The mad season

The stir crazy season is upon us for this stay at home Brit. The days have become shorter, colder and practically gray from sunrise to sunset. The micro family have been hard hit with bad colds for the last two weeks, I get one, give it to my kid, he then gives it to my wife and it goes back and forth between us like a game of endless viral ping pong. The walls of my Moscow flat have once again closed in. I feel as if I am sharing a cell with a naughty monkey on steroids. The monkey is my adorable child but even so, with limited space, he drives me crazy. Climbing on the table, throwing stuff down the toilet, drawing on the walls, repeatedly turning the television on and off, screaming, throwing stuff at me. I dream of a bigger flat, a flat with long turning corridors and lockable rooms where I could hide from the world or even a house would be nice. I dream of a garden where I could grow vegetables or sleep under an apple tree while my kid plays happily on the grass. Short of winning the lottery, that will have to wait, for now anyway.

I must find a job, for I am man, man needs job, man must work, man bring meat. Then I will hire some kind baby sitter. I won't make a profit after paying the baby sitter but at least I'll get out of the flat and meet with adults of some description and regain the ability to speak adult and act adult. It would be nice to make friends with some Russians to try to get to know Russians and to feel Russia. At this time, I don't feel I know Russia very much since I am physically trapped in my cell five days a week with a naughty monkey. The television is on all day and I know all the shows on Travel & Living. I half watch them with one eye and ear. Is this what its like to be unemployed? I had forgotten before this new experience came along.

This grayness is hard to cope with and can last till March. It gets your spirits down and its so cold outside that going out to play is hard. Faces get red, skin gets dry and noses run with strings of snot. When a blue sky breaks through the winter cloud, its a cause of celebration here in Moscow. A bigger flat would make winter more bearable but bigger flats are out of price here as rent prices go beyond all greed. Last year was our first winter here and was a hard gig to do, this winter I know what to expect but it does not make it any easier dear reader.

A poem to poo

My son likes to poo but not in the loo and often in his shoe or in may hands or on the fold away divan.

Poo comes in all shapes and sizes, some rather small and some rather big, some long and thin in the shape of a biscuit tin. Some poo can be smelly like an old welly.

When I first started to change a nappy I felt rather crappy, I held my nose and crossed my toes. I stared at the contents and the shapes within some quiet artistic and looking rather ballistic like large brown bombs that rhyme with songs.

Potty training is another story and quite a skill too hard to teach too easy to spill. I dream of the day when nappies go away when my boy can poo and sit on the loo. I will be free and no pee, poo will be gone and I will sing a song. I am not a poet!