Hindsight is 20/20

If this was a book instead of a blog I would have given this post the secondary title of "...or, An Apology". Because, Mum, I'm so freaking sorry.

This is my seventh month in this job now, and to celebrate my successfully passing the half way point my host parents jetted off to Valencia, leaving me to look after the kids full time for an entire weekend. And thanks to a well-timed strike followed by a student-free day, I had the boy for 4 days and the girl for 2.

Luckily this isn't going to become a regular occurrence. But with the Summer holidays looming I will inevitably be spending a lot more time alone with the children.

Let me just clarify that my kids are great. They're a sweet, friendly, helpful pair who love each other and give me next to no trouble at all. And they completely outdid themselves this weekend. But those 48 hours still made me seriously question whether I really want children. And I don't mean whether I want them anytime soon (for the record, the answer to that has always been a great, resounding "no"), but whether I actually want them ever. Of course looking after your own children would be a significantly more rewarding experience than looking after someone else's (I'm assuming, anyway). But still.

For one thing, it's boring. I wasn't expecting there to be so many dead hours. Time consuming? Sure. Expensive? Of course. But boring? I'd envisioned constant activity and eventual exhaustion. Not so much, as it turns out.

For example: On the Saturday we went to a school fete, and I finally understood why my Mum always volunteered to be involved. Because I managed to make the stalls and lunch last around an hour (a stretch, believe me. I must have visited the book stall at least 5 times), before retiring to a shady hill with a cup of Pimms and my ipod for the next 3 hours.

There was also a strange frustration/guilt combo, which really came into play on the Sunday. I took them to the movies (in case you're wondering, Kung-Fu Panda 2 - not too bad) (or should that be not 2 bad?! Not really, no). And when we got home all they wanted to do was watch TV or play video games. Their apathy towards any other suggestions was so irritating I knew I'd cave in the end, but I felt terrible for allowing them to be so lazy.

But none of that compared to how nasty they could be. The boy isn't so bad - occasionally he'll say something mildly hurtful by accident, mostly because he doesn't have any real social graces yet. But the girl, soon to be ten and just discovering the joys of adolescence, can be a right little bitch. The worst part is that they're usually so sweet and genuine and nice you can't help but like them, and then they'll turn around and go completely the opposite way, leaving you feeling strangely awful. I'm not sure why - why should I care about the opinions of any nine year old, let alone one who's only known me for half a year? But dammit, she knows the right buttons to press. Luckily for me she likes me enough and I'm close enough in age to her that I can remember how I was at that age, and therefore can quite easily guilt her into feeling bad and being nice again (definitely a responsible child care strategy).

But that's what I want to apologise for really. I turned out ok in the end, as I'm sure my 9-year-old will too. But I remember being just as precocious, dismissive and downright mean when I was her age.

So. Mum, I'm really very sorry. I'll give you a couple of Grandkids to make up for it. Well, probably. Well...maybe.

Also, if anyone has any suggestions for keeping two children under 10 entertained for 2 months, I'd be more than happy to hear them.

Rich gentlemen have it, boys

"Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all." - Harriet Van Horne

Food and drink have been an integral part of my life for as long as I can remember. My mother loved to cook so much she made it her profession, and it was from her I learnt my own love of the culinary arts, the kitchen as both the emotional and practical heart of the home, and the old truism that the best way to a man's heart is through his stomach. But a good feast has always been part of my extended family's ethos. "Eat well, drink much (any excuse will do)" could be printed on my family crest. The family Christmas gathering last year was very nearly irreversibly marred for one of my aunts when she couldn't get her potato salad to taste like Grandma's.

During my post-uni, pre-England period I would cook dinner on the regular, tossing herbs and spices in with reckless abandon before gleefully announcing to my family that we were about to play another gripping round of my new-found favourite game: guess the spice. I read cook books like novels. People who think of food only as fuel are completely alien to me.

All this is to say that food - good, exciting, fresh, flavoursome food - is of absolute import to me.

Which is why the past six odd weeks have left me in an almost desperate state.

Cooking for children is, in my (admittedly limited) experience, either incredible or hellish. On the one hand, I love to cook for fun. Baking for me is one of the best pick-me-ups I know. I do it when I'm stressed, sad, bored or frustrated. I take what I like to think of as a Nigella-esqu approach - all concern for my waistline goes out the window while I devote myself to the joy of cooking. And when The Children get home from school and see a fresh plate of brownies waiting for them on the counter I feel like Mary Poppins ain't got nothing on me.

Dinner, on the other hand, is another matter entirely. I love vegetables. I love spice (see above). I love adding chili, or greek yogurt, or a spoonful of hot english mustard just to see what it will taste like. And while I appreciate that there is a time and a place for blander foods, there are only so many combinations of chicken/potato/peas/sweet corn/broccoli I can stomach (haha). I get it. I really do. I've had the science of developing taste pallets explained to me by a food scientist, for crying out loud. But that doesn't mean it's ok with me.

The thing is, the whole country seems to have the taste buds of a nine year old. British restaurants offer bangers and mash with the same reverence as they would a fresh caught lobster.

I knew when I came over here that the food was not likely to be as good. Australians are amazingly spoilt when it comes to food, particularly fresh produce. But fuuuuuuuck me. I'm jonesing for a proper salad worse than a freaking crack baby (am I allowed to say that? Unlikely).

So. Here's the plan. There are a plethora of restaurants around my area, and doubtless even more in town. I am going to try each and every one of them, one per week, until I find somewhere that can offer me a plate of food that doesn't leave me feeling unsatisfied (in any sense of the word). I do not want to eat something I could have cooked just as well at home; I do not want to be more interested in the overly affectionate couple at the next table than my food. Gastro pubs of London: gird your (pork) loins.

I'll let you know how it goes.