Making Friends with the Locals

One of the first things I did when I moved into my four bed house on a new estate (sorry, was that me dreaming of converted barns and Agas? Pfff!) Was associate myself with the local kids. This was due to necessity rather than want. There was a huge green outside my house and the 7 year olds alone looked particularly feral, let alone the footballing, shouting teenagers who towered above me and who looked older than my own dad. I did not want bags of poo into brown paper bags Set Alight on my doorstep thank you very much (I think you all know what I am talking about here!). So I set my sights on becoming one of those wonderful, friendly neighborhood mother hen types that all the kids love.

I could see it now "We wish she was OUR mum", or "She always looks so nice that lovely woman," or even "I can smell freshly baked bread every time I walk past that kind ladys house" blah blah you get the picture , Bree from Desperate Housewives, Anthea Turner, that kind of annoyance of a woman.

So, I set about making my legendary cookies. White chocolate, all butter, raspberry and coconut and of course, chocolate chip. I turned out batches of them. And then when I had neatly presented them on Gingham serviettes (ok, thats a little lie, I did not really do that, but I would have if I had thought about it at the time), I opened my front door in my beautiful floral dress (ok, another little fib, I was wearing jeans and a boob tube but hey, I am young, and cooking does not require a dress code you know, slutty cooking is fine, the cookies do not complain) and called out to the little darlings (urchins) to invite them to have some fine cookies whilst they played out in the summer sun.

What a stupid mistake.

I could not stop the little blighters knocking on my door for cookies daily. At first I was thrilled, my evil plan was coming together nicely - mwah ha ha. I loved it. I felt like Martha Stewart. However, I started to become what I believe is known by the small peoples community as a "Bean" = a total mug. The kids started pressing me for more, they wanted a drink of water "Miss", and so unable to form any adult way of saying get lost, I gave them some water (in a jug with ice cubes, oh god, when would I learn? I might as well have sliced up cucumber slivers and put fresh mint leaves in, the fool!). It then got steadily worse, and before long, I was whipping up milkshakes with Vanilla Ice cream (or chocolate, if thats what you prefer, sweetie?) When they were thirsty. I was powerless to say no. But, the tide had to turn, and I had to come to my senses, I was shutting the curtains in the day time to pretend I was not in, and leaving the house by the back door to avoid the cookie monsters.

Finally, it happened, one lunch time, the doorbell went, I took a deep breath and opened it with a lovely, warm smile. There, was one of the more annoying particularly children, who usually grated on me slightly by always having more than his fair share of the cookies, grabbing big greedy handful and running off. He was hopping all about, bright eyed and smelling of sweaty kid, covered in grass stains and mud, with a huge candle of snot which was quickly cuffed. He smiled, and said "Any chance of some Crisps and a sandwich?" My face must have frozen in horror for a second or two, then my eyes narrowed and psycho lady - who is now a favorite friend of mine - was there. I do not quite remember what I said But he never got his lovely little picnic from me, and word soon spread amongst the small people of the green that I was a looney.

I quickly turned into their minds from nice lady who bakes and loves every child the dear Lord created, to that mad old cow (I gained twenty years to them overnight) with glaring eyes who was incredibly mean and stank of piss. Because once you set your standards so high, if you then change them - especially with kids, in a small village, then quite frankly, you are the ultimate Baddie and naturally, their enemy. I spent the next six months of living there only venturing out in school times just to get away from their stares of disgust, and to avoid being egged of course.

Luckily, I have moved from that house now, and the green is a dim and distant memory. Though my dealings with local kids has improved, and now, baking cakes for them only happens in controlled circumstances such as School Fayre or special occasions. However, I only learned all of this fine wisdom the hard way, and I found out in the most horrible circumstances just before I moved, that kids never forgive or forget .... it involved a brown paper bag on my doorstep that was Alight .... Little Sods.