Mabel's Musings

I am not amused.



This one’s for you, Rube

“Why does Mabel make everything she eats turn into a mushy grey pulp?” 

“Mabel has just been sick into her box of squeaking eggs.”

“Look at her. Why does she keep making that face like Popeye?”

I have to live with these kind of comments on a daily basis. It is, quite frankly, insulting. But I do love my big sister. She’s the only one around here that will flip me a few rice cakes when she’s eating popcorn in the evening. She lets me gnaw on the end of her paint brushes when she’s doing her homework and Mother isn’t looking. 

She is my official advisor on the arts. We’ve visited galleries together, didn’t think much of Bacon but I am big Koons fan. 

 Some mornings, when I am sitting in my pyjamas in my highchair and Mother is in her dressing gown feeding me breakfast, Ruby says she’d rather stay home with us than go to college. But she always puts her Dr Martens on (at the same time as muttering to mum that she needs a new pair, she always needs a new pair) and leaves the house carrying luggage loads of art work. 

It’s not always picture of family glee though. I’ve noticed the way she studies a new outfit I’m sporting, mentally calculating the cost. Apparently the sound of me crying is the worst sound she has ever heard. Sometimes she says my nappy, and indeed I, stink.

But generally I would say she’s not half bad for a big sister. The arrival of Princess Mabeline on the scene has probably been a bit tough on Rube (she already told Mother she’s getting a French Bulldog instead of having babies). But I know she loves me really. 


Who’s your daddy?

Oh I can read inbetween the lines all right. Recently I have been described as; determined, strong-willed, focused. I have heard “She knows what she wants.” from both family, friends and strangers. And yes, I would say on the whole, I do. 

I am a small person, surrounded by big people. I have no time for faffing about. I cannot speak. It has taken them a while to get the hang of it but a long, low throaty growl means I want something. For instance, during bath time, I get lowered into the bubbles and am surrounded by my friends Pelican, Crab, Dolphin and Octo, this is not the full picture of bathing happiness. I stare meaningfully at Mr Penguin and growl until the top of his head is pressed and hey presto, a shower of bubbles fill the air.  

 Let me give you a little tip, it’s all about the body language. I may be 8 months old, but at bath time for example, I sit back in my seat like Ray Winstone in a sauna rather than a baby in a bath tub. It’s all about commanding authority.

I’m a morning person, but when I’m ready. Not quite asleep but not quite awake? Rest an innocent looking leg across your Mother’s body. 

 It may look cutesy, but it’s a heavy weight, no nonsense move.

Don’t want to leave Nana’s house and the plush surroundings of your play blanket and enormous selection of Primo lego? Turn on the waterworks but at the same time slap meaningfully at the hands that are trying to pick you up. 

  Follow my advice and you’ll be alright, kid. 

I should cocoa

Friday 11th September

A trip to the shops. Mother insisted on buying two pairs of inappropriately tight fitting trousers. When will she ever have occasion to wear them? Baby clinic perhaps? 

We stopped for coffee and cake and met with friends. The cafe had complete pushchair gridlock. Mother looked flustered in her standard uniform of jeans and long sleeved black tshirt and no make up. I didn’t fancy sitting in a highchair so did my best to backbreak while Mother tried to post my rigid and hostile frame in beneath the tray. It was a lost battle so once I had been strapped in I slumped against the side of the chair and did my best to look feeble and too small to be in such a contraption. It worked brilliantly, in under a minute I was on Mother’s lap. For the rest of our visit to the cafe I insisted on Mother giving me the option of a feed but was constantly distracted by the goings on of other customers. I distinctly heard Mother muttering on about ‘being forced to expose herself in public’. What a fuss about nothing.

Saturday 12th September

An introduction to fish pie. An elaborate dish that seemed to take forever to cook and seconds to eat. It seemed to bring on a shocking bout of hiccups that made me laugh but made Mother watch me with baited breath. I must say some were accompanied with a sort of fishy belching noise that were unpleasant to the nose and ear.

Spent a quiet evening on the sofa with siblings and Mother watching a low grade teen movie. I played happily with the lid to a deodorant can while Mother scoffed away a doughnut, packet of crisps and bar of Galaxy.

Sunday 13th September

Mother found a flea this morning. Poor Jarvis the cat is not her favourite member of the family at the best of times but as she would say ‘This is the icing on the cake’. Since my darling Jarvis got over his agoraphobia and has dabbled in visiting the outside world, his popularity in the household has dwindled. 

We visited Pets At Home where Mother had a long and over enthusiastic discussion with someone about flea spray without pesticides. I had a feeling Mother was slightly on edge today (she was scouring Ebay for cocktail cabinets this evening), she was quite short at times with the poor man. I however, had a chance to flap my arms at a parade of dogs and cats lined up for the vets. 

Jarvis has been combed and squirted with ointments. The house was hoovered to within an inch of it’s life and sprayed liberally with something that stank.

Pasta with garlic tomato sauce for supper. I am windy.

Monday 14th September

A morning with Father. We attended a fabulous session at Mini Monkeys gym. I had an absolute riot of a time. 

The session was great. I was the life and soul of the place. Although Mother breezed in towards the end at circle time, wafting her unmistakable scent of milk about the place and I fell to pieces. How will I show my face next week?

Spent an amiable afternoon with Mother and Father having a pub luncheon. The kitchen whipped me up a plate of mashed potato and carrot. I ate and then nodded off rather than watch them play backgammon. 

Pasta with chives and creamy cheese sauce for supper.

No fleas spotted this evening.

Tuesday 15th September 

Today was tip top. A lovely visit to a friend’s house, during which I was sick onto my own feet. I was hoping no one noticed. They did unfortunately. 

I then, along with Mother and Father, visited a place called ‘nursery’. Mother and Father sat on a sofa chatting to a lady and they both at times glanced over to me looking a bit bleary eyed and worried. They are strange sometimes. Luckily they buzzed off for a bit, I felt they were cramping my style. 

Chicken and red pesto for supper. Wowzah!

Wednesday 16th September

Mothers seems to think that I like my new baby walker, I don’t think I do really. She posts my legs through the holes, presses a few buttons and then says something along the lines of “I’m just washing up/hanging up the washing.” She always says it in a slightly manic, hopeful way too. Sit in my walker. I should cocoa. 

I had to endure the Bake Off ritual with Mother and Ruby this evening. Me and Jarv were bored out of our tiny minds.

Spaghetti with tomatoes, garlic and Parmesan for supper. Not the most thrilling dish.

Flea count, nowt.

HRH Princess Mabeline

My food is lumpy. Mashing with the back of a fork has begun. I must say, I am enjoying the introduction of a variety of new food stuffs. They are being served either by spoon (why are the handles so long? I do not wear a ruff) or messily scattered upon my highchair tray. I do not however enjoy being yanked at breakneck speed out of my highchair, to choruses of “Oh my God, oh my God!”, and jiggled about and slapped on the back until I spit out a mouthful of my dinner. It is quite unbecoming. 

I enjoy a finger food or two. Banana became a bit boring, toast crusts were introduced (“Oh my God, oh my God! Get her out, get her OUT!”), but disappeared. I favour a snack that they have named ‘middle class Wotsits’. They are chunky and fun to handle. I do not appreciate the way they listen and laugh as I gnaw at them. They should try biting into something with only two bottom teeth.

I am enjoying the new additions of toys to the household. Especially my super Tomy egg set, a must have for any 7 month old. When it comes to amusement however hard Mother and Father try, Nana knows best.

  When I arrive at Nana’s as soon as I enter the living room my special royal quilting is laid upon the floor. I exit my car seat in a state of twitching excitement you wouldn’t believe. Mood dependant I either go to Nana for a quick catch up or like to be placed straight into my seating area. I have toys at home, but let me tell you, the assortment Nana provides me with is mind boggling. I love it. Do I notice if Mother leaves the room, or in fact the building, once I am cocooned in Toy Land with Tim Wonnacot’s relaxing tones in the background? Do I ever! Stay out Mother, enjoy yourself. My nana and I will be just fine.


A strained week

I have paid many visits recently to the local hospital. Luckily not for me, but for other members of the family that have needed poking and prodding (no naming of names or tales of poking and prodding will be told here). I must say I find the fast pace and excitement of the A & E department most thrilling.  

   Who’d have thought a sick bowl could be worn in so many ways? I am like comedy dynamite in an accident and emergency situation.

I have only experienced minor medical troubles myself of late. The kind that I don’t like to talk about in public places. The kind that have seen an introduction of prunes to my morning porridge. Mother has also tried introducing cooled boiled water in a beaker to aid my troubles, the spout is always met with pursed lips and an angry expression. It’s not for me.


Seven months and two teeth.

After being around for nearly seven months I feel like I am pretty clued up on most things.

I still manage to spend most nights sleeping in Mother and Father’s bed, I can sit up and the bald patch on the back of my head is covering up again nicely. All is well.

The summer holidays have passed by and I must say, Mother had mentioned attending various swimming pools and zoos and parks, but all she seems to have done is built up a rotation of activities for me. My days therefore seem to consist of highchair, blanket and toys (along with a crescent of cushions to stop a repeat of recent head related injuries), carry around during tea making and phone conversations, highchair, blanket and toys and so on and so forth. I cannot complain however, they do make an effort to keep me entertained (if that’s what you call it), and they are sometimes quite amusing.

My love of the dog has blossomed over the summer months. I have spent many blissful moments sitting in my moses basket in the garden, under a sheet pegged onto the washing line. I work meticulously to handle my sorting shapes until, once they are covered in drool I drop them over the edge of the basket, never to be seen again. My dog sits by me and occasionally will drop a fragrant hairy tennis ball into my lap. I am never quite sure what to do with it, so we just look at each other and then the ball for quite a while. I love that dog.

Mother has recently introduced a variety of fruit and vegetables into my life. She whizzes them up with a hand blender with a proud look in her eyes, while the family meal from the freezer cooks in the oven on 220 degrees. I often enjoy the odd piece of fruit around lunch time. I find it a great stress reliever to eyeball my big sister, Ruby, and gently, but menacingly squeeze a banana in my fist until it oozes out between my fingers.

I have heard them discussing my supposed ‘temper’ in hushed tones, I can’t think why this is an issue. Perhaps if they took a moment to consider the discomfort of my wretched teeth slowly but surely sprouting up through my tender gums they would understand. Instead they slap some cold gel upon my gums and talk about similarities to someone called ‘Blakey’.

Mother and Father seem to be getting along again very well. There was a moment a while back when Father commented that Mother’s new post pregnancy hair regrowth gave her a likeness to Paul Weller, that I thought trouble could begin again, but all in all I have nothing to report on that subject.

So far, so good. Both Mother and I still recoil at the sight of metal salad spoons, so we’re still not quite over that one but the seven months so far have been a breeze.

Blog at

Up ↑