La Bastarda.  Maybe I need to think of an alternative language version.  Maybe I should instead refer to her as ‘Mwanaharamu’.  That should solve things until she decides she’d quite like to learn Swahili.

Anyway, Janet/El Bastardo/La Bastarda/Mwanaharamu.  Why do I loath her so?  Why is she my Moriarty?  Well, the answer is simple.  We have two young kittens, Zigi and Pom-Pom, and Janet has made it her mission in life to terrorise the poor little mogs.  She lurks in the bushes and watches, like a black, furry, green eyed Bill Oddie.  And then, when they are least expecting it, she pounces, causing my terrified young cats to run for their dear lives.

“Who is Bill Oddie?” interrupts Zsuzsa.

“Oh, he’s a famous British naturist.” I reply, aghast that Bill Oddie hasn’t made it to superstardom in Hungary, especially when I consider that last week I discovered that my wife used to have a Samatha Fox badge when she was a child.

“How can you be famous for being naked?”

“Um. Maybe it’s naturalist? “ I reply “A bird watcher.  A twitcher.  He watches birds from bushes and stuff like that.”

“And does he attack them, like Janet?”

“I don’t think so, but then again, who knows what really happens once the camera stop rolling.”

So Janet has been making Zigi and Pom Pom’s lives miserable, leading to me taking up arms and becoming a vigilante.  I say, taking up arms, what I mean is purchasing a pump-action water pistol  and sitting on a chair in my garden, waiting, like some kind of Deep South catfish fisherman.  When I’m not on a chair in my garden, I can be found prowling in the small woods behind our house, fully-loaded with tap water, hunting Janet the bastard.  If the neighbours were to look out of their bedroom windows at the right moment, it’s possible that they would think that they were witnessing a live action remake of Predator, with me as Arnie, and Janet playing the alien beast.

“Why you have that, Daddy?” asks Lola, pointing at my water filled weapon.

“To shoot Janet.” I reply.

“Why you want to shoot Janet? responds Lola, like a miniature, round faced, less pompous Jeremy Paxman.

“BECAUSE I HATE HER!” I want to reply, but instead say “To stop her scaring Zigi and Pom Pom.”

“Why does she scare Zigi and Pom Pom, Daddy?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe it’s territorial.”

“Why don’t you know, Daddy?”

“Because I don’t speak cat.”

“Why?”

And this, fyi, is why I often spend a long time on the toilet.

It’s a few days later and Lola has finally stopped grilling me.  I’m sitting at my desk pretending to work when a primordial screech interrupts Jeremy Vine on Radio 2.  I instantly recognise the screech.  I’ve heard it before.  It’s a screech that my beloved miniature wife only makes when Janet has been spotted on our grounds (garden).  Imagine a howler monkey on helium, warning other howler monkeys that a harpy eagle is close.  Imagining it?  Yeah, that’s the noise.

I spring into action, bound through the house, grab my weapon and raise it at Janet.  We lock eyes momentarily and I think I see something in Janet’s eyes.  It’s a look that says, “We may always be mortal enemies, but my God man, I respect you!”  For a split second we are De Niro and Pacino facing off over a coffee in Heat.  We are Reeves and Swayze locking eyes after a chase scene in Point Break. Then it’s back to business.  I fire tap water with everything I’ve got as Janet turns and flees.  It narrowly misses her, so I give chase, moving through the garden with great purpose and stealth.  As I do so, I can’t help but notice that my trousers have started to fall down, but in the heat of battle I do what any great warrior would do and keep going, trousers around the ankles, waddling through the garden.  I fire one last round as Janet disappears over the fence.  She has escaped.  I look to the heavens and fire into the air in anguish, then slowly turn around and waddle back into the house.

I’m pulling my trousers up as I enter the house.  Lola is there, watching.

“Why are your trousers down, Daddy?”

For a fleeting second I consider whether or not to shoot her in the face with my water pistol, but then sigh, pat her on the head and head to the toilet.

Once Upon A Mime

AKA - Apocalyptic Tales for Kids

I’m on a plane in Budapest, getting ready to hurtle through the air to London, when my phone pings.  It’s a message from my beloved pygmy wife who is back in our London nest with our sometimes-adorable spawn.

“Did you get it?”

This is just between us for now okay, but I did not get it.  And if you are wondering what “it” is, “it” is anally inserted medicine for kids, obviously.  The rationale behind why we need it is that Lola has a fever and good old fashioned oral British medicine just won’t ‘çut the mustard’ for my delectable Hungarian spouse.  It simply won’t, because Zsuzsa, like seemingly most Hungarians, is a massive advocate, as far as kids are concerned, of the anus being the best entry point when administering medicine, or indeed thermometers (as I once discovered to my utter horror whilst orally testing out a thermometer that unbeknownst to me had only seconds early been where the ‘sun don’t shine on’ my infantile daughter).

“It’s the quickest way to bring down their temperature.” Zsuzsa had explained, although for the life of me I cannot understand how that could work. Surely it’s further away from the steaming hot forehead? “It’s also far easier to give them when they’re asleep”, she’d insisted, although I still have flashbacks of struggling in vain to pop one into my sleeping, but very non-compliant baby daughter in the pitch dark on one sleep deprived night.  On this particular occasion I think it would’ve have been easier to put a bow-tie on an eel, so I’m far from convinced by this statement.

But, although I don’t really understand this anally focused thinking, that’s not the reason why I am not bringing any back to good old blighty. No, the reason is I know how this ends.  It ends in my abject humiliation at the very least.  To explain, let’s take a look a couple of items that I’d like to submit into evidence.

EXHIBIT A

It’s the summer of 2016, our eldest has just been born and Zsuzsa has just asked me to pop out and rent her a breast pump. “No problem” I’d replied and off I’d enthusiastically bounded to hunt down this magical pump, momentarily forgetting that back then I didn’t speak a word of Hungarian.  The following hour or so consisted of me miming milking tits to puzzled, elderly Hungarian ladies, and to be honest I think I’m still suffering PTSD as a result. 

EXHIBIT B

On another occasion I wanted to buy a towel in Budapest, hit a language barrier in a store and then tried to solve it by miming drying my perineum (seemed like a good idea at the time) to a bamboozled looking sales-lady. 

As a consequence of both exhibits A and B, I’ve since tried to minimise situations where miming may be involved, especially those that could lead to my incarceration (anally inserting medicine mimes surely have to fall within that category).

So, I do not have it, but I’m not yet ready to tell my wife. I decide to distract her.

“How are the girls?” I skilfully retort.

“Lola had a bad night, but Mila’s ok. I’m sooooo tired. Can you ask the pilot to get a move on?” Comes the reply a few moments later.

Aaaaaaaaand relax

Bless.  I’ve only been away for two nights on business, but I bet Zsuzsa’s had an absolute ‘mare.  If it had been me looking after both girls for the weekend on my tod, there’s no doubt that screen-time would have exceeded the recommended level.  And I say this even though we’re consciously trying to minimise it now, after I caught Lola watching a YouTube documentary on a nuclear holocaust. “I want to watch Peter Rabbit” she’d exclaimed while handing me the device. “I no like this”.  And it’s not just Lola, Mila has started to finish some sentences with “…remember to subscribe to our channel!”.  As well as this, a few days ago Mila also asked me, while I was explaining to her how the UK has about seven times as many people as Hungary, when the hunters were coming to solve the population problem by killing lots of the humans.  We’ve no idea where she got this from.  She insists it was from a film that we watched together, but I’m 99% confident that I’ve never sat down and watched Predator with her.  So, we’re trying to cut down on screen-time, but desperate times call for desperate devices.

Another ping.

“So?  Did you get it?”

Hmmm. Tricky customer this one. Not so easily distracted. I realise that I need to try a new strategy.

“Cabin crew prepare for departure”. Booms a muffled pilot over the tannoy.

“Sorry honey.   About to fly.  Love you. Can’t wait to see you. x”

I pop my phone on flight mode, sit back, relax and prepare for a rare solo flight.  After all, surely it’s nothing that a few airport purchased gifts and some orally administered Calpol, bought on the way home can’t cure.

Turning Hunganese

We’re renovating our house and I’m scraping wallpaper off a wall, when one of the construction guys arrives and asks how I am.

“Well, to be honest my hands are really hurting.  I keep catching them on this wall and my knuckles are starting to bleed.”

I stop for a moment, but then realise that I’m not done.

“I mean, there’s just so much to do and so little time to do it so maybe I’m rushing. But I’m a bit stressed that we’re not going to get the place ready in time.  I don’t know.  I didn’t get much sleep last night, so maybe I just need a proper nights sleep.”

The construction guy stares at me blankly.

“I’ve bought these gloves to try and stop my fingers from getting too bashed up, but I don’t think it’s working too well. Look at the state of them.”

I take a glove off and wave a battered knuckle at this man I barely know.

“You think I need different gloves?”

The guy shrugs.

“I’ll be okay. Just got to battle through, you know, but it’s tough.  I’ve had better days.”

“Uh huh.” says the construction guy, smiles weakly and wanders-off.

I turn back to the wall and carry on scraping wallpaper, but then a moment later I freeze.

What just happened!?

I playback through the previous couple of minutes in my mind to try and make sense of it, but try as I might, I can find no other explanation.

I’m becoming Hungarian!

Let me explain.  This is not how a good old fashioned Brit should have answered if someone had asked how they were. If someone enquired as to how their day was going, no matter how it was actually going, a Brit would say something along the lines of “not too bad”, then they’d both nod, smile and carry on with their own business. Even if it was a truly shocking day and they’d just been told that their home had been burnt to a crisp and that a neighbour had punched their kitten in the face, a likely response would be “Good.”  Or, if a Brit was having a truly spectacular day and was literally zip-a-dee-doo-dah through the daisies with joy, they might even say “yeah, alright”, but anything else even remotely touching on the truth? Don’t be daft.  

Hungarians on the other hand will always tell you EXACTLY how they feel and to be honest, they rarely seem to feel that things are going well for them. I first realised this at a wedding just outside of Budapest.  I was sat next to a guy who I vaguely knew and foolishly asked him how he was.  Thirty minutes later, having found out all about how badly his job was going, his inner thinking as to why he was finding it so hard to have a successful relationship, and just how he loathed his life in general, I’d learnt a valuable lesson.  Don’t ask a Hungarian how they are unless you really want to know. This lesson was then reinforced a couple of years later when a stranger started making small talk with me in a sauna, In a moment of weakness I asked him how he was and then almost boiled in the sauna heat as he regaled an epic tale of his daughter’s divorce. To clarify, I did not know this man.

A few hours later and I’m taking my sore knuckles to nursery to collect my youngest, Lola.  I ask her how her day was?

She thinks for a moment, contemplating a suitable response.

“Yes playing. No painting. No drawing. Yes potato. No beans. Yes fighting. Yes crying.” she responds, taking me through her absolute rollercoaster of a day

FYI, everyday she tells us “No beans”.  Lola does not like beans.

“Yes crying?” I ask.

“Yes. I been sad.” Lola pulls a sad face just incase I’d failed to grasp the gravitas of her despair.

Check.  Lola is Hungarian.

We both go to the school and collect our eldest, Mila.  I ask her the same question.

“How was school, Mila?”

“Good.” she says.

I nod, we smile and walk home in near, good old fashioned British silence.

Bubble For One

It’s two days after my birthday and I’m alone in a bubble in a forest in deepest, darkest Hungary. The trip is a gift from my wife who is also supposed to be with me, but thanks to an unavoidable double booking she can’t join me for a couple of days.  As I sit alone in my transparent orb, I can’t help but think that this sounds like a great premise for a horror story.  The synopsis might go a little something like this…

After unexpectedly finding himself alone in a bubble, a heroic half Welshman/Englishman/Hungarian dual citizen has to bravely and single handedly defend his bubble from a gang of slack jawed, deviant local cannibals, armed with nothing but his bare wits and a pair of flip-flops.  Can he hold them at bay for two whole days until reinforcements (my pygmy wife) arrive, or will he succumb and end his days as the protein in a rustic goulash soup?

Maybe I’ll have to write the script for this at some point, but anyway, this isn’t the only birthday gift that I have been given by my kindly wife.  To find out what other treasures have been bestowed upon me, let’s travel back in time, all the way to two days ago.

(BLACK AND WHITE FLASHBACK)

It’s midday two days ago (otherwise known as my birthday) and I’m on my way to a massage parlour in Budapest.  Zsuzsa has booked a relaxing “oil massage” for me, and my tired limbs are looking forward to being kneaded.  A kneading is needed.

I arrive at the Thai massage parlour and I’m pointed in the direction of a door.  I enter and look around.  Hmmm.  A small dark room with a mattress on the floor.  It looks uncannily like the kind of place that Al Queda might use to imprison hostages, but I shrug and ready myself for kneading.

Within a few minutes I’m lying on the mattress in my underpants. A small Thai lady enters.  She says something inaudible and then whips off my underpants.  

“Er.” I mutter, but then decide to ignore it.  After all, I’ve been to German spas where it’s obligatory to wander around with your bits n’ bobs on display.  Maybe she’s a fan of the German, acres bits n‘ bobs style?  The oil comes out and the little Thai lady sets to work me as though I’m a slab of wagyu beef.

About forty minutes in and the silence is interrupted by dubious groans and moaning from the room (aka cell) next door. “Wow!”  I think. “The guy next door must be getting an incredible massage!  Lucky guy!”

A few minutes later and I’m now lying on my back with a small towel strategically placed across my modesty.

“Shall I massage that now?” asks the Thai lady, pointing directly at my…my modesty.

…

“Er, what?” I ask.

“Shall I massage that?” she repeats.

I glance up at my underpants hanging on a coat hanger.  I hear another groan from next door.  I look at the Thai lady’s pointing finger. 

CLICK!

I’m Chazz Palminteri in The Usual Suspects watching the mug fall to the ground and smash, as Kaiser Söze leaves the building. I’m Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense as the wedding ring falls.  I’m Mark Hamill screaming “Noooooo! at his evil daddy”.  I’m Charlton Heston on a beach cursing towards the heavens.   I’m a guy in a naughty massage parlour.

“Er, no.” I replied.

Queue awkward silence.

(COLOUR RETURNS)

So back to my bubble.  What does a guy whose wife has accidentally sent him to be sexually molested for his birthday do when all alone in a bubble in the forest?  He pours himself a drink, picks up his laptop and begin to write. 

It’s two days after my birthday and I’m alone in a bubble in a forest in deepest, darkest Hungary…

Zog and The Sexy Shorts

I’m a bit worried that my shorts are too sexy. 

I know what you’re thinking.  I haven’t updated you on our life for more than a year and then I hit you with that absolute bombshell!  And to be quite frank, you’re not sure you’re ready to handle this red-hot, sizzling information.  But there it is.  These shorts are outrageously sexy and you’ll just need to deal with it.  I’d share a photo with you, but this is a family show.  The best I can do to paint a visual image in your head.  Imagine a raunchy pair of baggy, tatty, ripped shorts, made even raunchier when you catch them on a chair in a government office whilst applying for a passport and then rip the back almost completely open when you go to stand up.  Oh yes.  Stratospheric phwoar-levels.  If you need to lie down for a minute at this point, feel free.

“Are these shorts too sexy?” I ask Zsuzsa as we stroll through Buda on a barmy Friday eve?

“No.” She replies bluntly.

Bless her.  She’s pretending that they aren’t insanely sexy so as to avoid me feeling self-conscious.  Just one of the many reasons that I love her so.

It’s now the next day and we’re sitting by a pool in the middle of a forest in the Buda hills.  The kids are staying with the Hungarian grandparents and we’re making the most of our kidless free-time.  La dolce vita! I’m still wearing my sexy shorts by the way.  I know that’s what you were about to ask. 

La Dolce Feet-a

“I think I’m going to write some more Budanest stuff.” I announce.  “I think it’s been more than a year.  I’ve just been so busy what with kids, work, pandemics, launching sustainable start-ups and whatnot.  It’s just been so hard to find the time, you know?  What do you think?”

“I think that family over there were here when we came here last year.” comes Zsuzsa’s somewhat left field reply. “I remember because I thought at the time that the lady looked a bit like Zog”.

I look over and she’s right.  The lady does look uncannily like Zog.  I’d take a photo to prove it to you, but I think taking unsolicited photos of ladies in swimsuits who look like Zog are frowned upon in these parts.  Especially as she’s also breastfeeding. You’re just going to have to imagine the children’s character, Zog the dragon, in a swimsuit, breastfeeding. 

I continue.

“I just think Lola might be a bit pissed off if I don’t write much about her early years.  I mean, Mila has a whole book about her first year!  Lola will just have a pamphlet at this rate.”

“Should we share a beer?” asks Zsuzsa.

Sometimes I think that Zsuzsa doesn’t listen to me, but then I remember that ladies are wonderful at multi-tasking.  She’s obviously absorbing everything I’m saying with great interest, but using the other half of her brain to mentally place ladies who lookalike Zog or ponder life’s great questions like whether of not we should share a beer.  

Again, unperturbed,  I continue.

“And the Lola inspired pamphlet will cover her first eighteen years unless I get a shift on!  And I mean it’s not like I have a shortage of things to write about.  I’ve got a million of things!  Stories about us trapped at home during lockdown; or the time she announced loudly to everyone swimming around her that she was taking a piss; or how she loves to sing Vindaloo by Fat Les; or how she’s freakishly good at racket sports; or how she flicks her hair out of her face like she’s David Ginola in a L’Oreal advert; or how she turns into an absolute banshee when she doesn’t get her own way. So many things to write about!  I really should get cracking, shouldn’t I?  And I know we’re both incredibly busy and incredibly tired, but I owe it to her don’t I? What do you think?  Honey?…Honey?”

I look up and notice that Zsuzsa is at the bar, the multi-tasking little maestro!  I shrug and make a decision.  I will start writing Budanest stuff again!  I will find the time, even if I need to pump myself full of caffeine and write in the wee hours of the morning.  Goddamnit, I will do it!  But what should my first comeback piece be about?  So much material to choose from.  Hmmm.

I shrug, lie back, basking in the baking hot Budapest sun and carry on wondering if my shorts are too sexy.

Oh Deer

AKA - Here Comes The (Veni)Sun

We’re in the midst of lockdown, but like a family of rebellious Steve McQueens fleeing naughty Nazis, we’ve escaped our prison and are currently bombing through the mountains on our motorbike (aka Volkswagen Touran).  But oddly I don’t feel liberated and carefree.  I’m too worried.  I’m too worried about Bela.

“What’s up honey?” asks Zsuzsa, noticing the worry lines adorning my elongated forehead.

“I’m worried about Bela.” I reply, but of course you already know that.  “Do you think she’ll be alright?  I forgot to leave her some food.  Can she survive for three days without food?”

In case you were wondering, Bela is our pet sourdough starter.

“She’ll be fine honey.  She’s in the fridge, right?”

“Yeah, she’s tucked up safely in the fridge.”

“Then stop worrying.  She’ll be fine.  She loves it in the fridge!”

But it’s no use.  I still feel like an irresponsible parent.  I still feel like some reckless father who leaves his baby home alone to fend for themselves, hungry and scared.  I still feel like Jacko holding a baby in a blanket over a balcony.

Zsuzsa sees this, gives my knee a reassuring squeeze and repeats.  “She’ll be fine.  It’s just a few days”

I’ve been raising Bela now for a couple of months, nurturing her, tending to her needs, kneading her into dough, and she’s been responsible for producing several strapping your loafs.  She’s good like that is Bela.  In many ways we’ve turned into complete lockdown cliches.  We get up, feed our sourdough starter, prance around to Joe Wicks as a family, entertain the kids for hours, taking it in turns to have brief breaks to stare at the wall, go to sleep, rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat, ad infinitum.  We’re coping, but that said, this weekend escape is a very much needed respite for our sanity.

The sun has now set as we mend our way though the rugged Hungarian mountains.  The girls are both sleeping soundly in the back of the car and conversations have now moved on to my lockdown weight.

“I just feel as though I’ve put on at least five kilos of covid in the last month.  Do I look like I’ve put on loads of covid?” I ask.

“No honey.  You look great.”

“Are you sure?  Do you think my clothes have just shrunk or something?”

“I’m sure.  Besides, once this is over we can get back to our normal selves.”  replies Zsuzsa.

“So you don’t think I look like my normal self?”

“You do.  I didn’t mean it like that.”

“What did you mean then?”

“You look great.  Just…”

“Just what!?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on.  Spit it out.”

“Well if we had put on a few kilos it wouldn’t be a huge surprise. All we do is stay at home eating sourdough!”

“Don’t bring Bela into this!  It’s not her fault!  Plus what about Joe Wicks!  We’re forever prancing around to Joe Wicks, pretending to be kangaroos or frogs or whatnot!”

“Deer.”

“What, sweetheart?”

BANG!

We crash into a deer at 60 mph.  It’s a huge collision. The car is okay but for a few bumps and bruises, but sadly the deer is a right-off.  The girls both sleep through the entire, grizzly ordeal.

Both in shock, we drive on in silence.  Eventually I decide it’s time to speak.

“Shit.” I say.

“Shit.” says Zsuzsa.

“It was so dark!  It just sprung out of nowhere!”

“I know.  There was nothing you could do.”

The next day, at Zsuzsa’s parents house, her mother serves us venison stew (from a different deer Zsuzsa is insisting I mention).  I decide that staring at walls in our lockdown home isn’t so bad after all.

MS FERENCZ TO SERVE

AKA - Hungarians Don’t Play Rugby

Out of the corner of my eye I spot Lola waddling towards me, big grin stretched across her chubby, spherical face.

“Daddy!” she adorably squeals and my heart instantly melts into goo.

Then I notice something.  Her nappy.  It seems to be a bit low.  A bit bulgy.

“Hmmm.” I think, then cast my eye towards the direction that she’s waddled from.  She’s been in the kitchen with Zsuzsa.  I narrow my eyes at my wife suspiciously, but she purposefully avoids my gaze.

“HMMM.” I think, but this time I think it louder.

Within seconds Lola is within sniffing distance and my worst fears are confirmed.  

It is a shit.  

Just to make one thing clear, no matter what anybody ever tells you, cleaning up anyone’s shit, even your own child’s shit, is always soul destroying.  The aroma, the texture, just…everything.  I don’t like it, and if you’re fine with handling shitty nappies, well, you’re clearly a psychopath.

But you see, the thing is, this particular shit, there’s no way Mummy didn’t notice it.  She may be acting the innocent, but she knew what she was doing.   I see you wife.  I see you.  I’m well aware that you’ve just deliberately served me a shitty nappy.  

Lola arrives at my side and gives me a big hug, but I’ve got no time for affection here.  I have a nostril rasping serve to return!

I lean into Lola, gently take her by the shoulders, begin to turn her and whisper “Look what Anya (Mummy) is doing over there!  Go and see Anya!”  I give her an encouraging little shove and off she waddles, back towards the kitchen, giggling with glee, her horror show of a nappy in hot pursuit.

As I watch her go, I can’t help but admire the quality of my return.  I feel like Andre Agassi in his pomp, swatting a Sampras thunderbolt back down the line with interest.  I then notice Zsuzsa spot Lola approaching, and as I witness her tiny, almost undetectable look of dread, a lovely warm feeling engulfs me.  Take that Ferencz!

But alas, the warming sense of victory doesn’t last long.

It begins to fade as I watch Zsuzsa steady herself, whisper in Lola’s ears, gently put her hands on her shoulders, turn and nudge.  

There it is.  The cross court backhand. We’re officially in a shitty-Lola rally.

I position myself to return her backhand, but then…

“Honey.”  says Zsuzsa nonchalantly.  “Can you check Lola’s nappy?”

The unexpected top-spin catches me off-guard.  

And just like that, I know that I’m beaten.  She’s outdone me, as there’s no way that I can actually reveal that we both know Lola has shat her pants.  It’s against the unwritten rules of parenthood.  

GAME, SET, MATCH FERENCZ.

No, I just have to take this one on the chin (not literally, I’m not a maniac.) and hope that next time it’s a game of Lola touch rugby.  Hungarians don’t play rugby.

The Quaranteeners

AKA How to Survive The Apocalypse…With Kids

“Happy quarantine birthday to you”

“I think my acid reflux is coming back a bit.”  I say.  “Feeling a bit belchy”

I know what you’re thinking.  As opening lines go, can it get any sexier?

“Then why are you drinking?”  Zsuzsa replies.  “You know alcohol isn’t good for it!”

“Why am I drinking?”

“Yes.”

“Why am I drinking!?” I repeat for emphasis.

“Er, yes."

“I’m drinking, because I’m trapped in a flat in Budapest with two children during the biggest global viral pandemic for more than a century, and I have dubious health cover.”

Zsuzsa shrugs and wanders off, probably towards our kitchen to sneakily down another cheeky shot of palinka.  Yeah I’m on to you sugar pie!  Don’t think these eagle eyes haven’t noticed that you’re seeking sanctuary at the bottom of an alcoholic beverage too!

I imagine many of you out there are also currently sharing our desire to drink heavily through this tedious apocalypse.  And I’m not talking to you lot out there who are stuck at home on your own, or with a partner.  I don’t want to hear a single whine from you lot, you lucky, lucky bastards, so take your pity collection pots elsewhere!  You lot can stay in bed till mid-afternoon, binge watch Netflix from cover to cover, learn how to make exotic meals, partake in the odd spot of rumpy-pumpy, learn frigging Japanese if you want to!  No, I’m talking to those of us in society who are currently imprisoned with our children.  Let’s call us, The Damned.  

We love our kids with all our hearts, we care for them, we adore spending time with them, we’d take a bullet in the eye for them if push came to shove.  That’s never in doubt.  But, oh mighty Satan, everyday is like Groundhog Day!  Simply replace Sonny & Cher on the radio, with tiny feet kicking you awake at six in the morning, or little fingers prising your eyelids open whilst bellowing “MILK!”.  It’s Groundhog Day!  Wake up, struggle desperately through the day indoors, fall asleep within seconds when they’ve finally gone to bed.  Repeat. 

The cruelest part is that for a split second every morning you think that everything is normal.  You think it’s just another day.  You think that within the next hour you’ll be trying to force some clothes upon a toddler whilst getting ready for work, but then it hits you.  The dystopian present.  You have to stay indoors, entertaining your two adorable, but insanely high-maintenance ladies for the whole day, whilst somehow also managing to work.

Mila keeping trim with Joe Wicks

Zsuzsa lets out a little yelp from the other room.

“What’s wrong?”  I ask.

She doesn’t reply.

I put my glass of nuclear strength Hungarian spirit down and wander over to see what the fuss is about.

Lola has glued herself to the table.  Of course she has.

“How has this happened?” I ask.

“We were making toilet roll animals!” Zsuzsa exasperatedly exclaims.

We have a lot of toilet rolls.

“And?” I ask.

“I only turned around for a split second.  When I turned back, here she was.  Glued.”

Our new toilet roll zoo exhibit

I help to prise Lola from the table then we both set about the cleaning process.  I’m attempting to remove glue from her hair with a piece of kitchen roll while Zsuzsa tackles her tacky hands.

“Don’t worry honey.  I’m sure households all over the world are currently accidentally gluing babies to tables.” I say.

“You think?”

We release a de-glued Lola back in to the wild.  

“Sure!”  I say.  “It’s 2020!  People getting to grips with home schooling.  Babies glued to all sorts of stuff I’d imagine.”

I look up and notice that Lola has found our remote control and just ordered “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.”  I sigh, but then seek solace in the fact that at least it’s not “Richard Hammond’s Big Machines”, a programme that she purchased last week.

“Fancy watching Harry Potter?” I ask.

Half an hour later, Lola is asleep and Mila is absorbed in the magical world of Hogwarts.  We sit and saviour a rare moment of serenity in our daily lives.

“Of all the people on this Earth, I’m glad I’m quarantined with you.” I say, smiling at Zsuzsa.

“Me too.” she replies, before adding  “Did you know that the clocks are going forward on Sunday?”

I did not know this.

“So that means we get an extra hour of daylight to spend indoors everyday?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“More palinka?”

“More palinka.”

Attila the Hutchins

AKA Gary Hun

Do your worst Nigel. This gang are Brexitproof!

We’re on our way to my Hungarian citizenship ceremony and I’m terrified that I’m going to mess the whole thing up at the final hurdle.

Wait.  

What?

Oh yes.  I haven’t mentioned that have I?  A few months back I applied to be a Hungarian citizen, but I’ve been keeping it on the low-down incase the wheels came off at the last minute.

My initial application was back in October.  It was an unseasonably hot day and I was wearing shorts and flip flops as a squat middle-aged Hungarian lady sat opposite me, a seemingly randomised stream of consonants pouring out of her mouth in my direction.  The idea was that I had to prove that I could understand and speak a basic level of Hungarian.  I didn’t have the foggiest idea what she was babbling on about. My sweat glands were beginning to get excited.

“Uh.” I’d awkwardly replied.

She’d turned to Zsuzsa, who was sitting next to me as she needed to sign some docs and apparently said, in Hungarian, “He doesn’t speak Hungarian does he?”.

THE CHEEK OF IT!

Zsuzsa apparently replied that I did, but that I was a bit nervous.

The woman then turned back to me and vomited out another stream of randomised letters.  This particular retch of projectile Hungarian was apparently her asking me if I was okay to have my finger prints taken.

“Igen (yes).” I’d gambled.

The woman scoffed, clearly seeing through my guess disguise.  I was drowning in a goulash of consonants.

The next half an hour was horrific, but miraculously I scraped through by the skin of my teeth.  My one regret, on leaving the interview, was that I’d declined the opportunity to take a different name for my Hungarian identity.  

“I could have officially been known as Attila the Hutchins!” I’d said to Zsuzsa remorsefully as we drove away.  “Or Gary Hun!” I’d added.

Anyway, back to today and us on our way to my ceremony.

“You’re so lucky.” says Zsuzsa breaking the nervous silence in the car.

“How so?” I ask.

“You could easily be in quarantine in Italy right now!”

I was supposed to be snowboarding in Northern Italy last week until various factors transpired to thwart my pisting plans.

“Ah, yes.  Super lucky.” I reply, whilst secretly longing for two weeks quarantined in Italy with an abundance of Italian food, red wine and endless, uninterrupted, child-free sleep.

We drive on in reflective silence, before Zsuzsa once more breaks my zen.

“I just don’t understand it!”  she exclaims.  “Toilet paper!  Why toilet paper!?  Coronavirus doesn’t make you shit more does it?”

“I don’t think so.” I respond with a shrug. “Maybe someone heard someone say that people were panic buying toilet roll and so now people are panic buying toilet roll because they think everyone else is going to panic buy it all?”

Zsuzsa thinks about this for a moment.

“You know what?  That’s brilliant.” she eventually says.  “Brilliant!  I bet Andrex or someone was behind all this.  Genius!  You know what you should do?”

“What?”  

“Create a similar rumour about your book.  Tell people that it’s running low due to panic buying.  Make people panic buy The Budanest!”

“An excellent emergency option if they run out of toilet roll as well.”

“Exactly!”

“Do you think we should panic buy some oat milk?” I ask, suddenly concerned about the oaty milkiness of my morning coffees.

“Maybe.”  replies Zsuzsa.  “And quinoa.  Let’s panic buy quinoa.”

“And avocados.” I add.

“And lets not forget Prosecco!  We definitely need to panic buy more Prosecco!  What if it runs out?  Can you imagine?”

I daren’t even think about it.  

We arrive at the place where my ceremony is going to take place, I take a deep breath, get out of the car and we make our way towards the building.  Lola is holding my hand and waddling alongside me like a pet chimpanzee.  Just like her big sister Mila, she has started walking properly on her first birthday.

Wait.  

What?

Welcome to The One Club Lolo.

Oh yes!  Lola’s one!  She’s now a walking, talking human, if you count grunting “PEPPA” or “ANYA!”, or “DADDY!” or “TEJCSI” (Hungarian for milk) as talking.  Okay, so her conversational skills are only as developed as say, a Geordie, but it’s a start.

Anyway, to cut a long story short as I need to get back to my Prosecco before it gets flat, I got through my ceremony, clumsily stumbling through the national anthem and falling through the oath.  

And now I’m Hungarian!  How weird does that sound!  I’m Hungarian!  Or to be a bit more precise, a Brexitproof Hungarian Brit with a one year old baby girl and a months supply of oat milk in his kitchen cupboards.

Köszönöm szépen!

The Naughty Nazis

AKA - Indiana Jones and The Playground of Doom

A Nazi’s worst nightmare

It’s Saturday and like how all epic stories should begin, I’m sitting on the toilet.

“Honey!” bellows my beloved little ball and chain from our girl’s bedroom. “You’ve been in there for half an hour! What are you doing?”

“Er, just paying some bills.” I reply as my opponent scores a sumptuous winning penalty on the mobile football game that I’m playing.

“Well please do it later!” she wails followed by “I need some help!”

I sigh, reluctantly leave my recharging throne and re-enter the arena.  A scene of utter carnage befalls me.  Toys, clothes and children's books are strewn all around the room, our daughters covered in paint.  It’s like a scene from a Fisher Price Soddom and Gomorah.

“Playground?”  suggests Zsuzsa wearily.

Shortly after we’re walking through a sunny Budapest, pointed in the direction to the local playground, Mila on her scooter, Lola in her buggy.  They’ve been running us ragged all morning and have seemingly limitless energy.  As a result we’re both quite quiet.

“What are you thinking about?” says Zsuzsa, studying me.

I’m thinking “Why don’t people skip more, as it seems like a very efficient way to travel?”

“I’m thinking about how lucky we are to have two such lovely girls and live in such a wonderful place.” I reply back with a wistful smile.

Zsuzsa smiles back and we walk on in a contented silence.

“Carry my scooter!” orders Mila, suddenly interrupting my skipping daydream.

I sigh and pick up her little turquoise scooter decorated with a pink horse head.  We turn the corner and…

Five bald men with black bomber jackets are standing in our path, at least one has a swastika tattoo on his neck.  They stare at us, impassive and unfriendly, like an evil Right Said Fred.

I suddenly remember an article that I’d read a few days earlier about how there was to be a far right demonstration in our local park.  Basically a load of nazis having a fascist ‘knees-up’.

“Oh dear.” I think.

The rascally slap-heads eye me up, a man pushing a buggy whilst also carrying a little girl’s scooter complete with pink horses head.  I obviously look intimidating and formidable, like a destroyer of worlds,  yet amazingly they don’t buckle.  These are either very brave Nazis or word of my yellow-tip karate belt, awarded to me when I was eleven, has not yet reached the Hungarian Nazi community.

A fearsome sight

We take a deep breath and walk past the Nazis.  To our dismay, at the end of the road are yet more Nazis.  A lot more Nazis.  Hundreds of the fascisty bastards. Where’s Indiana Jones when you need him?

“What’s this Daddy?” asks Mila, staring at the sea of shaven-headed thugs.

“Nazis” I whisper.

Mila contemplates these words for a moment and then frowns.

“I don’t like Nazis Daddy.”

“Me neither darling.”

“Naughty Nazis!” scowls Mila.

We keep on walking towards the playground, but soon discover that, thanks to the Nazi swine, the playground is closed.

“Right!  That’s it!”  I think.  “They’ve been pushing their luck with me for years, but now that they’re stopping us getting to the swings, those Nazis have gone too far!  TOO DAMN FAR!  No more Christmas cards from us, Mr and Mrs Nazi!”

We walk on, away from the troublemakers.  I remember something.

“Do you know that Hitler was a staunch vegetarian and animal rights campaigner?” I ask

“Yes, I’d heard about that.” Zsuzsa replies.

“Funny to think that in an alternate reality Hitler might have been the face of Quorn,”

We near two men standing on a street corner, but these men don’t seem like Nazis.  One is holding an EU flag and both smile at us kindly.

“Are these Nazis!” says Mila uncomfortably loudly.

“No, no!  We’re the goodies!” replies one of the men overhearing her.  “Would you like to join us!  We’re protesting against the baddies!”

I thank him for his kind offer, explaining that we are also firmly anti-Nazi and pro-goodie, but that we need to find an alternative playground for our little girls to have a jolly good swing in.

Twenty minutes later and we complete our quest.  As we push our little girls on the swings Zsuzsa turns to me and says “Do you know what I think?”

And before she’s even said it I know what she’s thinking.  She’s thinking “What is wrong with this world?”  She’s thinking “How can there possibly be Nazis in civilised society?”  She’s thinking “How can they live by their values and beliefs knowing all of the horror that has gone before them?”  She’s thinking about ways that we can make our bruised, creaking world a better place for our little girls to grow up.  She’s thinking that all it really needs is less meanness and more kindness.  She’s thinking of ways to end this worrying wave of right-wing populism that’s sweeping through Europe and beyond.

“I think that Lola will look really good in heels when she’s older.  Just look at her feet!  Heels are really going to suit her!” she says.

Or maybe she’s just thinking about our baby wearing high-heels.

The Wrong Socks

AKA A Nightmare in Budapest

Not to be trifled with

Before fatherhood, if you’d asked me to list stressfully moments fraught with peril I might have said things like deactivating a bomb, subduing an angry honey badger, parachuting out of a burning plane, or a Friday night out in Pontypridd.  Putting socks on a toddler would’ve been unlikely to feature.

Maybe this isn’t a problem that all parents face.  Maybe it’s just bespoke to our particular little three and half year old diva, but every morning, the moment when sock meets foot brings with it a similar tension (I’d imagine) to taking a penalty in a World Cup final.  The right socks open a gateway to utter elation, whereas the wrong socks lead to nothing but soul-crushing despair, what-ifs, a ruined morning and lots of tears. 

“NOOOOOO!!! DADDY!  NOT THESE SOCKS!  THEY HURT!  WAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!”

At this point you might be wondering what kind of crazy socks we’re putting on our daughter?  Are they doused in acid or constructed from broken glass?  Well I don’t think so, although the description was in Hungarian so I can’t be entirely sure, but I think they are just cotton socks.

Anyway, the point is, because of this daily sock dilemma, as well as various other similar genre toddler obstacles that we have to tackle every morning, the first hour of the day is a treacherous, chaotic, stressful land, riddled with metaphorical landmines.

So that’s the preamble.  Let’s crack on with the rest shall we?

It’s now 10pm, the kids are finally asleep and I’m lying in bed with Zsuzsa.  This morning our sock choice was particularly dreadful and as a result the day has been a write-off, bursting at the seams with tantrums and despair.

“Maybe we need to buy her some new socks?” I say.

Zsuzsa scoffs.

“She doesn’t need new socks. We just need to work on our morning routine.”

“What’s wrong with our routine?” I reply.

“We haven’t got one.”

To be fair she’s got me there, unless you consider a routine to be a random, sleepy, frantic scramble to clothe, feed and water two little humans before the small hand hits nine.

“We need to have more structure from the moment we get up.  It’s the only way.  We need more serenity.  A peaceful, orderly, efficient routine.” says Zsuzsa.

I gaze upon my mentally exhausted wife, her words swirling around in my head.  “Order”, “structure”, “routine”, “efficient”.  I decide she’s right.  We need to become more German.  I don’t mean go total German!   Of course not!  We don’t need to start ironing our socks or colour coding our underpants (you know who you are), but a little bit more German efficiency wouldn’t go amiss.

“Guten nacht frau!” I whisper softly.

“What?” replies Zsuzsa.

The next morning and I’m up and at it, tackling the morning head on with such systematic efficiency that I briefly considering changing my name to Helmut Müller.  The morning goes like a dream.  We navigate teeth cleaning, breakfast and even the dreaded sock roulette without a hitch.  As I leave the house to take Mila to nursery I smile at my beloved wife.  We’ve bloody nailed this.  Obstacles obliterated and serenity has been restored.

Three minutes later and I arrive at the nursery with Mila.  That’s right!  Her nursery is three minutes walk away.  If I worked on my hammer throwing technique I’m confident that I could hurl my daughter to nursery from our bedroom window, yet bizarrely, we are still always late.  But not today.  Today we have made it on time thanks to the Germanic efficiency of Helmut Müller and his serene lady wife.

The sock choice was good! HUZZAH!

It’s a cold morning, but the sun is shining as Mila skips in to the nursery with a big smile…then promptly trips and falls flat on her face.

“FIDDLESTICKS!”

I rush over and pick up my daughter.  Her mouth is bleeding.  She screams.  I look around for help, but we’re alone.  Blood drips from her lip.  Quite a lot of blood.  Using my highly tuned parental instincts I decide that we’re going to need a tissue, but first let’s get her scarf off before she stains it.  I pull her scarf over her head and…

“SON OF A MOTHERLESS GOAT!”

I’ve managed to smear blood ALL OVER MILA’S FACE!  Her entire face is blood red!  She screams again, only the whites of her eyes visible through her blood-smeared veneer!  It’s like a toddler reenactment of the final scene from Carrie!

“Halo” comes a voice.

Intrigued by the blood curdling scream a nursery teacher has wandered over to investigate.

“Uh” I reply.

Mila turns to her, revealing her blood smeared face and the nursery teacher freezes, obviously wondering what the hell is going on.  I rack my brains for the Hungarian for “Don’t worry.  It looks worse than it is.  She just has a bleeding lip and I accidentally smeared it all over her face when I removed her scarf”, but all I can remember at this moment is…

“Uh.”

I take Mila to the toddler’s bathroom and wash the blood off her face with the nursery teacher.  And by this I mean we wash her face together, not that I use the nursery school teacher as  washing implement.  Although to be fair, she did look quite spongy so probably would have been an effective and absorbent tool.  

With the bleeding stopped and Mila once again not looking like an extra from Hellraiser, I ruffle her hair, give her a cuddle, ask if she’s okay (she says “yes”), bid her farewell and head to work.

A few moments later and my phone buzzes.  It’s a message from Zsuzsa.

“All good honey?”

I ponder this for a moment.  How to reply?  What would Helmut Müller do?”  I decide that being the sneaky swine that he is, he probably wouldn’t say anything, instead letting her read about it in a blog a few weeks later.

“All good darling.” I reply.

Bloody Helmut!

Another Trip Around The Sun

AKA The Travelling Coffee Machine

Our high maintenance terrors

I don’t know when it happened exactly, but as I pack the car following our Christmas break it hits me.  We’ve become those people.

“But what people?” I hear you cry.

Well stop crying as I was about to tell you, you impatient scoundrels.  We have become the kind of people who take their coffee machine on holiday with them.  Whenever we go away, even if it’s only for a couple of days, old Nessie the Nespresso machine comes with us.  And not only Nessie.  She also brings her good friend Alexa and our Fire TV stick as well. 

“I’ve travelled all around the world and do you know what’s the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had?” says Zsuzsa. “Hands down Nessie’s coffee! Best in the world!”.

So that’s why she comes with us. Also, nobody can Alexa as well as Alexa, so she comes too. And can you imagine a world where we stay in a place that doesn’t have Netflix? Well we can, and that’s why our Fire TV comes with us as well. Basically to avert a Netflix-less disaster.

Are we sad? Totally. Do we care? Hell no! Why would we with such spiffing coffee, Alexa to chat to and Netflix on the gogglebox. Bless you Nessie. Bless your little caffeinated heart.

It’s also just dawned on me that we’ve become the kind of people who give their appliances names! (shudder).

An hour later and myself, Zsuzsa, Mila, Lola, Nessie, Alexa and our Fire TV stick are making our merry way through Hungary, pointed in the direction of our Budanest.  My little wife yawns, I notice and follow suit.

“Do you think we’ll always be tired honey?” says Zsuzsa.

I consider this for a moment.

“Not always.” I reply.  “In fifteen years time or so we’ll probably be alright.”

I look in the rearview mirror and see both our cubs fast asleep.

“Life’s so busy isn’t it?” says Zsuzsa.

I nod in agreement.

“You know what I struggle with?” I say.

“What honey.”

“Writing this bloody blog!  With just Mila it was all systems go.  I was writing something new every week, but with two little ragamuffins, it’s just so difficult to find the time.  Now it’s like a piece every few weeks, or a month.  Sometimes more!”

“I know.” says Zsuzsa, stroking my shoulder reassuringly.

“And it’s not like I haven’t got things to write about!  There’s so many things that I wish I’d found the time to get down onto electronic paper.”

“Like what?”

FYI This is the bit where ‘The Budanest the Movie’ will queue a hilarious montage, with Tom Hardy playing me and Brie Larson as my lady wife (as long as she can do the accent).  If Tom is unavailable maybe it’ll be Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s chance to star in the role of a lifetime. 

Craves affection

“Like the time we met that family who fed their baby with pre-masticated chicken, regurgitated by the mother.”

“You didn’t write about that?”

“I don’t think so!  I mean, I might have, but this year has been such a sleepy blur that i’m not exactly sure what’s made it in and what hasn’t.”

“Reese Witherspoon does that.”

“Does what?”  

“Regurgitates food into her children’s mouths like some kind of Hollywood seagull.”

I shake my head in despair.

“What else?” says Zsuzsa. “What else did you not manage to write about?”

“Did I talk about the time I got stuck in a lift with Mila, and how she now refuses to get in lifts if it’s only me and her?”

Zsuzsa shrugs.

“Did you mention how Mila kept asking for a cicifix (bra) from Santa?”

“Nope.  And I also didn’t write about the time that you put my passport in the washing machine and how I spent days drying the bastard out and ironing the pages!”

“Did you write about how your phone is full of photo’s of Mila proudly pointing at her poops? (adventures in potty training).”

“No!  And I didn’t write about the time that I asked a random Hungarian woman in a restaurant for a Pad Thai!”

“What about how Lola is now so wriggly that dressing her is like putting a bow tie on an eel?”

“What about the time that Mila pointed at that fat man and shouted that he has a baby in his belly!”

“Or the time on the airplane when Mila told Lola that when she’s a big girl she will not only get her own seat on the plane, but also in the pub!”

“I haven’t mentioned how Lola has started calling me Kaki (shit)!”

“Didn’t Mila do that as well?”

“Yes, but still.  Or the time in Centre Parcs when my mother declared that she’d had a nightmare where she was being chased by MFI (I think she meant MI5, not MFI the British discount furniture shop, although to be fair, the later would probably be more terrifying).

”Love Centre Parcs.”

Merry Christmas yer filthy animals!

“I didn’t even mention how you kept rejecting my idea to buy Mila a chameleon for Christmas.”

“You’re not buying that chameleon.”

“But it’s only thirty quid!”

“No!”

“Or the time when I was taking Mila to the cinema, and on a packed tram she loudly said ‘Daddy.  You won’t hurt me will you?  You won’t hurt me in the cinema?  Please don’t hurt me!?’”.

Zsuzsa giggles. 

We drive on in reflective silence, remembering all of the crazy, momentous, life changing events that occurred during this last orbit around the sun.  It’s all been fairly wonderful and epic, as well as being incredibly tiring and stressful, but we wouldn’t change it for anything (although ask me again at three in the morning and see what I say).

As we approach Budapest a smile stretches across my face.  Zsuzsa notices.

“What?”

“I love our life honey.”

“Me too.” my sleepy wife responds with a smile.

“I’m also really looking forward to giving Nora a spin when we get back.”

Nora, I should explain, is the robotic vacuum cleaner that Santa gave me for Christmas.

“Do you think Nora will get on well with Nessie?” I ask.

“I’m sure she will honey.  I’m sure she will.”

The leading players

Thingamejig

AKA The Unmentionables

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I’ve got a book out.

I’m sitting in a bar in Budapest being interviewed by a journalist about my new book, The Budanest. The journalist is called Attila and he’s from Index.hu, the biggest news site in Hungary with a daily readership of more than one and a half million (GULP!). A tape recorder has been placed in-between us and another gent, sporting a lovely ponytail, is continually photographing my face from about a distance of one metre away. Despite the papping, and me forgetting how to smile properly whenever I notice the camera, the atmosphere is relaxed.

“So, Gareth. Tell us about how you ended up in Budapest?”

I’m about to respond, but a little voice in my head distracts me.

“Do not mention the thingamejig! DO NOT MENTION THE THINGAMEJIG!” it says.

I roll my eyes at the little voice in my head, turn my back on it and begin regaling Attila with the story of the brain fart that drove us to move to this beautiful city and start this whole crazy adventure.

“Hey! Gareth! Don’t turn your back on me! I’m only trying to warn you. If this goes wrong, don’t say I didn’t try!” says the voice.

“And the book, The Budanest. What was the inspiration?” says Attila.

“Do not mention the thingamejig!” Says the voice. “You know how Zsuzsa doesn’t like you talking about the thingamejig! Imagine her reaction if she discovers that fifteen percent of the population of her homeland have read about the thingamejig whilst enjoying their breakfast!”

I pause for a moment and consider this. You know what? The voice in my head has a point! Zsuzsa was always expressing her displeasure at my mentioning such things in my blog, but the audience then was much more contained! She wouldn’t like it if suddenly the thingamejig exploded all over Hungary (so to speak)!

“That’s what I was saying you fucking idiot!” says the voice. “You know, sometimes I think you never listen to me. Take me for granted! Such a prick!”

“Uh, what was the question again?” I ask Attila.

“Your inspiration for the book.”

“Ah, okay.”

I then go on to say how it was such a cataclysmic life event, full of so many new experiences that my cup was overflowing with inspirational juices. I talk about the language barrier, the awkward situations, my panic at impending fatherhood. We chat for the next hour all about my experience of both Budapest and fatherhood and not once was the thingamejig brought up. Not even during the potentially treacherous birthing section!

Later that evening Mila is watching Frozen for the seventeen thousandth time. In the next room I’m chatting to Zsuzsa whilst simultaneously spooning yogurt into Lola’s mouth.

“If I write a blog about this it’ll be a bit like Deadpool won’t it?” I say.

“What do you mean?” replies Zsuzsa.

“Well, I’ll be writing a about a situation in which someone is writing about me writing.”

“Does Deadpool do that? I don’t remember him writing. I remember him shooting someone up the arsehole, but not writing.”

“Well no, but what I mean is he breaks the fourth wall. He talks to the audience. It’s a bit like that isn’t it?”

“I guess so. Hey! What if it’s made into a book again and then another journalist writes about it?”

My eyes dart frantically as I try to compute this idea.

“So you mean someone will write about me writing about someone writing about me writing?”

“I think so.”

“Woah! That’s like level four inception or something? Actually I don’t even know what level that is!”

My mind is blown.

“You know, if this does get made in to another book, you won’t mention my thingamejig at all will you?”

“Er…okay. What if I use a code word or something like that.”

“A code word? Like what?”

“I don’t know. A ‘whatchamacallit’ or a ‘thingamajig’. Something like that."

“You better!”

PS While I’ve got your attention, go buy my book. Actually, buy two! One to read and another to keep in a safe place in case you ever lose the other one. Go! Now!

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Are you still here? GO!

Doctor Sleep

“Honey? Honey? Are you alright? Honey?”

We are sitting in the car having taken Lola to the doctor’s surgery for a routine inoculation. Zsuzsa has just casually mentioned that the doctor has recommended that I look after Lola on my own for a week.

“Honey?”

It’s nothing to do with the inoculation. It’s all because Lola won’t sleep for more than half an hour at a time during the night. Zsuzsa asked for advice about how to break this torturous cycle.

“Do you need to get out and get some fresh air or something?”

Lola. Our beautiful little meat ball. An absolute angel during the day, but by night? My God, what an utter dick!

“Honey?”

The doctor’s thinking is that Lola has become too dependent on the old night-time nipples. We need to wean her off and that’s where I come in as apparently, my nipples won’t be quite as big a draw.

“It’s only a week darling. It won’t be that bad.”

I consider this and she’s right. It’s just one week. One little, tiny, teeny-weeny week. What the hell am I crying about? I think about my idols. What would the likes of Eric Cantona, Indiana Jones or Batfink have done in such a scenario? They’d have risen to the challenge no doubt. They’d have laughed it off and shouted “Give me that Goddamn baby! I’ve got this!”. Yes, I can do this.

4 days later.

I can’t do this. I haven’t slept for more than a two hour continuous stint for four nights. My head is pounding and I can’t feel my face. How does Zsuzsa do this? My wife is an absolute beast. I start to think about the doctor’s advice and something dawns on me! I didn’t hear him say it, and even if he did it would’ve been in Hungarian! Did he say it? Did he really? Or is this all a desperately devious act by a beyond tired lady? I mull this around in my mind and decide that of course he said it. My little wife is far too honourable (not in the Prince Andrew sense of the word) to make stuff up. If she’d needed a break she would’ve politely asked me. No, it’s all his fault. It’s all due to the doctor!

I begin to fantasise about torturing him. Nothing too sinister, just a classic, British, passive aggressive revenge fantasy. Things like sneaking into his flat in the dead of night and replacing the odd good battery with a bad one, loosening the top of his salt cellar, mixing his caffeinated and decaffeinated teabags together, turning the setting on his toaster up to maximum so that he over cooks his toast. That sort of thing. Maybe I could even secretly superglue a teaspoon to the middle of his back so that he can’t reach it and it drives him crazy! . Mwah ha ha ha ha ha! MWAH HA HA HA HA! I decide I’m going mad

Angel by day, absolute fiend by night.

5 days later.

Another night without sleep. Now I’m thinking about my idols and decide that I’ve got them all wrong. There’s a reason why there’s no Indiana Jones and the Crying Baby! It’s because Indiana would have crumbled! And I don’t recall ever seeing a Batfink cartoon where he had to soothe a restless infant either! And as for Cantona, the guy went mental and Kung fu kicked a guy just because he called him names! He’d probably had a good nights sleep too! Imagine if he’d been kept awake for a week by a crying baby?! Carnage!

6 days later

Oh my God, it’s working! Lola only woke up once last night! Maybe I’ll have to fantasise about sneaking back into our doctor’s house, sorting out his teabags and turning his toaster setting back down!

7 days later.

It’s over and unbelievably Lola is now sleeping far better than a week ago. I survived and I now know that I can do it. I can go a week living on basically no sleep. I’m so tired that I now look like a walking, talking ball bag, but hopefully that’ll pass.

Later that morning I’m sharing a coffee moment with my somewhat revitalised wife. Lola is playing nicely in the corner, the sun is shining and the world seems to be a lovely place again.

I turn to Zsuzsa and say…

“Do you think we should have another one? Another baby I mean. Not now, obviously, but in a year or two?”

Zsuzsa stares at me, I return her gaze.

...

...

We both burst into manic laughter.

Like utter fuck.

The Loose Tongued Toddler

AKA A Spot of Bother

Mila no doubt filling her sister’s head with lies about Daddy.

I’m sitting in a restaurant in Budapest with four old friends, after a busy day of electric scooter riding, when I receive a message that chills me to the core.  It’s from Zsuzsa.

“Mila is talking about your arse being spotty and not so nice.  She says she saw it when you were lying in bed naked.  She told this to my mother.”

I stare at the screen, wide-eyed and mind racing.

“What are we doing after this?” asks one of my friends.

But I don’t respond.  My mind is elsewhere.  To be specific it’s at my flat watching my three-year-old traitor give my mother in-law unflattering reports on my anatomy.

“Gaz?”

Spotty!?  Do I really have a spotty arse!?  Could my arse really be spotty without me realising?  I mean, I guess it’s possible.  It’s always behind me after all.  Rarely in full view.

“Are you alright?” asks one of my friends.

And what has possessed Mila to spout this slanderous diatribe?  What have I done to smite her?  I know she doesn’t like it when I wash her hair or force her to eat vegetables, but really, does that warrant such treachery?

“Earth to Gaz.  Hello?”

I snap out of my trance and show them the message.  Cue guffaws, sniggers and chortles (which as an aside I’ve recently discovered is a cross between a chuckle and a snort), from three of my friends.  One simply seems a little puzzled.

“How has your daughter seen your arse?” comes the rather left-field response from the puzzled chum.

“What do you mean?” I respond, slightly confused.

“Are you often naked at home?”

Eh?  Is my friend, unbeknownst to me, one of those never-nude people?  Someone who refuses to ever be nude even when alone? Showers in his jeans, that sort of thing.

“At bed time I am.” I reply

They all stare at me open mouthed, as though I’ve just told them I punch the tits off kittens for fun on weekends.

“What?” I ask, perplexed by their reaction.

“You don’t wear...pyjamas!?”

“No.”

Gasps all round.  This is weird.

“What do you...what do you wear to bed then?”

“Nothing.” I say with a shrug.  “Do you all wear pyjamas or something?”

They all wear pyjamas.  The idea of sleeping naked apparently horrifying them.  I secretly pity them and hope that one day they too will discover the liberating joys of duvet on bare skin.

A pack of dangerous hell cats, cruising around Budapest on electric scooters

It’s now two days later and I’m in the bedroom trying to steal a glance at my naked bottom in the mirror.  I can’t see any spots!  Not one!  I knew it! LIES!

“What you doing Daddy?” says Mila, suddenly appearing at the bedroom door, quizzical look upon her treacherous face.

This is the moment.  I’m having it out with her.

“What were you saying to Mamma a few days ago?” I say accusingly.

“What?” replies Mila.

Ah, deny everything.  The old Trump trick.  That may work on the American public sugar pie, but not on this sharp-shooter!

“I heard you were spreading vicious lies about daddy.” I say.

“What?”

She’s a tough nut to crack.

“I heard that you were telling Mamma that Daddy has a spotty bottom!”

A huge grin spreads across Mila’s face.

“I told Mamma! I say  Daddy has a spotty bum!”, she laughs.

“But Mila. It’s just not true.  I don’t have a spotty bum!”

“Yes! Daddy has a spotty bum!”

I crane my neck and again gaze upon my form in the mirror. I can’t see a single spot.  In this light at least, it’s as smooth as a couple of boiled eggs!

“See?” I say. “No spots!”

Mila approaches me for a closer examination and then starts pointing.

“One, two, three...”

Slowly, my eyes adjust to the light and I see what Mila is pointing at and counting. 

Shit.

“What’s going on?” says Zsuzsa, suddenly appearing at the door carrying Lola.  Both stare at the scene perplexed and judgemental.  Daddy, trousers around his ankles, Mila, pointing at my bare rump, counting.

“Counting.” says Mila with glee.

I pull my trousers up, trudge off to find some vegetables and decide that tonight is probably a bonus hair wash night in the Hutchins/Ferencz household.

The Perfumers

AKA - That’s Just Not Cricket

My perfumers

I’m sitting on the sofa smelling uncannily like Debenhams.  This is because earlier this morning, in a moment of utter insanity, Zsuzsa had bowed to Mila’s demands in a perfume shop.  

Despite the distraction of smelling like a Disney princess, I’m determined to watch a cricket match in peace.  Mila however appears from her room, brandishing her scented weapon, and has other ideas.

“What’s that daddy?” says Mila, her face popping up and obscuring my view of the TV.

“That’s cricket sweetheart.” I reply, gently swatting her to one side.

She jumps on to the sofa and plonks herself down beside me.

“Cricket?” she says.

“Yes.  Cricket.” I reply.

“Cricket like Mila’s friend?”

A few weeks back Mila approached me with something in her hand, proclaiming it to be her friend.  It was a cricket without its back legs.  I’d told her it was a cricket and that she needed to put it down somewhere quiet so that its back legs could grow back.  I also told her not to pull the hind legs off crickets again in the future.  “They don’t like that sort of thing.” I’d said.

“Well, no.” I say.  “That was a cricket, but a different cricket.  That was an insect, this is a sport.”

“Ah.” Says Mila.

She watches the TV transfixed for a moment.  I can sense another question coming.

“Not football?”

“No darling.  Not football.”

“I think it’s football.”

“It’s not football.”

“Okay Daddy.”

A moment of peace as an English man swings a bit of wood and hits a small bit of leather over a small wall.  Then, like a meerkat, Mila’s face suddenly reappears in between my face and the TV.

“What’s that daddy?”

“That’s a six Mila.” I say, moving my head to an impossible angle in an attempt to see the TV.

“Oh!  Six!  Hooray!”

We high five.  Then…  

“Daddy?”

“Yes Mila?”

“What is cricket?”

I contemplate for a moment, how best to answer this question.  How do I explain the rules of an ancient game, that has so far befuddled her mother, to a three-year-old?  

“Okay.  So there are two men in the middle.  One has a stick, called a bat.  There are eleven other men around the two men and they all want to hit the sticks behind him, called a wicket, with a ball.”

“Why?”

“Because they want to get him out.”

“Why?”

“Because they just do.  Anyway, so the man with the bat tries to hit the ball.

“That’s not a bat Daddy!” Mila laughs.  “Funny Daddy!”

“It is.  It’s a cricket bat.”

Mila looks at me as though I’m stupid.

“Noooooo.  That’s not a bat.”

Mila looks back at the TV.  The game is in the balance.

“Daddy!  Daddy!  Daddy!  Running!”

“Yes.  They’re trying to get runs?”

“Like Lola?”

“No darling.  Not like Lola.  She had ‘the runs’.  That was different.”

“Okay Daddy.”

A laugh from the terrace distracts me.  I look and see Zsuzsa and her parents all staring back and laughing at me.  I fix Zsuzsa with a quizzical gaze.

“Dave Grohl honey!”  shouts Zsuzsa from the terrace.

“What?” I reply.

“I’m just telling my parents how you think you’d be really great mates with Dave Grohl if you ever got the chance to meet.”

This is true.  I think we’d hit it off, me and Dave.  

“Who are the other two famous people who you think you’d be amazing mates with?” asks Zsuzsa, trying to stifle a laugh.

“Paul Rudd and Will Smith.”  I instantly reply, because we would, obviously.

Zsuzsa repeats this to her parents.  They all laugh.  I bristle and am about to interject when a fine jet of pungent perfume hits my cheek, stopping me in my tracks.

My current scent

“I make Daddy smell beautiful, okay?” says Mila.

I wipe my face and make a mental note to hide Mila’s perfume far, far away. 

“Can you change Lola’s nappy.  It’s a kaki (pooh).” says Zsuzsa, suddenly appearing at the patio doors.

“Sure.  Just give me a couple of minutes.” I sigh, internally cursing the fact that I still haven’t found any time to invent and patent my baby cleaning machine.

“You’ll be ready in two minutes?”

“Honey, I was born ready in two minutes.”

Two minutes later, with Lola in front of me ready for her change, I watch England celebrate victory.  Smiling, I turn to my side and see Mila pointing her perfume at me, a hopeful look in her eyes.

“I make Daddy smell beautiful?” asks Mila.

I open Lola’s nappy and the scent of fresh baby shit smacks me hard in the nostrils.  It’s a real vintage. A heady bouquet.

“Go on then Mila.  Go on.  Make Daddy smell beautiful.  Hit me.”

Pfffft.

The Scream

AKA - Tormented

The tormentors

People all around me are screaming as I run down a hospital corridor.  It’s pandemonium.  I reach the corner of the the corridor and skid as I change direction.  A woman nearby trips over a gurney, yelping in pain as she clatters to the ground.  I don’t stop to help her as it’s clear that this is an every man or woman for themselves scenario.  

I dare to look behind me.  It’s coming!  I can’t see it, but I know it’s coming.  I can hear it.  We all can.

…

A horrific, blood curdling scream.  A baby’s scream.  My heart pounds as the scream gets louder.  I turn and begin running again.  And then…

I’m awake, lying in bed, Lola screaming through the baby monitor as though she’s on fire.  I glance at the bedside clock.  

4am.

A sickening realisation hits me square on the tits.  It’s my turn to get up and appease the screaming banshee.  

Now I’m not going to lie to you here.  It’s usually Zsuzsa that gets the short end of the stick.  She’s the real heroine of this story, not I.  Ninety nine percent of the time it is my beloved other half who has to get up and bung a nipple in our tormenter’s mouth.  But you see the thing is, she’s so very tired of late that I made a promise yesterday to tackle the nightshift all on my lonesome.  My nipples may be disappointingly dormant, but by jove I can dance around naked, in the dead of night whilst singing a baby to sleep like nobody’s business.  At least that’s what I thought.

It’s now 4:45 and I have been dancing around with Lola singing my little heart out for three quarters of an hour.  We’ve been through an eclectic back catalogue of tunes.  A collection that has included the best of U2, ‘Come as You Are’ and ‘In Bloom’ by Nirvana, ‘Where Do you Go to My Lovely’ by Peter Sarstedt, ‘Alive’ by Pearl Jam, ‘When Doves Cry’ by Prince, ‘Dirty Diana’ by Michael Jackson, ‘Enter Sandman’ by Metallica, ‘(Sittin’ on) The Dock of The Bay’ by Ottis Reading and ‘Live Forever’ by Oasis.  I also started ‘Rockerfella Skank’ by FatBoy Slim, but it became immediately apparent that it was only energising the little shit.

I’ve tried this dance and sing technique numerous times in the recent past, with my snake hips and velvety chocolate vocals usually having the desired, soporific effect.  But not tonight.  Tonight she just wants to party.

It’s now just gone five in the morning and with under two hours of sleep in the bank I’m losing my tiny little mind and beginning to feel a little aggressive.  Lola just will not sleep.  She reaches up and smacks my mouth with her hand and it takes all my powers of restraint to valiantly fight the urge to bite her fingers off.

I distract myself from the hopelessness of this situation by thinking about an article I read the previous day about the routines of the successful.  You know the sort.  Ridiculous bullshit about them waking up each day at 3am to hit the gym, then cryogenically freezing themselves for 15 minutes, then an hour of Mandarin learning whilst scraping their tongues with a brass tongue scrapper, followed by an activated almond breakfast washed down with a pint of their own, gluten free piss.  If this is the price of success, well success can cock-off. 

I begin to daydream (nightdream?) about being interviewed by a publication about my daily routine.  

“Gareth, just how on Earth have you managed to achieve all you have?  What’s your secret?  What’s your daily routine?” 

“Well funny you should ask that Dave.  Can I call you Dave?”

“My name’s Tim.”

“So Dave, on an average day…”

05:30 - Woken up by a three year old screaming “MILK!” in my face from a distance of 2 millimetres.

06:00 - Drink Coffee, soundtracked to a cacophony of baby cries and one song from the film ‘Frozen’, over and over and over and over and over and over again.

06:30 - Sneak out for a morning pooh.

06:32 - Morning pooh interrupted by three year old barging in to the bathroom, asking what I’m doing, sniffing the air and making a horrified face.

06:33 - Zsuzsa, carrying Lola and wondering where I am, joins myself and Mila in the bathroom. 

“What are you doing honey?”

“Uh, trying to take a shit.”

07:00 - Start trying to dress Mila.

07:01 - Mila objects to our choice of outfit for today.  She insists on wearing a ballet tutu and wellies.

07:02 - Try and prise a distraught Mila from the floor.  It’s like she’s been told Piers Morgan is coming to visit..

08:30 - Finish dressing Mila.  Head to nursery.  She’s wearing a ballet tutu and wellies.

“Honey” says Zsuzsa, suddenly appearing from shadows.  “Give her to me.”

I hand my chronically tired wife our little life sapping bundle of fun, shrug and head to bed to attempt to squeeze in a cheeky hour of sleep before morning.  “At least I tried.”, I think to myself.

At a quarter to six I realise that endeavouring to sleep is futile, get up, fill my veins with caffeine and sit down to write this sleep deprived drivel.

The Old Man and The Meatball

Myself, my very own personalised Hungarian wife (Zsuzsa) and our newest human accessory (Lola), are enroute to collect our bat-shit mental toddler (Mila) from nursery, when out of the blue Zsuzsa says...

“I hope I’m like that when I’m older.”

I look up to see who the subject of her wanton desire is.  Perhaps a stylish older lady?  A woman of vintage, but who maintains a youthful figure?  Michelle Pfeiffer maybe?

...

It’s a little, leathery skinned, balding man walking a dog.

He skips passed, humming gleefully, and as he does so I study him, my apparent future wife.  And you know what?  I get it.

Now most people would be confused by Zsuzsa’s thinking, but not this maverick (points to self) right here, because I get my wife.  I know her.  I’m often able to finish her sentences, at least the ones in English.  We are intrinsically linked and I instantly see that she harbours no desire to be a leathery skinned, balding old man.  Or at the very least I hope she doesn’t.  No, rather she is looking at his soul.  The man is fit, he is healthy and he is smiling.  It’s his inner spirit that she craves to mimic.  An elderly person, but a happy person, still embracing life.  Youthfulness at his core.  A man who would rip the tits off Ol’ Father Time if he dared to knock on his door.

I smile to myself.

“You know what?  That’s funny.” I say.  “Because only earlier this week I was thinking that I want to be an old Swedish man when I get older.”

Again, words that would be lost to those not in the ‘circle’ (draws imaginary circle in the air with fingers).  But my pygmy Eastern European firecracker is very much lodged within my ‘circle’ (not a euphemism).

Zsuzsa nods in approval.  Spurred on, I elaborate.

“I first had the thought when we were in Croatia a few weeks back.  I saw this man in the sea.  Looked Swedish.  Probably late 70s, but he was tanned, trim, toned, manly beard like Kris Kristofferson.  He was athletic and active, but serene.  Self-assured, comfortable in his own skin.  Basically a real cool cat.” I say.

Zsuzsa considers this.

“I like that.  I’d like it if you grow up to be an old Swedish man.” says Zsuzsa.

“I’ll do my best.” I reply.

We arrive at the nursery, collect Mila and take her home to our little Buda nest.

Once home I look at my little blonde haired, blue eyed lady.  She’s beautiful and I decide to tell her so.   She bursts in to uncontrollable tears.

“What did I say?” I ask Zsuzsa.

“She’s just tired darling.” comes the reply.  “Maybe you should apologise?”

“Apologise!?  For telling my daughter that she’s beautiful?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t win can I?  If I tell Mila she’s beautiful I’m out of line.  When I call Lola a meatball I’m out of line.”

“Calling Mila beautiful is fine, but she’s tired and irrational.  Calling Lola a meatball?  That’s just fat shaming.”

“I mean it with love though.  She’s my lovely meatball.”

“Still fat shaming.  Anyway.  Apologise to Mila please.”

I sigh.

“Sorry Mila.  Sorry for saying that you’re beautiful.”

She stops crying and looks me in the eye.

“Alright daddy.” Says Mila.

With peace restored I settle down, open my laptop and search for Swedish language apps.  After all, if I’m going to an old Swedish man one day, I better get cracking.

Adventures in Croatia

AKA - Meatball!

Lola rocking her holiday mohawk

One of the things that drives me bat-shit mental about Hungarians, especially the more wrinkle clad females of the species, is their willingness to go out of their way to give me parental advice.  They’ll cross roads, pursue me, hound me to the four corners of the globe, just to tell me what I should be doing with my new human.  On numerous occasions in the past, elderly Hungarian women have randomly approached me in the street to urgently tell me things.  Usually I have just smiled, nodded and walked on, oblivious to their ramblings until a little later on when my personal translator, Zsuzsa, has enlightened me.

“Your baby is cold!”

“Your baby needs thicker trousers!”

“You will suffocate your baby if you hang that muslin cloth there!”

“Make sure your child doesn’t run away in a crowd!”

“Where is your daughter’s hat!?”

And my absolute favourite, not really advice but still a bonafide nosey belter, from a complete stranger to my wife...

“Do you still have breast milk?”

You get the picture yes?  Nosey busy-bodies strewn across these otherwise beautiful, foreign climes.  Well as it transpires, they have rivals for their ‘unwanted advice crown’ within Europe.

We’re in Croatia.  It’s a swelteringly hot summer’s day as I meander along the coastline with my three lovely ladies.  Lola, in very uncharacteristic fashion for my chilled out youngest, is going apoplectic.

“It’s the heat.” surmises Zsuzsa.  “The poor thing is piping hot.”

I gaze upon my baby girl, a red faced, sweaty, ballistic ball of rage.

“Do you think it’s because she’s a fat lass?” I ask.

Because she is.  She’s a little meatball.  I’m hoping it’s just a phase and that she’ll grow out of her ‘heavy’ period, as I have no plans to wheel her around in a wheelbarrow when she’s older.

“Fat people notoriously struggle with heat.” I add.

“She’s not fat!” Zsuzsa retorts.

“Her legs are like hocks of ham.”

“She’s a baby!  Don’t call her fat.”

“Anya!  Anya!  Wedding!” interrupts Mila, noticing a wedding party outside a church not too far away.  Then, in the blink of an eye Mila charges off towards the wedding with Zsuzsa in hot pursuit.  Lola screams.

“Catch me up yeah?” I bellow after them, before trotting off with my screaming, sweaty baby.

Five minutes later, having been stopped by three elderly Croatian women of varying degrees of squatness, all who harboured ambitions of telling me that my baby needed water, I’m beginning to get a tad ratty.  As I enter a park, Lola still screaming, I spot a woman sitting on a bench trying to get my attention and my heart sinks.  I try to ignore her, but alas, and she’ll no doubt be delighted to be described as such, the woman is very much like a builder’s bum crack. And what I mean by this is that I do everything I can to avoid making eye-contact, but something peculiar compels me and our eyes meet.  She sees this as an invitation and mimes the action of drinking water and then just to avoid any degrees of ambiguity follows this up by pointing at Lola whilst shouting “WATER!”.  Well that’s it!  Who do these strangers think they are!?  Why do they think they know what’s best for my baby, better than I?  The final straw lands on the camel’s back. 

“NO!” I aggressively holler in the woman’s direction.

The woman frowns at me as I turn a corner at pace.  Once out of eyesight, I take a look at my red faced, screaming, angry child, hide behind a tree and secretly give her water, whilst desperately attempting to remain secluded from any of my new ‘advisors’ .  Of course Lola immediately loves the water and stops screaming.  The treacherous little shit.

Later that day, as we drive back to Budapest, four hours of solid nursery rhymes under our belt, Zsuzsa turns to me and says “Mila was asking me if she can have a wedding.”

“What did you say?” I reply.

“I said one day.  If she finds someone as good as Daddy, or better.”

I wince at the word “better”, and decide to attribute it to a language error.

“Then I explained that they will ask her to marry them and that if she wants to she can say ‘yes’, but only if she wants to.  Then Anya, Mila and Lola will go shopping for a wedding dress.  She punched the air in glee at this point.” continues Zsuzsa.

“Maybe we could bring back arranged marriages so that we can have more control in her partner choice.”  I suggest.

“Ha!” snorts Zsuzsa.  “She won’t let us choose her clothes for us now.  What makes you think she’d let us choose her partner?“

It’s a fair point.

“Nevertheless I think we should attempt to pair Lola with the son of footballer Adam Lallana, and Mila with the grandson of the actor Alfred Molina.” I say, undeterred.  “Lola Lallana and Mila Molina.”

Georgie Porgie begins to play on the car stereo, which after listening to circa ten times within a short space of time, I’ve decided is a tale of a sex pest.

“Or maybe they’ll be like their mother and keep their current surname?” suggests Zsuzsa.

I nod in approval. 

I hope so.  I hope they’ll be just like their mother.  Crazy, beautiful, funny, clever and travel-size.

“I wonder if we’ll remember this conversation when they do get married?” I say, before adding “I hope I won’t have to roll Lola down the aisle in a wheelbarrow.”

“Fuck off honey” snaps Zsuzsa.

Now I’m sure some would see that response as an overreaction, but luckily I see immediately what’s going on. The poor things obviously thirsty.
 

I pass Zsuzsa the water bottle and we continue our nursery rhyme sound-tracked journey back to Buda.