Gone Back South

Piggy Now, Perky Later

2011-01-26T21:55:00.007Z

January: the time for exercise, detox and healthy eating.

But I honestly don't know why I thought January would be a good month to stop drinking wine and scoffing crisps. I must have been deranged. January is an odious month and all I can do is try to mask its beastliness by ... well ... drinking wine and scoffing crisps as I wait for it all to be over.

I submitted my tax return today (slightly less hideous than expected) and I cleaned the bathroom (far more hideous than expected) so I have achieved something today, even if it's not healthy eating.

But never mind, payday will soon be here and soon after that the sun will shine and the clocks will change and I can wear sunglasses and then I expect I'll feel all perky and sprightly and decide to spring clean my insides with gallons of water and barrels of fresh veg. Until then, oink.

Keep it Simple

2010-12-31T15:55:00.004Z

Having spent FAR too much, eaten WAY too much and drank SUBSTANTIALLY more than is good for me, I am rather looking forward to being a churlish, miserly old skinflint for the long cold month of January.

... please excuse me whilst I pause typing so I can cram another leftover meringue into my unhungry gob ... there, that's better ...

Big G and I made two new year resolutions in 2010:
(1) Don't lose our jobs, and
(2) Sell the house up north

Both of which were achieved, so yippee. As simple folk, apparently devoid of overly radical ambitions, our new year resolutions for 2011 are in a similar vein:
(1) Earn more money, and
(2) Buy a house down south

... now please excuse me again whilst I go and tuck into a leftover mince pie. Meanwhile, Happy New Year!

Blue Polyester Spaghetti

2010-09-14T23:21:00.000+01:00

I bought the blue blanket nine years ago. I waddled into Mothercare like a bulbous penguin – hot, huffy and in a hurry to find comfort for the baby who had yet to draw his first breath.

I took the blanket home and washed it. I dried it, sniffed it and folded it up with gleeful anticipation. I dreamt of wrapping it around the soft little body that was kicking and wriggling and growing inside me, as I waited and waited and waited …

Eventually he came out and so did the blanket. At first it gave him warmth; later it gave much more. Security. Friendship. Somewhere to hide his face and cry. A plaything to wrestle with in his cot, he held the blanket up and gazed at the sunlight through the woven holes. He twisted it, hugged it and wrapped it around his feet. He learnt to walk so then he could drag it, swing it and take it outside.

Oops the blanket has torn, but never mind because now we have two! Oops torn again, but where did the other piece go? The baby got bigger and tougher, his blanket got smaller and tattered. No longer needed, all that’s left of it is a scrap – a tired, tiny tangle of blue polyester spaghetti. I had to use scissors to get it out of his bottom drawer, because some of the more wayward threads had wrapped themselves like ivy around the other ‘special stuff’ that he wants to keep: a carnival whistle, a sports day medal, a Mr. Funny bookmark, glass-less glasses and a cornucopia of other childhood knick knacks with cherished memories attached.

Now my small boy prefers football to snuggling, but the remnants of his blue baby blanket will never be thrown away. Sometimes, at bedtime, we look at it and laugh like fellow conspirators, remembering the olden milky days with a knowing chuckle. We feel ever so grown up.

Goodbye Little White House

2010-07-26T22:58:00.004+01:00

For my patient and forgiving readers who have been peering into this unreliable window on my life through their computer screens since 2008 ... when I first started wailing, and wondering why, and writing about how I had packed up and left my home, all my precious (but now fading) friends, my livelihood and the familiar streets of the birthplace of my precious babies and moved back down south ... well, we've finally sold the house!

Yes, our little white house in Cheshire. A place that holds a pinata-full of memories ... a little poke and they all come tumbling out. I still wish I could pick up that house that we nurtured so, and bring it down here. But that is of course fanciful silly-talk, and we've agreed to sell it to a stranger named Johns. Or is it Jones? Whoever they are, I hope they'll be happy there. I know I was (most of the time anyway).

Perhaps now Big G and I will be able to put down some new roots? Goodness knows, we have a bag full of homeless, dangling roots that need to be dug in somewhere.

Lime Green Time Machine

2010-06-20T23:14:00.006+01:00

I keep meaning to google 'Alzheimers Prevention Techniques', and then I forget to do it. This does not bode well.

Over the course of this joyful, irritating, delightful, busy and utterly mucky weekend, full of me-and-the-kids-at-home-shenanigans and mess and distractions and sillyness, I've been more than usually despairingly sensitive to the passing of time, and my children being so deliciously young yet growing up so terrifyingly fast.

Many many times I've thought to myself: "I should blog about that - I don't want to forget it".

I didn't blog. And now ... I've forgotten all of it.

The red wine isn't helping.

So here is my pledge to my blog: Tomorrow I'll scribble down (in my new lime green notepad) as many anecdotes as I can think of about this weekend, and then list the best of them as a 'Weekend Top Ten' list on my blog.

Okay with you, dear Reader?!

* * * * * * *

p.s. 26th July 2010: Dear Reader, never ever EVER believe any promises I ever make. Okay with you?

Feathering the Nest

2010-05-20T23:50:00.006+01:00

A couple of nights ago, I heard Big G pad along the carpeted corridor in socked feet, and flump into bed. Knowing that he doesn't 'feather the nest' as I do, before sleep, I decided to go and investigate.

He was lying in bed with his eyes closed and the bright ceiling light on. Although very tired after several disgustingly early mornings, he forced his bleary eyes open so we could have a little chat.

As we talked, I picked up and put away the piles of clothes on the bed, wondering how anyone could get into a bed covered in stuff.

Next I offered him a pillowcase, as I had taken them off that morning to wash, and he was lying straight on the pillow. "If there's one handy", he mumbled.

"Shall I put the duvet cover on then, before you nod off?" I asked. He thought that was a good idea, so I pulled the king size duvet off him and wrestled with getting it inside the cover, as he turned on his side and closed his eyes again.

Then I covered him up, gave him a kiss, turned the light off and left the room.

What would he do without me?

Sandy 1970

2010-05-17T23:03:00.012+01:00

This is one of my favourite family photos from ye olden days gone by. My sister is too busy guzzling to smile at the camera; my Dad inexplicably has a pair of knickers on his head; my Mum is having a helluva time; and my baby brother (who has just turned 40) is rolling around with his head in the sand and an elbow in his chin. No wonder he grew up to be the most laid-back of all of us.

Me, I am the toddler on the right, dressed in a woolly jumper (my parents took us to the beach whatever the weather), clearly enjoying the chaos in front of me, destined to be forever the diplomatic middle child, cursed with a balanced view, usually hesitant with indecision, and blessed blessed blessed blessed blessed.

Dreaming of Enid

2010-05-15T22:50:00.004+01:00

Having glued my eyeballs to non-stop Enid Blyton books at my most delicate age, I grew up convinced that no decent day out was complete without a yummy picnic in the fresh air. Hard-boiled eggs and tomato sandwiches, home-made lemonade and great slabs of cake for afters. Hoorah!

But a real-life, grown-up picnic is never quite like that, is it? By the time we decide to have one, it’s usually too late to go shopping for chicken satay and potato salad, so I peer into the cupboard and cobble together some sandwiches and crisps. If I find a packet of chocolate biscuits, that’s good. Raw carrots and a few water bottles in the bag and we’re good to go.

The time comes, and we meet our friends in the car park of our chosen scenic spot. I lug bags as the children shoot off like speeding bullets before I can ask them to carry anything. If there are picnic benches, they are splattered with bird poo or next to an overflowing bin, so we wander down to the riverbank or up a hill. Choosing a spot turns into a game of ‘find the least muddy bit’.

Out comes the food. Unless I’ve had a rare Nigella moment the night before, my friends will usually have out-lunched me. They joyfully nourish their patient, grateful offspring with delicious pasta salad and garlic rolls on smart orange plastic plates; Me, I wrestle my children to the ground and plonk squashed sandwiches and a packet of hula hoops into their grubby hands, growling “eat the sandwiches first.” We nibble our chocolate biscuits (melted) as we are attacked by wasps or menaced by dogs that look only slightly scarier than their owners.

But the dream never dies, and I will still plan picnics in the hope that they will be more romantic and delightful than they probably will be. Tonight I was reading some Enid Blyton to my daughter, and the children in the story did indeed have yet another picnic - this time it was a ham and a fruit cake from the market wrapped in a tea towel, and some ginger beer. Hoorah Hoorah Hoorah!

My Lunch and the Queen's Lunch

2010-05-12T19:05:00.012+01:00

I had this lovely award from the delightful Nappy Valley Girl

Thank you. It comes with an invitation to share 7 little known facts about myself, so here goes:

1. At lunchtime I had an accident involving my thumb and a sharp kitchen knife. My daughter, off school with a cold, went chalky green and had to lie down. I calmly and efficiently soaked up the blood, bound the cut with steri-strips and plasters, and then went chalky green and had to lie down.

2. There are many good things to appreciate about my job … but I secretly resent feeling like a tired middle-aged mum that does part-time office work.

3. Sometimes, when Big G climbs quietly into bed and I’m already asleep, I wake up suddenly with a fright, demanding to know who he is? and what does he think he’s doing? He finds all this highly amusing.

4. Many sleeps ago … I used to make my own mini dresses and wear them with Doc Marten boots.

5. My soft, loving, lavender-laced grandmothers were called Daisy and Dorothy.

6. My favourite moment, in the early hours of Election Night, was when David Dimbleby said: “the Queen has made it quite clear – she won’t be seeing anyone until after lunch today”.

7. I have a few dark secrets that I may never tell anybody … although I might, when I’m very old, think: “that’s a waste of a good secret if it never gets told”.

As for passing this award on, I gladly give it to anybody kind enough to visit my blog.

Not Cold, Hungry, Hot ... or Running

2010-05-07T22:16:00.004+01:00

I had completely forgotten how important it is, when planning a training run, to time your food intake. If I eat too soon, I don't have enough energy and get hungry again just before the run; If I eat too late, I get a stitch and running is painful. So, as the only time I could run on Wednesday was 1.30pm, I ate my lunch at 11.30am! And it went well.

The other tricky thing to get right is layers of clothing: If I'm not cold when I leave the house, I'll definitely be too hot later. But if I am cold when I leave the house, I might never warm up enough later and that's even worse! Nevertheless, when I do manage to get most of those things more or less right, and the ipod's pumping out a great song, and my legs and lungs are feeling strong, and I don't step in dog shit or get a fly up my nose ... running can be BLISS!!!

One thing I got very wrong this week was registering online for the 10K I volunteered to run on May 31st. The charity told me that, to claim my 'guaranteed' place, I must register by 5th May. I wrote it in my diary, in pen. But what I failed to notice was that I had to do it by 5pm, and naturally I didn't log in until 6.30pm. Oops. One lost place and many embarrassed grovelling emails later, I now feel terribly guilty and have promised to find another event to do to raise money for this charity instead. Oh well, at least I'll have more time to train.

Amazing Rosie

2010-05-05T12:45:00.010+01:00

I don't watch much TV, but I made a point of seeing one of the Eddie Izzard Runs a Million Marathons for Sport Relief programmes. Eddie had a brief visit on the road from Rosie Swale Pope, who ran solo around the world to raise money for prostate cancer awareness, and other charities.

I had never heard of the adventurer Rosie Swale Pope, who set off at the age of 53 to run across Europe, crossed Russia, Siberia and Alaska, then ran through the USA, Greenland, Iceland and arrived back in the UK 5 years later. She mainly camped alone, dealing with hunger, extreme cold, frostbite, blizzards, villians, wolves, broken ribs; you name it, she dealt with it and lugged her stuff in a cart the whole way too.

When I saw Rosie on TV, I immediately bought her book and couldn't put it down. What I loved most about this book was her enormous gratitude for all the people who helped her along the way - very poor people with almost nothing took her into their humble homes and warmed her up, shared their food, let her wash and sleep in a warm bed before heading off again. It is a tale of overwhelming kindness.

Rosie inspired me start running again, to raise money for charity. I have run marathons and half marathons in my past life (i.e. before kids) but as my fitness levels are now a fraction of what they used to be, I'm starting slowly with a 10K on 31st May.

Back From the Dead

2010-05-04T18:53:00.005+01:00

I've been having a minor identity crisis. There has been an unhealthy abundance of umm-ing and ahh-ing going on in my life this past year; dark thoughts, life coaching, self-obsession, heart-searching, soul-searching, reflection, rumination, oh, that sort of thing.

I've started several new blogs and given them up because they just weren't ... well ... me, so I've come back here where I started. And very nice it feels too.

The intimate details of my little trip around WhoTheHellAmI? would be as dull to you as waiting for a bus that never comes in the rough end of town on a rainy Sunday afternoon, so I won't bore you with them now.

I will reveal, however, that I now have an A5 sheet of paper with a 5-year life plan on one side and a 20-year plan on the other. It's laminated, and tucked inside the front of my diary. Sad, maybe? But it works for me.

That's Enough of That

2009-02-26T08:54:00.006Z

This is my 100th post, and probably my last as Gone Back South. I'm glad I started this blog - it was fun and wonderful therapy when I needed it, and I've found some lovely lovely LOVELY people in the blogosphere. The thing is, I just don't feel like being GBS anymore. The future is calling ... I'll keep reading my favourite blogs, maybe leave some comments, and when I start a new blog with a new name I'll pop over and say hi. Life is sweet!

With love,
GBS
x

Life's Punctuation Marks

2009-02-15T22:43:00.009Z

Everyone was away except me. Big G was abroad and the children were at my sister's. I kept hearing noises and imagining somebody shifty was trying to open the back door. I microwaved an odd but surprisingly tasty combination of leftovers, poured a glass of wine and soaked in an almost unbearably hot bath. It was so quiet. Then I plodded downstairs and slumped on the sofa.

Having zero tolerance to most mainstream TV, because frankly, it's shite, I amused myself by hopping through the music channels. It's one of the joys of solitude, channel hopping in peace. Q is by far the best: I was treated to Placebo, David Bowie, REM, Radiohead, Alanis Morissette, and then Scar Tissue by the Red Hot Chili Peppers came on.

Ah yes, scar tissue. The reason I'm sore and resting and should not lift heavy things. Scars are Life's Punctuation Marks. Every time you collect a new scar (emotional or physical?!) you slow life down to a stop, pause, breathe in and think for a little while.

Opium for the Wounded

2009-02-08T16:55:00.010Z

A woman knocked me out, and a man sliced me open like a fish.

I had an operation on Thursday, stayed 3 nights in hospital, and now I'm home in bed. Nothing too serious, don't worry, but I have to rest up and take it easy for 6 weeks!

When I awoke, after the surgical deed was done, I was fuzzy and muzzy and floppy. They checked me and fed me, and I nodded off with a piece of tomato in my mouth. Like a baby I lay helpless, as strangers soothed me with words and fiddled with wires and tubes. I knew I had to trust them. I knew I had to lie on my back and not move. I knew I had a button to press which beeped and released morphine on demand.

I drifted in and out of sleep, waking and beeping as I sailed on a wierd and colourful morphine-filled voyage that night. I dreamt I was at home, that my children had grown up, I was chopping onions, I was chasing bees, I was a pirate, I was putting papers in the fridge, I was Brad and Angelina's nanny. In my dream, Brangelina lived in a small house with their 6 children, one of whom was my nephew. I suggested boxing up some of Angie's designer dresses that were lying around the spare room still in their wrappers, and giving them to a charity shop. "Good idea", said Brad, as he mowed the lawn.

Sadly, they don't give you morphine for long.

Maximum Madness

2009-01-14T21:57:00.008Z

"Have you gone mad?" asked my parents, as I told them the plan.

"We all think you're mad", said one mum, as she dropped off.

"You must be mad", said a dad, as he picked up.

My son's 7th birthday party was at our (fairly small) house on Sunday: 16 children, mostly boys, mostly aged 6-7.

We played games like Pin the Trunk on the Elephant, Pass the Parcel and Treasure Hunt in teams.

We caused a riot between the sofas with a candy-spraying pinata.

We settled disputes over prizes.

We fed them junk food.

We let them trash the boy bedroom and run about in police clothes and helmets, shooting and sword-fighting with anything that might resemble a weapon (with a little imagination).

We freed the boy who got stuck in the loo.

We gleefully accepted sister-in-law's offer of help.

We marvelled at how boys won't walk if they can run, won't run if they can roly-poly, and always SHOUT FOR NO REASON!!!

We declared our bedroom strictly off-limits. Strictly. Off. Limits.

We hid the hamster.

We threw punch balloons (big ones on elastic) down the stairs, turned the music up and got out of the way as our guests almost combusted with excitement.

We shouted a lot and hardly anyone listened.

We turned off the lights for the candles on the Spongebob Squarepants cake ... how I love watching kids' faces when everyone sings 'Happy Birthday to You' (and just for once nobody bellowed out a rude version).

Have I gone completely ding-dong-doo-lally-stark-staring-bonkers-checking-into-cloud-cuckooland MAD? Probably. But it won't be long before the kids want to do something more sedate on their birthdays like bowling, cinema, or pizza, with just a few close friends. And then they won't want me at their birthday parties at all. So I reckon I might as well make the most of this short time and keep their parties as insane as possible.

Our Lazy Days Are Numbered

2009-01-04T22:32:00.008Z

Tonight the kids and I had one of those long-film, easy-food, no-bath kind of evenings. They tumbled about laughing, gave each other wedgies and went to bed deliciously late and mellow. I slobbed about in sweatpants, neglected all the chores and took a leisurely tour round some of my favourite blogs instead.

Over Christmas I was sick and had no appetitite, so I lost quite a lot of weight. Now I'm better, my body has moved cleverly into post-famine fat-hoarding mode, which coincides nicely with having a kitchen full of Christmas chocolate biscuits. It's getting out of control ... surely I've had enough catch-up calories by now?

We only have one day left to be lazy toads, before going back out into the real world to report dutifully to work and school on Tuesday. Shame really, I'm quite enjoying this!

Beach House Treasure

2009-01-03T23:07:00.007Z

Grandma Dorothy's white hair was rinsed pale blue, pink or purple at the hairdressers. "My hair used to be thick and dark, just like yours", she told me as a child, leaving me wondering if I too would go lilac in old age.

She and Grandad Wilf lived in a bungalow near a stony beach by the sea. Her oil paintings of roses and holidays hung on the walls, and a clock tick-tocked on the sideboard, keeping us kids awake at night. Grandma Dorothy made her own jam and stored it in jars with paper lids in the larder. There was an apple tree and a bird bath in the neatly manicured back garden, and squidgy white sofas in the 'sun room' where they snoozed after lunch. The greenhouse - Grandad Wilf's hideaway - was full of buckets, watering cans and seed trays. It smelt of soil and home-grown tomatoes.

We used to take bets on what colour dress Grandma Dorothy would be wearing, when we drove to the south coast to visit. Her dresses were always bright, often floral, and she wore them with slippers and an apron while she cooked lunch. Her teeth fell out after the war, probably because of having babies on food rations. But she had false ones, and the brightest and most genuine smile I have ever seen. I'll always remember her laughing eyes as she hugged us when we got out of the car.

The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers

2008-12-31T10:47:00.007Z

What an odd year this has been. For our little family, 2008 began with sorrow and is ending with optimism. The rest of the world examines its cuts and bruises, and wonders ... what next? 2009 is waking up.

For me, the new year is a time to hug my loved ones close and give thanks for all my blessings. Whatever might have pulled me down last year, it's time to bounce back and start afresh this year!

May all you delightful writers and readers out there in the blogosphere be blessed with fine fortune, rosy-cheeked good health, a spring in your tail, joy in your hearts and fun fun fun fun fun. x

The Wrong Kind of Cough

2008-12-27T21:35:00.006Z

I can't sleep because every time I lie down I start coughing. Sitting up helps the cough, but not the sleep. I spent Christmas night on the sofa so Big G could sweat out his flu fever in delirious solitude.

So I went to the chemist today and asked for some medicine that would suppress my cough at night.

"Is it chesty or tickly?" asked the pharmacist.

"Chesty", I wheezed.

"Sorry, no, we've only got tickly", she said firmly, with a sidelong glance at a large shelf groaning under the weight of at least 30 different types of cough medicine.

"But I bought Benylin for chesty coughs", I explained, coughing, "but it just loosens everything up and makes you cough more. I want something that stops me coughing at night".

"Well, I don't know ... if it's chesty ..."

"What about that one?" I blurted, pointing at a serious looking bottle labelled NIGHT-TIME COUGH SUPPRESSANT MEDICINE.

The pharmacist frowned. "Hmmm, well it won't cure the cause of the cough, it'll just stop you coughing".

"I'll take it", I said.

The Sick, the Sicker and the Very Excited

2008-12-23T22:09:00.005Z

The Sick = Big G and Me. We are wretched with earaches, headaches, sore throats and rattling coughs from the deep that make 40-a-day smokers sound healthy.

The Sicker = Grandad G. He flew in with wheelchair assistance and is hobbling around the house, able to walk only when leaning on a rail or an arm. The slapdash doctor who's trying to avoid the inevitable Knee Operation will have an ear-ache of his own in the new year, when Big G gets on the phone.

The Very Excited = Who else? At 7 and 8 years old, the children are still splendidly Santa-Centric. They leap and whoop their way past the presents and the tree, the lights and the chocolates, all the way to Thursday. I really hope I feel better by then ...!!

Oh, Tannenbaum

2008-12-16T08:02:00.002Z

I can smell it now, that magical whiff of pine needles and oven-fresh mince pies. We dust off the Bing Crosby carol CD, and his velvet voice competes with the shrieks of the children. I love that cold afternoon when we turn up the heating and put up the tree.

The twinkling trees that light up the land between December and twelfth night have their roots in sixteenth century Germany (‘Tannenbaum’ means ‘fir tree’ in German). Folklore tells us that the triangular shape of the fir represented the holy trinity – the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit – and that originally Christmas trees were hung upside down.

Even the right way up, they didn’t really catch on with the English until, in December 1848, the London News printed a woodcut illustration of Queen Victoria with her German Prince Albert, standing in front of one. Victoria was a popular queen, and Christmas trees became quite the fashion after that.

Throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, Christmas tree fashions came and went. In World War II they were forbidden except in public places where they were put up to boost moral. They returned in the glow of post-war nostalgia, and families gleefully shopped at Woolworth’s for baubles, tinsel, angels and stars. The psychedelic 60’s brought us tacky, pre-lit silver trees, and 1970’s housewives bought plastic green ones that didn’t drop needles on the carpet.

I have always thought that, like dogs, Christmas trees say something about their owners: Some are small and neatly tucked in the corner; some lush and gloriously overcrowded with quirky baubles; others a simple, quiet statement of elegance. Oh Tannenbaum, what a lot you have to tell us.

Tea-Towels and Tinsel

2008-12-09T21:49:00.007Z

An obedient hush came over the audience as the Head Teacher stood up on the stage in his courdoroy suit, with his rosy cheeks and shaggy rock-star hair. "If you're expecting a Christmassy feel to the show, you won't be disappointed", he grinned, "there are tea-towels on heads, lots of tinsel and glitter, it's really wonderful".

Aaahh, the infants' nativity. Every child - the good and the naughty, the dim and the sharp - has a little part to play. My son was a Narrator and wore a white shirt and black bow tie. The Donkey plodded about and looked embarrassed. The Sheep wiggled their tails and got a hearty laugh. The Innkeepers shook their heads. The biggest girl was in charge of holding the extra-large star on a stick, and got some extra-loud applause. Twenty more Stars in yellow t-shirts and golden crowns waved their arms and sang about twinkling in the East. The Angels sang too - a little out of tune perhaps - but it sounded heavenly to me. The youngest Shepherd yawned as it got close to bedtime.

It's delicious, the school nativity. It makes us parents do those proud, misty-eyed, movie-mother sorts of smiles.

Outside Looking In

2008-12-07T21:56:00.007Z

I went out running the other night. I'd left it too late and it was dark already. Not just darkish, but freezing cold, icy black dark, with tiny stars peeping through the wispy fog hovering above the trees. I wished I'd worn a hat.

I started running up the hill and did a bit of a skid on a patch of ice. Shit, I thought. Turning round and going home was not an option, I'd been waiting all day for this run. So I jogged on slowly instead - taking small, careful granny steps - treading on piles of old crunchy leaves whenever I could, to reduce the chances of slipping.

I love running in the dark. Gardens are spooky and all is quiet. People sit in their brightly-lit lounges with the curtains wide open, scratching themselves and feeding their faces, watching TV and not caring that I can look in and see them as clearly as if they were on TV themselves.

I run slowly past, invisible, breathing in icy gulps of air, glad that I'm outside and they're not.

Stop, Look and Listen

2008-11-12T19:39:00.007Z

We parents tell our children lots of things we think they need to know. "Never trust a man who wears a ring on the outside of his gloves", for example.

Sometimes they ignore what we say ("keep the noise down please").

Often they do the opposite of what we say ("it's Saturday tomorrow, try and sleep in late").

And occasionally they know what we're going to say before we say it ("time to go out, have you been to the toilet?")

Some parents have an annoying habit of telling their children that "things were better in the olden days". This is of course untrue, not least when it comes to government road safety campaigns. No offence 1970's Alvin Stardust, but I'm not sure the sight of you wearing a monkey on your head and giving us a serious look was ever going to deter anyone from walking out in front of a car. In fact quite the opposite, might I suggest.

But whatever you tell your kids today, and whatever they hear, tell them to watch this ...

November Tears and Fears

2008-11-08T07:37:00.005Z

Tonight we'll go to the bonfire party where I used to go as a child. Big G will be with us so we can hang on to one child each in the crowd.

Last year was so different. He was working away as usual, so I took the children on my own to the fireworks display in the quaint northern village where the children's school was. We went every year, in a big dark field up the hill from the church, where you were never very far from a sheep. In the car park field, wardens waved torches and wheels got stuck in the mud.

I found my friends - a small group of lovely mums from school - bound by the emotional bonds of small children growing up together. We used to meet for coffee and share the ups and downs of our lives. The kids ran around with their little mates, thrilled to be out in the dark and having hot dogs for tea. I remember the heat of the bonfire, the sky as it lit up and the smell of smoke as it drifted over the woods, blending in with the rain clouds on that cold November evening.

That night was 2 weeks before we were due to move back down south. Perhaps it was the loneliness, the exhaustion, or the fear of saying goodbye. Perhaps it was just overwhelming self-pity because my friends were all with their husbands and mine was so far away. Whatever the reason, I started crying and couldn't stop! Luckily it was dark and luckily there were arms to hug me and friendly faces to listen while I wept.

I can't believe a year has passed since then! I'm really looking forward to tonight.

Bump, Bump and Bump

2008-11-06T22:28:00.006Z

Today my daughter fell off the monkey-bars and sprained her leg, so she limped home from school weary and whimpering and had a long soak in a hot bath. Later I accidentally nudged her off the sofa and she banged her foot and started crying.

My son got hit hard on the chin at lunchtime with a tennis racket which has left a sore, lumpy bruise. He came out of school looking tearful and wobbly. He held his tears in until he got home, then he let go and they trickled quietly down his soft pink cheeks.

I felt sorry for the boy so I reached down to pick him up. I wasn't standing up straight properly and sprained my back. I think it's time to declare this day way too dangerous, and go immediately to bed.

Heroes

2008-11-05T10:07:00.004Z

My little boy came down for breakfast.

Me: "Guess what, Obama won!"

Boy: "He WON? Yay! Can I go and wake Daddy up to tell him?"

Me: "Yes, but eat your cereal first"

Boy: "Can anyone in America be president?"

Me: "Yes, if they are clever enough and work very hard"

Boy: "I'm going to live in America when I grow up. I'm going to be president. And I'm going to be a Dad too, of course."

Old Rivals

2008-11-04T23:14:00.008Z

The taxi driver who took me to the meeting from the train station is a Liverpool fan.

The taxi driver who took me from the meeting back to the train station supports Everton.

The fact that I found this out without asking says a lot about the place (and no, I can't take credit for this photo)!

Ticket to Ride

2008-11-03T21:57:00.003Z

Tomorrow I'm going to Liverpool and back in one day. The Beatles have absolutely nothing to do with it, but I do like this photo. I am slightly miffed that as I zoom to Liverpool and back I'll be passing my old friends in Cheshire on the way, without getting off the train to say hello. Oh well, can't be helped.

So now I must blog off and search for something vaguely suitable to wear for a meeting. I'm kind of looking forward to some time sitting still in one place and reading. I hope it's warm and empty on the train - cold and crowded will ruin everything.

Betty Marathon

2008-11-02T19:04:00.005Z

When I first met Big G, he raved about this arty French film he'd just seen, called Betty Blue. "I'd like to see that", I said. Almost twenty years passed, and on Friday night I finally got to see it.

We snuggled up under a blanket on the sofa - candles lit, full tummies from a late dinner - it was lovely. We watched the film in all its fleshy, romantic, hedonistic, quirky, obsessive, rambling, subtitled cult-classic glory. Divine.

An hour and a half passed and the story was still going strong. Two hours, and no sign of an ending. We started yawning and made some tea. After two and a half hours, we popped out the DVD to check the running time: 2 hours, 58 minutes. Clearly we've lost our movie stamina over the years, so we turned it off, went to bed, and watched the last half an hour yesterday.

I do recommend Betty Blue, but don't watch it if you are easily shocked, the nervous type, or in any kind of a hurry.

Halloween in a Hurry

2008-11-01T13:56:00.005Z

Yesterday I broke my pledge to blog every day until my birthday, but hey, nobody's perfect.

In the last few years - when I worked from home and had a bit more time on my hands - I started to plan halloween activities weeks ahead. This year, by contrast, I only started thinking about it on the day, as I left work.

3pm: Made a couple of frantic phone calls to rustle up at least one friend with no plans

3.15pm: Dashed to Waitrose to buy 2 pumpkins, some vampire teeth and treats

3.45pm: Picked up the kids from Grandma's and drove home, responding to a rapid fire of halloween-questions on the way

4.00pm: Big G and the kids started carving pumpkins and looking for candles; I dug in the fridge for a speedy supper

4.30pm: Up to the bedrooms to negotiate costume details - it was a very cold night - and emerged with one witch and one ghost

4.45pm: Wrestled torches off excited children so they could concentrate on speed-eating

5.00pm: Found face paints, wiped food from mouths, applied white and green accordingly.

5.15pm: Drove back to town to pick up only available friend

5.45pm: Gladly accepted Big G's offer to take the 3 Trick or Treaters out. Dedicated the following hour to and tidying up and answering the door to ghouls and skeletons

And so it went on ... full speed ahead ... we eventually got the kids to bed by 9pm when we got them down off the ceiling, high as kites on sugar, excitement and e-numbers.

Ah, parenting - it's so relaxing.

Out of Africa

2008-10-30T22:20:00.005Z

On Monday Mum and Dad came back from their first ever holiday in Africa. They went to Kenya - some beach, some safari, loads of sun. Kenya has suffered terribly since last year's riots beat the tourism industry to within an inch of its life ... there were just 40 guests in a hotel that sleeps 500.

Today Mum and Dad came over to see all 7 grandchildren who were squashed in, like wriggling worms, to our little house. They came clutching brilliant memories, a glossy Kenya book and some beaded bracelets for the kids. There was also a soft, fragile, ornamental Masai necklace made from tiny black, bronze and cream beads. My 15-year old neice politely declined the necklace, it was passed around from my sister-in-law to my daughter, and somehow ended up around my neck.

Lucky me :-)

Halloween Snow

2008-10-29T18:21:00.008Z

Apparently it hasn't snowed in London in October for 70 years. Last night, snow fell and quickly turned to crunchy ice. This morning we scraped the car, poured hot water on the windscreen, and the children and I set off for my sister's house.

I don't know if it was because of the ice, but 2 trucks collided on the M40 this morning. One driver died and one truck shed its load of lard. The police closed the motorway, and all the surrounding roads were gridlocked. It took me almost 4 hours to drive the journey that usually takes 40 minutes.

As I was slowly making my way home alone, my sister phoned to tell me that all 5 of the cousins had been playing out in the snow, they'd had lunch, and our sons (aged 6 and 7) were having a lovely time, naked. "Naked snow ball fighting?" I asked. "No, just naked", she replied. "That's alright then", I thought.

The Toad, the Quandry and the Anti-Role Model

2008-10-28T22:16:00.008Z

Ooooh. Yeuch. Some slimy moron left a grubby comment on one of my posts, so I deleted it and switched 'Comment Moderation' back on. I'm all for freedom of speech, but this is my blog and if someone wants to advertise sex aids on it, they should have the decency to ask first. The toad.

And I have been the laziest blogger ever recently. In fact, I can't decide whether to carry on or not. I haven't even bothered logging in and leaving comments with all my favourite writers out there in blogland. So I've decided to blog every single day from now until my birthday, and then make up my mind whether to blog-on or blog-no-more.

Meanwhile, with a week to go until the US presidential elections, I am keeping everything crossed for Obama. How could anyone not want him to win? One of the many things that irks me about McCain was his statement that "Sarah Palin is a role model for women". How the hell does he know who my role models are? I'll pick my own, thank you. I mean, would anyone ever say they picked so-and-so for their running mate because "he is a role model for men"? Of course not. Patronising twat.

The Swims We Do For Love

2008-10-06T21:36:00.006+01:00

I was shivering with cold, wet and exposed, brushing up against hoards of nearly-naked strangers with spotty backs and miserable faces. The urge to escape smothered me as children's screams bounced off the walls and made my ears hurt. Boredom pinched me with its cold mean fingers as I forced myself to smile, aching to be home reading the paper and drinking hot tea.

Thirty l-o-n-g minutes earlier we had approached the front desk: "Four for swimming please", smiled Big G. The children scrambled into their swimsuits in a froth of excitement: "Watch me!" they whooped a hundred times, swimming from Mum to Dad and back again, daring to go, gasp, "right under!" Goggles and wet hair got crazy and tangled. What fun. The wave machine came on (with the Hawaii Five 0 theme tune at top volume), so the children leapt about like seal pups, diving down, bursting up for air, laughing with skinny legs and arms sticking out all over the place.

S-i-g-h.

Role Reversal

2008-09-27T17:00:00.003+01:00

So there I am in my bedroom, in front of the mirror in my undies, singing along to the perfect song for a sunny Saturday. My make-up's done and I'm straightening my hair.

The door flies open and in marches an eight year old girl. She's been ready for ages, waiting for me. "It's too LOUD" she snaps, turns the music down and stomps out.

Now hang on ... isn't that the wrong way round?!

Amazing

2008-09-23T21:01:00.010+01:00

Girl: "Who did you wave at?"

Me: "Your uncle - he just went past"

Girl: "I didn't see his car."

Me: "No, he was on his bike"

Girl: "His BIKE?!! Where was he going?"

Me: "Home. He rides his bike to the station so he can go to work"

Girl: "He works at the STATION?!!"

Me: "No ... he gets the train to work"

Girl: "WHAT? He gets the TRAIN to work?!!"

And so it goes on and on ... the curiosity of the very young ... the endless questions ... pounding relentlessly on our heads until our ears are deaf and our brains are numb. And we wouldn't have it any other way!

Peachy Surrender

2008-09-21T21:31:00.005+01:00

My parents took me upstairs to my old bedroom to admire the new wardrobe for my Dad's clothes. A place for everything, and the drawers slide smoothly shut with a satisfying click.

The warmest place in the house, at the front and above the kitchen, I liked that old bedroom when I was little. I could see my best friend's house opposite and keep look-out for relatives arriving on Sundays just before lunch. Before we extended the house, my sister and I shared that room. We made up putting-things-away-games when our mum tortured us with having to tidy our room. We messed it up something shocking, and complained like banshees when we had to tidy it. The room's very neat now, what with the children in their forties, a new wardrobe and everything.

One day my sister and I were given a Roald Dahl book each: I got Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, she got James and the Giant Peach. I loved my book. I read it over and over again, living the story, soaking up every detail of every picture, convinced I got the better deal. A stubborn younger sister, I refused to swap and read hers. I remember picking up her book and staring at it, wondering what the bugs were all about, flicking the pages, slowly turning it over and reading no more than the back cover.

When I'd finished admiring the new wardrobe, my mum suggested I borrow some of the few remaining children's books left on the shelf. I finally relented and took James and the Giant Peach to read to my daughter. It's brilliant!

Better Together

2008-09-18T20:22:00.006+01:00

This week Big G said cheerio to his American job and came back to start a cooler one in the UK. No more trans-Atlantic commuting for him. He flew into Heathrow in the early morning sunshine, with 3 duffle bags and a back-pack. We loaded up the Toyota and drove home.

In the 19 months he's been working abroad, I've been bending under the weight of loneliness, stress and frustration, all crammed into a stiff, prickly bag called self-pity, sitting heavy on my shoulders. I'm tough enough and didn't break ... with a little help from my friends and family ... but I do declare there have been some very gloomy days.

And how do I feel today? Today I feel relief. Relief, relief, relief.

Don't Grow on Trees

2008-09-14T21:34:00.006+01:00

The car was packed for the long drive home this afternoon, and the time had come to start rounding up my grubby children - tired but happy from a brilliant weekend of non-stop playing with old pals, and a too-short night on a blow-up mattress.

I stood in the garden with my friend, car keys in hand, and we had one last laugh at the expense of our deliciously sensitive and over-dramatic sons:

"You're MEAN Mummy, you just don't understand how I FEEL", I mocked.

"Mummy, this has been the WORST day of my LIFE", she mimicked.

And then we cackled like hags, shoulders shaking as we tried to laugh quietly so the children wouldn't know we were talking about them.

Yes, I managed to dig myself out of Cheshire and plant myself back here in southern soil ... but one thing I've learnt is that friendships like that one don't grow on trees.

See Ya

2008-08-09T20:33:00.004+01:00

Time for a little blog break. Things to do, you know how it is.
Bye for now,
GBS
x

A Little Boy's Fall For Grace

2008-08-05T23:18:00.004+01:00

My daughter has lost 8 teeth so far, and until today my son had lost just the bottom two. They've both written letters to their Tooth Fairies and discovered that hers is called Gretel and his is called Grace.

Just before we left America on Sunday, one of my son's top teeth moved into a new phase of wobbliness. By this morning, after some frantic jiggling, he was able to poke it out of his mouth like Nanny McPhee.

This afternoon he cried out, in a panic, that his wobbly tooth really hurt. As I walked towards him, I saw him give it a big tug, his head went slowly down onto the table and then he fell backwards to the floor. The tooth was out and he had fainted.

He awoke almost immediately and started crying so I picked him up and took him upstairs to lie down on my bed. He was white as milk with no colour in his lips, and his eyes were scarily sleepy. He had a headache and pins and needles in his shoulders. I reassured him but needed reassurance myself, so I called my parents. Then I called the doctor, who said as long as he hadn't banged his head on the way down I should keep him home and let him rest. The poor little boy felt awful.

After a while his cheeks were pinker and he looked less worried so I took him downstairs for a drink, some cookies and Bedknobs and Broomsticks on DVD. He got back to his normal bouncy self as the evening progressed. As he put that troublesome tooth in an envelope for Grace, he thought for a moment and said: "if I write and tell her this tooth made me faint, do you think she'll give me more money?"

Bobbing About

2008-08-02T02:20:00.010+01:00

... it did end (boo). We had our 3 long snoozy days on Sanibel Island. We found a couple of southern family restaurants that serve corn breads before appetizers and cook jumbo shrimp in a dozen different ways. It was great to see everyone relaxing, getting brown and sleeping late.

Yesterday we stayed inside between lunchtime and 4pm, and even then the sun was still scorching. We all wandered down to the beach and I made the little one keep his white t-shirt on over his slightly pink little shoulders. I was convinced the sea water was washing off all the diligently applied sun cream, so I kept slapping more on to the kids' hot sandy skin as they wriggled to get back to digging holes. I tried not to fuss.

My daughter climbed on top of an inflatable alligator so I pulled her out to beyond where the small waves were breaking and we bobbed about together. The water was hot, shallow and cloudy. My toes were sinking into the soggy sand, sometimes touching shells or seaweed. I looked around at all that water and tried to banish the word 'shark' from my mind ... but it kept swimming back ...

Lizard Land

2008-07-30T20:06:00.003+01:00

Florida now. I get a quick blog fix while Big G ponders dinner options with our friends. They're favouring the Island Cow, with a menu the size of Minnesota. We are in the condo cooling our skin from this morning, re-applying sun cream and eating snacks. The two big kids play cards under the air conditioner, the two little ones play a secret game under the bedsheets.

We chose Sanibel Island for its relative lack of tourists, its wildlife, dolphins, pelicans and palm trees. The sea is as warm as washing up, and sprinkles a fresh haul of shells onto the baby soft sand each afternoon.

We'd only planned to stay 3 nights but might add a 4th ... relaxed times together like this are so rare I don't want it to end ...

Route 93 North

2008-07-27T21:02:00.007+01:00

As more family members have gathered, we four made bed-space for the little ones by sleeping up at Big G's sister's house in New Hampshire.

I offered to drive because Big G had been flying and hadn't slept all night. His Day-Off Marguerita clinched the deal. With a light dusting of shame, I confess that in the 19 years I've been visiting, this was the first time I've driven more than a couple of miles on the wrong side of the road.

I moved the seat forward (this is a long-legged family), quickly reminded myself how to drive an automatic, and buckled up. We got onto Route 93 north and cruised in the middle lane. Over here, cars can pass on either side. The driving seems more mellow and the lanes are wider. The New Hampshire state motto is "Live Free or Die".

The roads got quieter. The air got cooler. The trees got bigger, greener and more densely packed. I pulled off the highway without crashing and we made it to the wooden house on the edge of a wood. The kids went to sleep straight away: The girl drifted off elegantly like a Queen Bee in a Queen size bed, sandwiched between Queen size pillows and teddy bears; the boy flaked out, smiling and exhausted on a blow-up mattress.

We popped a Boston Sam Adams beer each, and sat out on the deck. The cat skulked off for a night of chasing chipmonks. The mosquitos buzzed about and the storm clouds gathered in the humid night air. Apart from the sounds of our voices and the cold bottles clinking, it was very, very quiet.

Letter From America

2008-07-24T00:48:00.008+01:00

Coooee! Over here! It's almost 8pm on the east coast of America, which means it's almost 1am in England, which means I must go to bed immediately. The children went to sleep at 6pm, but will be wide awake and eating Cheerios by 3am - I guarantee.

It's wet and humid today, and I'm in Big G's Dad's house. Grandad G lost the love of his life to illness 6 years ago, and he wears his grief like a pale grey cloak soaked in the tears of a longing, lonely soul. The ceiling fans purr, the dogs pad about and bark at cars and the clock on the fireplace ticks as it always has. Grandad G and I sat at the kitchen table of this classic New England home, ate omelette with salad, and talked the world right like old buddies do.

Our two English Roses are frothing with excitement at the thought of seeing their California Cousins who arrive on Saturday. 3 bright blond pre-schoolers, born 18 months apart and sunny as the place they live in.

It feels good to be here. I so need a holiday!

Give That Boy a Guitar

2008-07-18T22:14:00.005+01:00

My brother writes songs, and has very cleverly put some of them up on the worldwide interwebby net thing for people to listen to.

My favourite is 'A Girl Like You'. Have a listen. My brother sang it at his own yellow-flowered wedding in Sweden - land of herring, meatballs and ABBA. It was summer, we were near a lake surrounded by trees, and it didn't get dark all night. The meal was eaten with good cheer, the speeches were warm with love and the guests sang songs round the table, as is Swedish tradition.

Later the lights dimmed and glasses were refreshed, the band picked up their instruments and my brother sang this song. When he got to the line "I thank you for believing and for being my wife" the band paused, all eyes fell on his beautiful new bride, and everyone cheered.

Magic.

In Her Own Time

2008-07-17T22:56:00.011+01:00

My daughter has mild cerebral palsy. It makes her a bit weak and stiff on her right side, but she's capable of most things. She has a little dyslexia but is brilliant at maths. She wears a splint but can run and dance. She does most things with her left arm but can bring in the weaker right one when she has to. My girl is funny, quirky and gorgeous.

I feel horrible that we've got behind on her physiotherapy since we moved - I'll blog more on that later (it might kick me into action). Knowing there are lots of people so much worse off than my daughter is one of the many things that make feel slightly uncomfortable blogging about this at all.

Last year I met a woman who had been the school helper for 2 children with cerebral palsy. From an early age to their teenage years she supported them through life's challenges. Her words of wisdom to me were:

"Take on every challenge head-on, and she will cope. Your daughter will learn how to do everything - she'll just do it a bit later than most other children, that's all".

So at age 8, she's still wearing arm bands but she'll swim eventually. She's still got the reading age of a 7 year-old but she'll catch up. She just has to work a bit harder, that's all. And today ... gasp, gulp, sniff ... today she rode a bike without stabilising wheels for the first time!!! She got on, fell off, got back on, asked Daddy for a push, went a few feet, fell off, got back on, and so it went on and on. Her steely determination paid off, and at the last count she'd circled the garden 14 times without falling off.

I'm so proud I could melt.

Saturday Night's Alright

2008-07-13T22:12:00.008+01:00

Rioja (eagerly): "Honey I'm Home!"

Woman: "What are you doing here? I wasn't going to drink tonight"

Rioja: "Ah, but you know you want to"

Woman: "I'm thinking about it"

Rioja (beguilingly): "Just one glass won't hurt"

Woman: "But I'm on my own, it's a bad idea"

Rioja: "I'll keep you company, help you relax"

Woman: "But then you'll put me in a bad mood and give me a headache"

Rioja: "You'll be fine, and anyway it's sad not to drink on a Saturday night"

Woman: "But I'm happy and you'll spoil it for me"

Rioja (purring): "I'm gorgeous and you love me"

Woman: "I'm putting you in the cupboard so I can't see you"

Rioja (in a muffled voice): "But you can't resist me! Let me OUT!"

Woman: "Piss off"

Liar Liar, Pants On Fire

2008-07-10T17:42:00.006+01:00

I love hearing what children have to say. Most of the time they're honest, quick and funny - their innocence wrapped around their little shoulders like a sweet-smelling garland.

Not so the girl next door, who is a total liar. She doesn't just slip in the odd forgiveable fib like most kids do; she pukes out one big fat fabrication after another, like turbo-charged projectile verbal vomit, reeking rot dripping in bile and not welcome in our house.

It's astonishing to hear her. She's nearly 10 and old enough to know better, but she's clearly got issues. She's nice in some ways, and usually she and my daughter get on brilliantly. But by golly she doesn't half talk some shite.

Here is a fresh selection dredged up from the vomitorium of stinking lies she's spewed out recently:

"My dad's car takes diesel and it costs £300 to fill it up"

"I looked in an encyclopedia to see what robbers eat, and it said horse meat"

"My mum lets me take my duvet to school so I can sleep in class if I want"

"I can have anything in the world I want, whatever it costs"

"I was the first baby ever to be born after 4 o'clock in the afternoon"

"I can't play with my toy push-chair because my cat jumped into it last night, did a poo in it, and then broke it"

"I was in the garden and put my hands out to see if it was raining, and a bird's egg fell right into my hands"

Surprisingly, the girl next door's nose is still quite small.

Be Gone, Comfortable Cookies

2008-07-07T21:18:00.015+01:00

"You Eat What You Are". I know, I know, but I just think that's a better expression than the usual, "You Are What You Eat". Everybody knows that if you cram cakes, fried egg sandwiches and chocolate down your throat all day long, you're going to get a bit chubby. News, what news? Saying "You Are What You Eat" is just a great steaming pile of patronising twaddle telling us what we already know.

Turn it around however, and you get something much more interesting. People cram cakes, fried egg sandwiches and chocolate down their throats all day long for a reason. They need something ... no, not nutrition ... comfort. Frustrated? Stuff ya face. Lonely? Stuff ya face. Hate your body? Stuff ya face.

Fat tastes gooood. Sugar tastes gooood. Slowly curling your tongue (tired from moaning) around vanilla ice cream oozing raspberry sauce feeeels gooood. Salty crisps distract you from the paperwork mountain. Brownies cushion the blow of a bitchy remark. A sneaky spoonful of chocolate spread from the jar is sweet mini revenge for the bitter tedium of grumpy kids kicking off at bedtime.

Forgive me for coming over all evangelical, but I'm trying to shed the extra pounds I don't need before my holiday, and it's taken me 6 months to get round to it. And for my beloved friends hooked on calorie comfort, I wish them the power to dig deep and find enough love for themselves to STOP!

Handy

2008-07-04T22:41:00.013+01:00

I had a good look at my hands today. They grew from a longing inside my father to tiny fists inside my mother, and came into this world with 10 soft nails the size of snow.

I must have discovered I had hands at around 3 months old. They fed me, got bigger, and I used them to steer my first bike. How amazing are hands - they've lifted and squeezed, caressed and scratched, grasped and wrestled, wrung and stroked, tweaked, pushed and pulled me through life. The hands that tap tap tap in front of me take the thoughts from my head onto your computer. Wow! They're a pink skin pillow to lean on while I read.

I've always liked my hands but my nails don't get enough love. The gold ring on the left has earnt a few scratches in the last 14 years, and I wear them like medals of honour.

I remember gently pulling up the skin on my Grandma's hands so that I could marvel at how it didn't go down again! Mine still goes down, but I've noticed a few brown age spots (I might insist they're freckles). I looked at a palm-reading website but quickly left - these hands do enough without telling me the future.

Yeah Yeah Yeah (Yawn)

2008-07-02T16:38:00.008+01:00

I love early July for the Wimbledon on the telly. I drift in and out, checking on the score, and as a fair-weather sports fan I only sit and watch properly when it's a really big or exciting match. When Boris Becker appeared today to commentate, I took the opportunity to educate and inspire my daughter by telling her about one of the greatest sporting legends of all time:

ME: "See him? He WON the WHOLE of Wimbledon when he was JUST 17!!"

GIRL: "He hasn't got any eyebrows"

ME: "Yes he has. But listen. He was only 17 - and he was a champion!!"

GIRL: "Why hasn't he got any eyebrows?"

ME: "He has, they're just very pale. It was amazing ... I was only 17 myself, and this guy ..."

GIRL: "Please can I have a biscuit?"

***** sigh ***** I really don't know why I bother.

Looking Forward to Chapter 10

2008-07-01T21:47:00.007+01:00

Chapter 1
Summer 2006. Mr and Mrs live in the north of England where they don't belong, and decide to re-locate. But where to? The soul-searching begins.

Chapter 2
Mr applies for a job in the US and gets it. America it is then. It'll be fantastic, they dream, and tell their family and friends. The Big News spreads like lice in a playground.

Chapter 3
Mr packs up and moves to New York. Mrs can't go yet, "I'm not ready", she wails. She tries to move mountains alone, and gets scared at night.

Chapter 4
Mrs hates being asked "have you sold the house yet?" Mr loves his new job and commutes back and forth. The children are angry. Mrs is angry. He tries so hard but feels excluded - and he is.

Chapter 5
Summer 2007. Loose ends are tied up, Mrs is almost ready to go. But wait ... maybe America doesn't feel like 'home' after all? They re-visit London and light up like firecrackers. The seeds of doubt grow.

Chapter 6
A decision is made. They're Going Back South. Mrs and the kids call the removal men, pack up their lives and fall into the arms of their extended family. What a gift from heaven they turned out to be.

Chapter 7
New home, new job, new school, thin on friends. Too many changes for Mrs to handle. She gets excema and dizzy spells. The children are ghastly but who can blame them.

Chapter 8
Mr and Mrs know they're better together. The children are settled and happy again. There's more talking, respect, caring. Petty arguments disappear like lost baggage.

Chapter 9
Summer 2008. Mr works really hard to get a good job back in the UK - and gets the best one imaginable. Respect and appreciation are thrown all about the place. The future suddenly seems a dozen shades brighter .....

Triple Delight

2008-07-01T21:42:00.003+01:00

And the wonderful Daryl E gave me this one! So before this flurry of award giving makes me giddy I'd better get down to posting something ...

Double Delight

2008-06-29T07:35:00.006+01:00

This week good news came in twos.
I'll tell more later.
Later - when my daughter isn't trying to wrestle me off the computer - I'll also pass on these two beautiful awards I received this week.
Thanks Lehners in France!
Thanks Maggie May!

Update: I would like to pass these awards on to these top bloggers:

The first (trophy one) goes to:

The Mother of This Lot
Who has so many awards she has built a shelf to put them on.

The Lehners in France
Who has some brilliant stories to tell.

Mima
Whose honesty and optimism inspire me

The second (Special Scribe one) goes to:

Daryl E
Who I feel drawn to, like she's a long lost friend or something.

Pig in the Kitchen
Who is a master in the art of story-telling (and cooking)

Frog in the Field
What can I say? Funny, touching, awesome.

Excuses, Excuses

2008-06-27T21:57:00.007+01:00

I want to write something tonight.

But I'm too tired. And that glass of divine red wine was too large. And the bubble bath is almost full. And my white bed looks too inviting. And it's been a long week. And there's been brilliant news that melted me with relief. And the final stage of selling my business passed this week. And I had to pay the tax man. And I never go to bed early enough. And I'm always cream-crackered on Friday nights. And I'm a bit t&e (tired & emotional). And I need to go count my blessings and stop moaning. And anyway I can't think of anything to write.

So I won't write something tonight. Oh. Hang on ... I just did.

Never Mind the Tupperware

2008-06-23T22:23:00.012+01:00

I was invited to my first ever Tupperware party. I nearly said "do I look like the kind of woman who buys bloody tupperware?" Or, "thanks, but I'd rather poke my own eyes out". But what I actually said was: "Brilliant, I'd love to come". Times is hard, ya know?

The charming hostess had been concocting nibbles all week. And I'm not talking sausage rolls and celery sticks here; this was one mouth-wateringly awesome hand-crafted canape explosion. The booze was flowing like ... well, wine ... and a hit-squad of expert mothers, who know their Tequila from their Kahlua, were whipping up and dishing out cocktails like tomorrow's children and hangovers were off the radar.

The Tupperware presentation started. We ooohed at the storage box that expands. We aaahed at the microwave jug that doesn't get a hot handle. We basked in the warm ripple of approval that washed over the crowd, as we saw just how magnificantly that happy-chopper can chop. Some mothers concentrated and referred to their catalogues; others exchanged subversive glances and sniggered into their Harvey Wallbangers.

It was drizzling, but the crowd stayed outside with the candles and ice-buckets of pink fizz. Alpha mums swaggered and laughed the loudest; Cuddly mums swapped stories of their childrens' antics; The atmosphere was warm and funny, and I found friendly people to talk to. It got dark, then chilly, and then I drove home.

Relentless

2008-06-18T21:29:00.010+01:00

"Mum?"
"Yes."
"How old is the hamster?"
"Quite old, I think he's nearly 3."
"How old is that in hamster years?"
"Oh about 70 I suppose"
"When he gets to 100 in hamster years, will the hamster queen send him a telegram?"

Children ask questions like puppies chew shoes. They hurl them at Mum when she's heaving great sighs, her bloodshot eyes blinking through smudged mascara and freshly dug wrinkles as she sorts out the laundry mountain. Then they hurl more at Dad when he's longing for ... something ... worn out from blood-sucking work, jobs to do and things not working properly.

Children gleefully soak up whatever answers they can get. They hear the facts, the delivery, the emotions draped around the words and the inconsistencies with what they heard yesterday. And then they digest, ponder, and conjure up a whole new set of questions ready to launch at anyone they suspect might give them a quality answer. And on it goes, until the quick-tongued, big-eared, relentlessly inquisitive little angels are finally silenced by sleep.

"Mum?"
"Yes."
"If the queen lives to be 100, will she send herself a telegram?"

Happy Hoof

2008-06-14T21:19:00.010+01:00

One final word on panda food: I saw in the Guiness Book of Records, in the "World's Sleepiest Mammal" section, that pandas snooze for 18 hours a day. They only eat bamboo, which doesn't provide much nourishment, so they sleep to conserve energy. Right. So why not nibble on a bit of fruit then? And stay awake longer? Or some nuts? Our two-tone friends' stubborn refusal to mix up their diet seems a bit daft to me. Clearly they don't have much to do. And while I think about it, how do large beasts like horses and cows live on only grass and a few buttercups? And they don't even sleep that much.

The children and I are quite excited about horses at the moment. Our neighbour has taken us, two Sundays in a row, in her rusty volvo to the stables to the countryside where she volunteers. Apparently there are umpteen therapeutic reasons to care for and ride horses, physical and mental, and this place is for disabled riders only. We go in the tack room to read the diary and admire the saddles, the children try on the hats. It smells of leather and damp.

Out in the fields, the eight well-behaved horses live in pairs in fenced-off areas. The white boss one (with different coloured eyes) has a bad back and needs a soft saddle. One needs medicine for a sore shin, and one will only let my neighbour feed him. There's a cute little black one, and one that swaps horsey-lip kisses for carrots. The new black one gets pushed around by the feisty one, and there's one with honey-coloured hair. Each day the horses get a few pieces of carrot, a handful of "Happy Hoof" feed, and garlic. And they sure do eat an awful lot of grass.

A Panda Food Moment

2008-06-10T18:22:00.009+01:00

We're getting settled here in the south now, and I don't expect we'll migrate back. But every now and again some little thing triggers a memory and whisks me back to my old long-gone life up north. Today it was bamboo.

A couple of summers ago we upgraded our square of Cheshire soil. It went from being a nasty patch of water-logged mud with a pile of bricks in the corner, to a pretty peachy little garden with flowers, drainage and a path: "well stocked", as estate agents say. We had help from 7-foot tall Matthew - who had won rosettes at the Tatton Flower Show - and his troop of wheel-barrow pushing, earth-shovelling Manchester lads who trampled mud and testosterone all around the place.

We took Matthew's planting plan and phoned the trade-price garden centre. Upon hearing the man's quote, we spluttered a few heavy-duty swear words, picked ourselves up off the floor, cut the volume required in half, and ordered the plants. I don't remember what most of them were called - they were selected on the basis of being oriental-looking, clay-loving and reasonably hard to kill.

When the plants arrived on a truck, late one hot and humid Saturday afternoon, we off-loaded them and stood them on the deck. I put the kids to bed and poured a glass of icy cold wine. I went outside and sat amongst our new army of friends with roots and leaves: bushes, ferns, young trees, handsome, mysterious plants with Latin name tags in all shades of greens, yellows and reds. Some had stripes, some had prickles, some were just lush. It was quiet out, and almost dark. The bamboo swished in the breeze; I was elated.

Back From the Brink

2008-06-09T22:38:00.002+01:00

A big boxy thanks for all those "pack or unpack" comments! I heard today that the landlord is happy to sign a new lease for a minimum of 3 months, with 2 months notice if they sell it after that. So I'm unpackin'. Oh yes. But not today.

Away With the Fairies

2008-06-06T21:38:00.005+01:00

Okay, just ignore that last post. Today I took a phone call from the estate agent handling the sale of the house we've been renting for 6 months; the sale has fallen through so we don't have to move out now after all. Over the last 6 weeks it's been on, then doubtful, then back on again ... and now off. I've been grumblingly dragging my weary bones around town looking at other (unsuitable) houses to rent. Apparently the bloke buying the house belonging to the people buying this one has had his mortgage offer withdrawn by the bank. Gut-wrenching news for all concerned, except us! So now I'm looking at the pile of boxes I've already packed, and trying to decide whether to unpack them or not.

I wonder what will occur on Monday. Someone who is said to be 'away with the fairies' has lost their grip on reality and expects the unlikely. If I unpack, does that make me away with the fairies too?

Pressing the Pause Button

2008-06-04T10:58:00.003+01:00

I wanted to write something deep, funny or meaningful for my 50th post. Instead, I must write about injustice. Nobody in the UK is able to sell their house at the moment (we didn't, and our house in Cheshire is now full of tenants). Nobody, except for the people who own the house we're renting. They've sold it. So we have to move out in a couple of weeks. Bah humbug. So again, I'm feeling ever so slightly overwhelmed by life's crappy jobs, and will have to neglect my blog again for a while.

I'll come round and say hi when we're all settled in to the new place! Blogbye for now ...

How I Met Mr. GoneBackSouth

2008-05-29T22:34:00.016+01:00

July 1989. I was weathered by late-night cramming for exams and too much beer, trussed up in Doctor Marten boots, red lipstick and an attitude the size of Peru. Soul II Soul and Guns N' Roses were rocking the UK and Margaret Thatcher was ruling it.

Clutching my student exchange work-permit, I boarded a plane to America with my friend, affectionately known as Has Anybody Seen My Organizer? We argued all the way to JFK - we were ready for a summer adventure and he wanted to go to Boston because he'd heard it was cool; I wanted to go to South Carolina because I wanted to spend the summer on the beach.

Upon arrival in Boston, we checked into the youth hostel. With no plans, no jobs and nowhere to live, we hung about. Soon, word spread that the movie theatre up the road needed people fast - Batman was about to open and they were expecting a stampede. Tom, the Manager, opened the door to 8 smelly but eager British students. We all marched in to ask for jobs and he hired us all. We put on white shirts, black elasticated bow-ties and red waistcoats (that matched my lipstick). The boys sold and clipped tickets, the girls served food, drinks and candy. We got to see lots of free movies.

We fooled around and made the place our own for a few months, leaving our customers wondering if they'd suddenly been transported to England by mistake. We quickly adopted bad American accents, purely for popcorn-serving purposes, so we could ask "you want budder on that?" There were mice in the corn sacks, a creepy guy on projectors and relentlessly sticky floors ... but it was a good job. Has Anybody Seen My Organizer? and I made friends with a lovely American guy at the movie theatre, who I shall call BassBoy. We lost sight of BassBoy over the years, which I regret. He was small, funny, dark, and had more than a whiff of madness about him.

BassBoy had a tall, good-looking friend with a golden tan and deep beautiful eyes: Big G. He was Boston born and bred. Sensitive and shy with a whale-sized passion for music, Big G would meet BassBoy after work so they could go out and party. We became friends. One warm dark night, some of us sneaked over a fence and through a forest to swim in the reservoir near Big G's home. We perched on a rock in the deep deep water under a huge black sky, fish brushing against our toes, and we shivered in the breeze and the knowledge that we weren't meant to be there. We bonded that night, Big G and me, dripping wet and giggling under the stars.

I flew back, moved to London and sent Big G a postcard. He wrote me letters and I wrote back (no email then). In February 1990 he visited London for a week. He came again in July, we looked into each others eyes, and here he stayed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

p.s. Has Anybody Seen My Organizer? is still one of our top favourite people, and I'm thankful to him for winning the argument and denying me my summer on the beach.

Cup-Tag Cop-Out

2008-05-29T22:25:00.002+01:00

Oh Lehners, Lehners, Lehners. You are a very nice friend to tag me in my last post, but I'm going to have to call upon the "Can't-Be-Tagged-Twice-In-One-Week" rule of Blogdom. And if you won't accept that, then here's another excuse: I have a story to tell tonight that I promised to Daryl, and if I'm farting about taking photos of my cups (and my favourites are all in the dishwasher so I'll have to wash them first and everything), I won't have time to write it, and then I won't be able to sleep. And anyway I don't know where my camera is. Actually the dog ate it. Okay I haven't got a dog, but I haven't got a camera either. I know, I know ... lame, spoil-sport, kill-joy. Hate me if you must.
Now, onto my story ...

Tag Revelations Before Lunch

2008-05-27T11:17:00.003+01:00

Retired and Crazy tagged me after my last post, so now I feel compelled to reveal 6 things you don't know about me. As I'm at my sister's house with 5 kids and no other grown-ups, I had better be quick. However they're old enough to entertain themeselves (aged 6-14) so I can afford to be ever so slightly neglectful. Here goes, in a hurry:

1. I attract road speed traps like some people attract wasps

2. I am a brunette with a fleck of grey (covered)

3. I met my man in an American movie theatre

4. Some of my friends think I've borderline OCD; I think I'm borderline misunderstood

5. I'm notoriously late unless I make a superhuman effort

6. I love Starbucks marmite and cheese paninis, but have switched from latte to Americano (there was way too much dairy going on)

I may get round to the business of tagging 6 other bloggers later (or I may not). Off now to make rolls for lunch ...

Sleepy Heads

2008-05-23T22:59:00.007+01:00

I went upstairs to look at the children.

First the boy. He's 6 and wants to grow up NOW. He's sleeping hard, worn out after 13 hours of non-stop activity. He's had bed hair all day, and now it's even beddier after sleeping on it still damp from the bath. He's lying on his side, high up in his cabin bed like an infant king. One skinny leg with scabby knees is out and over the blue monster duvet. His free arm hugs the cub that's been his smelly bed-mate since he was born, and he holds on tight to the last surviving scrap of baby-blanket. His lovely full lips are open, drooling a bit on the pillow, doing that pretend sucking thing that he does in his sleep. Perhaps he's dreaming of the warm, snoozy baby milk years.

Next the girl. She's 8, and veers from toddler to teenager and back again. Her beddy teddy is lying on her chest, watching me through the dark with round black eyes, protecting her while she sleeps. She lies on her back, arms thrown wide in pink nightie, on pink pillow, under pink duvet. She was swept away by an enormous yawn as she settled down, insisting "I'm not tired" as her eyes closed. Her face is round like the moon, picture perfect with wide-apart eyes and long, long lashes. As a baby, she turned her head from side to side as she stirred in her sleep, and she still does sometimes. With a murmur and a sigh, she dreams of fairies and kittens and Daddy coming home.

They seem so grown up sometimes and so young when they're asleep. Sometimes I'm afraid to go to bed; I sleep so heavily and I don't want to leave them alone - even if they are just down the hall. I wonder how much of our quirky little life in 2008 they'll remember when they're big. In their slumber, some of it is being filed into their brains' long term memory, some into short term memory, and some is going straight to the shredder.

Reasons to be Cheerful, Part 3

2008-05-19T23:05:00.008+01:00

Yes, yes, I've been listening to Ian Dury on YouTube. So here are 3 of mine:

(1) That Life gave us Bowie, Lennox and Mercury ... and ears.

(2) That ye olde hobbies of writing a diary and to pen-pals have fused together in an electronic explosion of magical marvellousness and meetings of minds to spawn the blogosphere. Hooray!

(3) That my daughter didn't see what I found in her wellington boot tonight: a large, hairy, squashed spider. Death by socked foot. I'm surprised she didn't feel it.

Bowie Plays Brazil

2008-05-18T22:35:00.005+01:00

Today I stumbled upon a blog by a British guy in Brazil. He's got a video up of two of the greatest artists, David Bowie & Annie Lennox, singing a tribute to another great, Freddie Mercury. The video is awesome and at the end I got a chill down my spine and started crying (long day ... time for bed). Bowie is so spectacularly good; he sang the soundtrack to my life as I was growing up.

And as for the British guy in Brazil ... well I may be wrong ... but he seems to me like a genuinely lovely, big-hearted poet who's been through some serious sadness, and might appreciate some warm positive vibes from all you kind and caring bloggers out there.

Spinning the Wheel

Goodnight x

Digging Rights

2008-05-15T22:01:00.007+01:00

Today I caught myself wondering, "maybe we should get an allotment?" Then I quickly sprinted to the sink, splashed cold water over my face, gave myself a quick slap and vowed never to entertain such mad thoughts ever again. Doing a sloppy job of maintaining a low-maintenance garden is enough gardening for me.

Nevertheless, back in the 19th century the Allotment Act declared that an Englishman has the right to grow his own carrots, whether or not he owns any land. All these years on, hidden behind the leafy hedgerows and down the lane, men, women and children in wellington boots and waterproofs are still cheerfully growing carrots on land that doesn’t belong to them. And potatoes, raspberries, beans, tomatoes, garlic, onions, apples and flowers too.

I know a family in Cheshire with an allotment, and my children have 'helped' them make a scarecrow, chase chickens, throw stuff on the bonfire, dig random holes, that sort of thing. Every time we visit we come away with a box of fresh eggs ... my friend is gracious enough to wash off the straw and poultry poo first.

Eye Have Amnesia

2008-05-13T17:06:00.007+01:00

When I looked in my diary this morning, I set my phone alarm for 3.10pm, to make sure I didn't forget my 3.15pm appointment at my new opticians. I did of course forget, but my forward-thinking alarm-setting got me there safely.

In another uncharacteristic display of forward-thinking, and knowing that I would never remember the type of contact lenses I wear, I had put an old contact lens packet in my bag to show to my new optician. "I wear these", I declared, thrusting the packet towards her. "They're soft monthly disposables".

"Great", she smiled, peering at the small print through her specs, "only you're supposed to change this kind every 2 weeks". I made that face where you frown, look sideways and bring one index finger up to lips tightly pursed in thought. Hmmm. Apparently I used to have monthly disposables, at some point changed to fortnightlies, and then forgot all about it and carried on wearing each pair for 4 weeks. Der. No wonder I had sore eyes.

Excuses made, we got on with the tests and eye-related paperwork. Then it was time to put my glasses on. "How long have you had these glasses?" she asked with no warning, catching me off-guard. "Oh about 3 or 4 years" I blurted, in a panic. "Actually no, I was still in London, so it might have been 10 years. Actually, I have no idea". And I still have no idea - I've completely forgotten.

To make my eye-test amnesia ordeal even worse, the optician must have forgotten to brush her teeth today. Or perhaps she forgot that if your job involves putting your face 8 inches away from someone else's face and breathing on them whilst wielding bright lights and optic cameras, then it's best not to eat smelly food for lunch.

So anyway I left, got in my car, made sure I remembered where I lived, and turned the engine on. My phone rang. It was the optician. "Oh hhhhhello", she breathed (luckily it wasn't a smellephone) "you've forgotten your glasses case, will you come back for it?" I didn't go back straight away, but I've put it in my diary so I'll remember to go tomorrow. If I remember to look in my diary.

p.s. Today I was given a home-made (and therefore extra tasty and nutritious) award by Dumdad ... how utterly girlish of me to grin and blush so ... it made my day!

Not an Unusual Weekend

2008-05-12T21:31:00.003+01:00

The girl was out-numbered by 3 little boys on Sunday. She wanted to play families; they felt like riding their bikes. She wanted to make a school for teddy bears; they insisted on riding their bikes. She wanted to have an ice cream picnic; they relented for a moment, scoffed it down before it had a chance to melt, and then carried on riding their bikes. The girl gave up and came inside to watch TV.

Where Are They Now? On My Doorstep!

2008-05-09T21:45:00.008+01:00

In April we had a birthday party at home for our 8-year old. The bell rang so I opened the door, and there stood my old History teacher, Mrs. S. She was dropping off her granddaughter. I gushed oh-hello-agains; she politely pretended to remember me.

Mrs. S was a combustible dragon of a teacher, breathing hellfire and brimstone into every lesson. And I mean that in a good way. She brought History to life. She awed and inspired us teenage kids, usually sleepy after a big stodgy lunch and too many late nights watching 'Are You Being Served?' The class trouble-makers were crushed, and we had to pay attention or pay the consequences. I loved her lessons.

I remember Mrs. S being in full theatrical flow one afternoon, bellowing her lesson about some bloody battle or queen-slaying king; captivating us, gesticulating wildly, jet black hair bobbing up and down in agreement. There was a storm outside and the thunder and lightening made her story even more dramatic. Suddenly she stopped and froze. She stared motionless out of the window at the rain pouring down from the heavens, and the class froze too. Nobody moved. Silence. And then she said, "Damn, I've left my washing on the line".

Predator

2008-05-08T16:01:00.009+01:00

It's good to be back in the blogosphere. I stopped because I needed to clear some of the backlog of administrative shite that was giving me headaches, like a never-ending upheaval-hangover from hell. I made some headway during my blogless evenings. Changing town, job, home, school (and leaving my friends behind) all at once (with a husband working abroad) made me feel quite wobbly and fragile for a while; more jellyfish than great white.

And speaking of sharp-toothed predators, I met a real bull shark recently. She is a 32-ish Londoner with size zero waist, silicone DD's and muscles. Her long wavy hair bounces and floats like seaweed; she has lips like rose-buds, and eyes to drown in. I don't mind being around drop-dead gorgeous women, in fact we had a good laugh to start with. But when she noticed my unsuspecting husband and started pulling her blatant man-hunting limpit routine on him, several times over, right in front of my eyes, it all went a bit salty sour.

Anyway it's all forgotten now (grrrr).

Moon With a View

2008-05-06T22:26:00.007+01:00

Hello. Is there anybody out there?

Big, stormy mama Jupiter and her bright little moons hang out together, just like a proper family. The moons face their planet and circle her at different speeds, her tides and gravity steering their course. Just like a proper family.

My son is 'doing' Jupiter at school. He taught me that Jupiter has 63 moons. I looked for them in cyberspace. Apparently, humans have given them names. Lo is volcanic and covered in sulphur; Europa is icy and covered in water; Ganymede is the biggest moon we've found so far, and may have an ocean beneath its surface.

My daughter is 'doing' Neil Armstrong at school. Tomorrow she wants to take in a photo of his footprint on Earth's only moon. Why didn't we name that one too?

Blogbye For Now ...

2008-03-26T19:57:00.002Z

I love writing on my blog, and I love reading what all you other bloggers have to say too. It's blog-brilliant! But I've decided to take a little blog-break for a while. I've got too much other time-consuming stuff to sort out at home, and blogging is so delightfully distracting! But I'll be back ... GBS

Hello and Goodbye Again

2008-03-20T21:04:00.006Z

So off we went back north last weekend. Just the kids, me and a car-full of duvets, food and too many clothes. It was surreal to stay in the house we used to live in, camping out with the memories. I felt like I'd never left.

We had a hectic schedule, trying as always to cram too much in. It was brilliant to see old friends, that part was magic. Really, really magic. The children seemed to take all the craziness in their short-legged strides, but their fighting and pale faces at the end of the weekend told me it had all been quite emotional for them too. I was exhausted by the time we'd driven home on Sunday, and I haven't really covered all week. Thank goodness it's a 4-day weekend - YAY!

Anyway everything's changing now ... again ... because we've found a family who want to rent the house. And they're moving in on Tuesday! Poor Big G just flew back from the US, only to be confronted with rent-a-van and a 2-page list of jobs to do in the house to get it ready for our tenants. I made up a booklet of instruction manuals for the boiler, kitchen appliances, etc. I couldn't resist writing a welcome letter, telling Mr. and Mrs. Whoever in detail about all the little quirks and eccentricities of the place - just like a new mother leaving a tiny baby at nursery for the first time. Anyway we're nearly there, and the extra money will save us from debtors prison.

Happy Easter all, may you be blessed with peace, salvation, contentedness and oodles of chocolate.

Joyce

2008-03-18T21:07:00.004Z

Joyce is 80-something and lives alone, next door to our old house in Cheshire. She has a sprinkling of grandchildren who appear occasionally, one flaky son, and two devoted daughters who come round and mow the lawn. She was a good neighbour, and always liked to chat over the fence and ask about our lives.

When we went up at the weekend, the children insisted we go straight round to say hello. We walked up her square garden that bursts into bloom every summer. After 4 or 5 knocks, Joyce finally made it to the heavy wooden door and slowly pulled it open. Daylight pushed its way in to help the single low watt lightbulb hidden under the mustard lampshade. The brown hall carpet is worn thin after decades of slippered feet padding to and fro. Velvet wallpaper is covered with fading paintings of roses and photos of long-gone relatives whose memories are fading now, too.

Joyce appeared in her knitted cardigan with her grey hair standing up on end, blinked from the daylight, and smiled from ear to ear. She put one arm round each child, hugged them close and didn't let go. "I miss you kicking your balls over my fence!" she laughed, and showed off her latest missing tooth.

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

2008-03-13T21:20:00.006Z

Tellers of the Tale of the Three Little Pigs fall into two camps: Heartless writers who let the wolf eat the first two pigs; and compassionate writers whose first two pigs run to the brick house to eat wolf stew with the third.

If I were writing it, I would probably be in the latter group (unless I was in a bad mood that day). Imagine how that pink, porky little family must feel after its hair-raising ordeal. Despite all their protests and talk of chinny-chin-chins, they still had to go through the upheaval of moving house in a hurry. But now they're huddling together by the fire, enjoying the warmth and familiarity, safe and secure within those solid brick walls.

Tomorrow, we are driving back up north to Cheshire to catch up with friends and stay in our old white house for a couple of days. It hasn't been sold yet, and we're going to rent it out for a while. The kids grew up in that house and we poured gallons of time, effort and cash into getting it just as we wanted it. I love our old house.

There'll be no wolves involved this weekend, and probably a fair bit of huffing and puffing when I pack in the morning. But I'm looking forward to us huddling by the fire, enjoying the warmth and familiarity, safe and secure within those solid brick walls.

Why Kids Should Have Cameras - Part 3

2008-03-11T23:44:00.002Z

Why Kids Should Have Cameras - Part 2

2008-03-11T23:36:00.002Z

Why Kids Should Have Cameras - Part 1

2008-03-11T23:34:00.007Z

Two Part Lists

2008-03-10T23:32:00.008Z

My son wrote a list tonight (I helped with the spelling).

The title was "All the Things Frog".
The only items on the list were:
- Frogspawn
- Tadpole
And then he had to go to bed.

It reminded me of the time when Big G was trying to convince me that spaniels make ideal pets. He started listing all the great spaniels out there, but only got as far as:
- Cocker
- Springer
And then he couldn't think of any more.

Two-part lists. They must run in the family.

In Short

2008-03-10T18:12:00.006Z

I think it's funny how bloggers abbreviate each others' names when they leave comments. Had I known this, I might have given more thought to my blog name before committing to it: GBS sounds like a cross between Grevious Bodily Harm and Irritable Bowel Syndrome - neither of which feature heavily in my life.

I went to have a quiet word with my daughter L's chief protector at school, Mrs. Tired Kind Teacher (TKT for short). I told her that another girl has been staring at L, pointing and whispering things like "there's that girl we're pretending we don't like", and other spiteful things. TKT said that kind of behaviour is not acceptable, and she'll see what she can do.

Meanwhile, Whispering Mean Girl (WMG for short) was jostling and laughing with her cute little Year 2 friends in the playground as we left school this afternoon. "That's her, the one with the dark hair" L hissed, grabbing my sleeve and frowning. Aged only 7, WMG has poise, style and the face of an angel.

Big Problems; Small Worries

2008-03-09T22:05:00.008Z

My daughter told me on Friday that there is a mean girl in Year 2 who is upsetting her by staring and whispering in the playground.

But ... before I go into that ... I want to confess my enormous ignorance of scientific facts. I have only just learned that there have been 5 mass extinctions in the earth's history:

(1) 439 million years ago: The 'Ordovician-Silurian Extinction', a drop in sea levels as glaciers formed then a rise as glaciers melted. Death to 60% of marine species types.

(2) 364 million years ago: The 'Late Devonian Extinction' was when another 57% of marine species types snuffed it, for reasons unknown.

(3) 251 million years ago: The 'Permian-Triassic Extinction' was the mother of all of catastrophes, wiping out 95% of all species including plants, insects and vertebrates. Some reckon a comet or asteroid hitting the earth caused it. Ouch.

(4) 199-214 million years ago: The 'End Triassic Extinction' happened when rivers of lava erupted and led to all sorts of land mass re-arrangements, including the formation of the Atlantic ocean. Global warming may have resulted, umpteen creatures perished.

(5) 65 million years ago: Quite recently as it turns out, the 'Cretaceous-Tertiary Extinction' killed off the dinosaurs and a whole slew of marine and land vertebrate species.

We are - today - currently - at this minute - right now - in the throes of Number (6): The 'Holocene Extinction'. Yep, mankind's use and abuse of our wondrous planet will result in the death of over half the planet's species within the next century. Heck, even dodos were still around until the 18th century.

So ... I'll get to the point ... I know we are witnessing a global catastrophe. And I also know the poverty and hardship that most of the world endures every agonising day makes my blessed life look like heaven with a cherry on top. So why do people like me still weep and worry over tiny problems like the mean whispering girl in Year 2? Why?????

I suspect it's for the same reason that telling a child "there are people starving in Africa, you know" isn't going to make him want to eat his peas.

Friendships

2008-03-05T20:55:00.005Z

Bereft: adj. deprived of or lacking something, (of a person) lonely and abandoned, esp. through someone's death or departure.

Nobody died. But I still feel bereft since leaving the sheep-dotted hills of Cheshire three and a half months ago. Moving back down south was the right thing to do, but God how I miss my friends.

When we moved north in 1999, I didn't know anyone. Then I got pregnant, went to ante-natal classes, and life improved. There were some wonderful women in my group, all first time mothers, all "more mature" in our 30's. The two blonde bombshells I bonded most with were fiery and outrageous; they made me laugh and cared about me. We filled the long days at each others' houses drinking tea - and wine when necessary - while the babies and toddlers played, screamed and squashed food into the furniture. Our houses were always a mess and the chaos became normal after a while, like water off a duck's back. We knew the details - and I mean details - of each others' lives: how much sleep we'd had, what time everyone woke up, what colds and rashes the babies had, who was constipated, what we'd cooked for the freezer, how much weight we'd put on. Not to mention sore milky boobs, each others' sex lives (or lack of), birth scar progress, the state of our finances, very little was not shared. The baby years would have been so much harder without my friends.

Big G - who's wise - says that solid friendships are formed by enduring hardship together. The handful of buddies I've hung onto since college will also be friends for life because we faced and survived the poverty line, bad skin, broken hearts, drunken messes and freezing cold, slug-infested student houses together. We had some legendary adventures too.

Times change, and people move on. I'm lucky to be living near my family now ... but God how I miss my friends.

Taggie by Maggie

2008-03-03T21:08:00.003Z

Thanks for tagging me Maggie May! So that saves me the trouble of thinking up something new to write about today. It seems I am now obliged to reveal 6 random things about myself. Okay, here goes:

1. I'm mostly vegetarian (but enjoy the occasional crispy bacon sandwich)

2. My daughter has cerebral palsy (mild)

3. I’ve done 5 parachute jumps and 2 marathons (before children obviously)

4. I once qualified as an aerobics instructor (but never taught a single class - what a waste)

5. I hate 99% of reality TV and TV dramas (but how can I not love Dragons Den and Sex & the City)

6. This evening I whipped up a healthy stir-fry for myself: tofu, black-bean sauce, pak choi, spinach & rice. I then spotted an earwig that had obviously been living in the pak choi packet, so I binned the whole lot and made myself a greasy fried egg sandwich instead.

In turn, I tag the top 6 bloggers in my blogroll ... because I still can't figure out how to put links in a post. What a dimwit! Over to you ...

Hair Wars

2008-03-01T21:31:00.009Z

How honey-and-lemonly comforting of you to send such nice sympathy cards after my last post. At huge risk of looking like I'm milking it, I'll share just one more sob-story. I was in the lounge this evening, standing by the door. I suddenly sneezed, and at exactly the same second as my head flew forward with full AAA-CHOOOOO force, Big G opened the door to say "dinner's ready". Head, door, big throbbing bump, ouch.

But injuries aside, I heard a great saying the other day: "There is only one hair-style that suits you ... now just get on with it". What a relief. Over the last 25 years, ever since I was old enough to go to the hairdressers by myself, I reckon I've had 50 hair styles. 20's bob, straight, wavy, scary flat-top, long and layered, elvis quiff, non-descript, shaggy, boyish, long down to my waist. And the winner in my Hair Hall of Shame was that hideous day in the 80's when some moron layered my hair to within an inch of its life and drenched it in gel. She then made me hold my head upside down while she blow-dried my hair upwards and outwards until it was the size of Northumberland.

I'm weathering a bad-hair phase at the moment. But now I know there is only one style that suits me, I'm going to let my hair grow long again, wear it in a pony-tail most of the time, and never think about changing it ever again. Phew.

Sick Day

2008-02-28T21:25:00.010Z

My son dragged his weary legs, white and skinny in baggy spiderman pyjama shorts, up the steps of his white cabin bed. He pulled the duvet up and reached out for the blankie and "cub" that help him sleep. He rested his handsome head on the soft blue pillow, looked at me with eyes almost crying, and heaved a great sigh of relief. I felt his burning forehead and took his temperature for the 10th time today ... 103 again. "I'm sorry this hasn't been the best day ever", I said with a heavy heart, my eyes almost crying too. "Yeah, today was a bit rubbish", came the sad reply.

20 minutes later my daughter, not one to tiptoe when stomping is an option, made her way noisily to the bathroom. We went through the usual routine of teeth, toilet, giggling and a bit of a performance. "You'll definitely be well enough for school tomorrow" I said firmly, "this hasn't been a very good day, has it?" She didn't comment but looked at me intently the way she does: seeing my thoughts, reading my feelings, taking note.

Both kids were home sick today, and I was ill too. As I work until 3pm every weekday and never get anything done, I thought this might be an opportunity to catch up with phone calls, bills and stuff. How wrong I was. The children wouldn't play together, they whined and battled over everything, I felt rough and achieved nothing, and we were bored and irritated all day long. I spent 14 hours seething and cursing under my breath, wishing I was anywhere but here. But then later, as they snuggled their tiny bodies down to sleep, I felt awful for not making their sick day more enjoyable.

Does every parent find parenting as confusing as I do?

Timeless Friend

2008-02-23T20:01:00.017Z

I remember stroking your white cat Albert, in the shade of the giant pampus grass outside your old house (age 5?)

I remember telling ghost stories, hidden behind the raspberry bushes in my back garden. It was always summer back then (age 6?)

I remember the secret scribblings we hid for each other in the girls' loos at school, and the whispered code that meant "I've left you a note" (age 7?)

I remember doing a dance routine on your sofa, singing into hairbrush microphones to "Mr Blue Sky" by ELO, in matching vest and knicker sets (age 8?)

I remember pretending Starsky and Hutch were our boyfriends. Only we both wanted Starsky (age 9?)

I remember getting into trouble for sneaking out of school without asking, to go to your house for lunch (age 10?)

I remember us fighting with the boys and rolling down the big grassy hill at the edge of the field (age 11?)

Last night we sat talking in my kitchen (age 39 & 40) ... you haven't changed a bit x

No Contest

2008-02-19T21:05:00.012Z

After a 3 week absence, Big G is home, and we're all happy.
He's popped out ... to get wine ... so I've popped online ... to have a whine.

When we had tiny babies, we did that irritating thing that all new parents do: have Tiredness Competitions. It's a scientifically proven fact that out with baby comes an umbilically attached urge to let your partner know exactly how tired you are, and exactly why you've had a much harder day than they have. You know the routine:
"That was the worst night I ever had"
"I only slept about 2 hours"
"I've haven't stopped all day, I don't think I even had lunch"
"It's so hot in our room, I didn't sleep a wink"
"I've been up since 4, couldn't get back to sleep"
"I'm so exhausted, how am I going to get through the day"
"I just can't get on top of anything, I need more help"
And it's all true. I reckon I won the Tiredness Competitions most of the time, mainly because I submitted my winning entries with infinitely far more fury, expletives, ferocity and wine-fuelled venom than my placid, gentle giant of a man ever would.

Big G almost got home last night on a flight from Washington DC, but halfway to England the plane broke, turned around, and sped all the way back to where it started. So he had to wait around for hours, get on a later flight overnight, then take a bus, then a taxi to home. Then he had to look after the kids because I couldn't get out of working today. And that's on top of severe pilot sleep-deprivation due to several night flights and early starts in a row.

So I don't think I'll bother starting a Tiredness Competition tonight. He'll win.

Off now, for a glass of Rioja. Chin chin!

One Mattress Too Few

2008-02-16T22:09:00.009Z

Two of my nephews came for a sleepover. One (11) clutching a 'Pirates of the Caribbean' DVD; the other (7) clutching his special milk and all manner of Spongebobbery to snuggle in bed. I'm proud of the younger boy and my daughter (also age 7), for having mastered the art of pretending to be asleep when they hear me walking upstairs. I'm sure they think I'm too dim to realise that all that giggling, rustling and thumping is actually them.

I meant to borrow my sister's zed-bed, wrote it on a list, and of course forgot. So the big bulky 11-year old is now trying to sleep on some rather narrow sofa cushions, held together with an elasticated sheet, underneath my son's cabin bed. In my defence, I did try to alleviate the bed shortage by inviting one of my kids to sleep in with me tonight, but they solemnly shook their heads. No. Way. Jose.

Glass Half Full

2008-02-14T22:07:00.005Z

Like just about everyone I know, I've been drinking on and off for 22 years. For various reasons, and to various extents, and all in all I think my liver could do with a rest. So I'm off the wine at the moment, partly because my brain functions better without it (not that that's necessarily a good thing), and partly because I've been known to mutate into a rude, cantankerous, gnarly old bitch the morning after a glass or two. The best way to stay on the wagon is to not buy booze. If there's wine, I'll drink wine; If there isn't, I'm not bothered.

However ... Big G (that's the old pot and pan) is coming home on Monday. He's away a lot, flying planes, so when he re-appears we all get a bit giddy and stay up too late. And, on account of the fact that he has a whopping great Airbus strapped to his derrier most of the time, he doesn't drink much when we're apart either. So next week I might have to break my new good habit and crack open the odd bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon to celebrate his home-coming. It would be rude not to, after all.

Mama

2008-02-13T21:29:00.007Z

I once read that the word most commonly uttered (or rasped) by a dying person in the final throes, is "mother".

In any language, mother ... or mama, mom, moeder, mana, mater, maman ... means the same thing: the one who held you, fed you, cared for you, protected you. Whatever happens later in life, an infant always thinks its mother is the centre of its universe. So no wonder a dying person thinks of the one who gave them their life, as they feel it slip away. Knowing this fact makes me a little nervous - if I'm that important, I'd better make sure that when my children are 95 and I'm long gone, they'll remember me in a good light!

I know I didn't appreciate my Mama, Mom, Moeder, Mana, Mater, Maman enough when I was growing up. It was easy to take her for granted, because she was so dependable, fair, consistent and unfailingly on my side. She still is, and I'm pleased we live 9 minutes away from her now, instead of 4 hours.

I wouldn't mind my final word being "mother". It's better than "don't shoot", I suppose! Or "for God's sake, slow down". Or "are you sure my parachute is packed properly?" Hmmm. I hope it's "goodnight, see you in the morning".

In Appreciation

2008-02-12T22:42:00.001Z

One of my mantras is: "But I'm not ready."
Another is: "Sorry I'm late."

6 whole days ago ... I know, shame on me ... the mother of this lot kindly gave me an award. Apparently when you get one, you are meant to pass it on to 10 other bloggers. And, as I haven't done this yet, I am clearly shirking my responsibilities (nothing new there then). I do, as always, have excuses for my tardiness ... but they're not at all interesting. I expect some of my favourite bloggers already have the "E for Excellent" award, so I taken the liberty of creating a new prize called the "Keep Up The Good Work" award. Being new to this game, I'm not sure if this is strictly the done thing, but if not, feel free to take me to a Blog-Etiquette-Violation-Tribunal.

So without further ado (drumroll please), I hereby bestow this award upon the following:

Potty Mummy
Family Affairs
The Land of Sand
david mcmahon
Pig in the Kitchen
The Other Side of Paris
Wife in the North
Expatmum
Stay at home dad
Frog Blog by Frog in the Field
mother's pride
Nuts in May

Oops that's 12, got carried away there, oh well never mind.
Annoyingly the links don't seem to work, never done that before, sorry :-/

Yes You Are

2008-02-12T00:06:00.000Z

My kids like watching that show 'Drake and Josh' on Nickelodeon, and today there was a scene where these two boys do a sort of Blues Brothers rendition of 'Soul Man'. My daughter, quite adept at making up lyrics she hasn't quite heard right, spent the rest of the day singing 'I'm Sooo Mad'! Didn't have the heart to correct her.

Telescope

2008-02-11T20:22:00.000Z

The downside of growing up in a safe and pleasant town is boredom. But the upside of boredom is the chance to daydream.

My primary school years were blissfully jolly, but from the ages of 11 to 18, I was a typical angst-ridden teenager. Safe? Definitely. Shy? Yes. Scared? A little. Bored? Absolutely. As a result, my tender teenage years spawned a million dreams, most of which got lost over two foggy decades as drunk student, stressed-out executive and manic, self-employed mother of two.

But wait. I'm back. In the place where all my teenage dreams took shape. One of my reasons for leaving Cheshire - lovely as Cheshire is - was that I had lost sight of my dreams. Some people dismiss daydreams as mere fantasy; I think they're a telescope through which you can see the twinkling of your hopes, your spirit.

The north west is abnormally cloudy most of the time, so I never really saw the stars. Back down south, the stars come out all the time.

The Myth of Housework

2008-02-09T23:16:00.000Z

I scored a U in one of my O levels. That’s U for Ungraded. Useless. Unworthy of even an F (Fail). The subject? Greek Classics. At the tender age of 16, I haughtily decided that stories of Oedipus, Pandora and the like were so pointless and irrelevant that I didn’t bother reading the books. Hence I flunked the exam. Utterly.

There was however one story that I must have read because I remember it to this day – the sorry tale of Sisyphus. In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was a mischievous king who had to roll a huge rock up a hill, only to watch it roll back down again when he had nearly reached the top. He was condemned to do this for all eternity, as punishment for tricking the gods. Over the years, thinkers and writers have interpreted this myth in many ways: perhaps it refers to the interminable pattern of the sun rising and setting each day? Perhaps it refers to people who strive for wealth, but fail time and again to find happiness in their possessions? Any task that is repetitive, unfulfilling and without real purpose may be called Sisyphean.

But it is only now, 20+ years after my own Greek (Classics O level) tragedy, that I finally see the relevance of a Greek myth. “EUREKA!” to quote Archimedes. The story of Sisyphus is surely about housework. Housework is as Sisyphean as an activity can be. Parents tidy up, and children follow them around making a mess again. We put away the trains, and out come the cars. We tidy up the pens, and out come the paints. We clean up after breakfast, and then it’s lunchtime. We sort out the clean clothes, and the kids get grubby. Again. And where do all the bits come from? The little rubber things, scraps of paper, and miscellaneous toy parts that have been detached from their original playthings and scuff about the carpet and under the furniture making the house look like a junkyard. It’s a fact of life that every time you clean up a family home, more mess appears. Quickly.

Housework is unavoidable, repetitive and unfulfilling. It’s something we parents have to do day in day out, to make our homes safe and comfortable places to play, eat and sleep. But, given the Sisyphean nature of housework, no wonder it’s the part of parenting that most people find the hardest. No wonder that, although they’re probably great parents, so many people score a U in housework. That’s U for Untidy, Unkempt, and Unbelievably chaotic!