holiday...celebrate!

Dear Marianne,

Seven days to go until the school term begins, yes actually I am counting. Today lasted about four days, so the next six are going to be really rough. I have things planned of course, including: friends, family, London, swimming, sleepovers and even though I said I wouldn’t, the purchasing of cheap, brightly coloured crap from Woolworths. Next year we are going to go away in the summer holidays even if it kills, maims or just slightly damages me, we are going somewhere. Then the kids can say: “we went away here” and “we did this”, and I can also say to them: “we went away here” and “we did this, and that is why we're not doing anything for the next four weeks."
We have spent more time, money and energy on not going away, than we would have done doing the grand tour.

My parents took us camping every year. That is how we got a holiday, with five kids and not much money. We went camping in Weymouth, Plymouth, Littlehampton, and even in Croydon. Now I know that doesn’t sound believable, but honestly we did, and, not only was it Croydon, we weren’t even in a field on the nice edgy bits of the Town, we camped in my Auntie’s back garden on a really heavy council estate in Addiscombe. The local children used to burn down my Aunts fence on a regular basis, shout abuse at my cousin who is autistic, and generally make their life hell. My uncle was confined to a wheelchair, so what with all that and us in the back garden in a bloody tent, we might as well have hung a sign on the front door reading: “weirdos and vulnerable people live here please attack”. My other cousin, Bruno, the ballet dancer (I know, I know!), eventually saw the gang off by taking a large wooden mallet to the biggest nutters head – oh happy days.

Anyway, camping. It’s great for kids and absolutely horrible for parents, I know this because I have been camping with my kids and they loved it and I hated it. I now truly understand my Dad’s contempt for the whole thing. I have an image of him in his dirty man raincoat, banging in tent pegs in the driving rain and trying to keep the top thingy (see I learned nothing) from flying away in gale force winds. He was and is a gentle man who is usually very funny and contented, but “on holiday” he was absolutely miserable. He never shouted at us our whole lives, unless we were “on holiday”, and then it was a constant stream of aggressively delivered orders: “Somebody give me pole A, who’s got bolt C? Keep the flap zipped, get your things away from the sides of the tent, mind the gaz, mind the other gaz, Nick stop laughing, Rachel stop moaning, of course it’s dark we’re in a bloody field!”

Camping isn’t for the faint hearted, and my parents were even more cavalier than most. I have friends who go away with their three teenage children on holidays all over the world and don’t book their accommodation until they arrive at their destination. They think that’s crazy man, check this out. My parents drove to Plymouth with five children under 12 and never booked a camping site, not once. So we often ended up on sites with “dry toilets” –that’s not a toilet then is it - or dead animals – honestly we a found a dead cow once - and I shall never forget the farm we stayed on which had no campers but us, in a field that had no facilities at all, and gave you a choice of cow pat or nettle to walk on to get to the safety of the car. That was the same summer that Nick got the shits and spent a couple of nights with his arse hanging over the edge of a stream, with Dad in attendance. Nick was very stoic though, and the only signs of his misery were the streamers of loo roll flying from the hedge the next morning, that, and the haunted look on Dad’s face.

I’m trying now to remember what it was that was so enjoyable about sitting in three layers of clothing (including a jumper) in a not very rainproof tent, with rain thumping on the roof, eating frankfurters and rice, filling in puzzle books and playing cards with older sisters who always won, by the 20 watt light of a gas lamp whilst Mum painted her toenails and Dad stomped about outside looked at the gathering storm clouds, worried, double checked the guy ropes(why are they called guy ropes?) and worried some more. I can only conclude that what made it enjoyable for us was that we weren’t at home, we were away, and all these things we did when we were camping were enjoyable because they were different from everything we did for the rest of the year; we were “on holiday” and whatever Dad said, it was great. His consolation of course was knowing that when we all got back home and his five children were bored again, he could remind us that: “we have been away” and “we have done this, so we're not doing anything for the next four weeks.”

Rx

turn around and you're a young girl going out of the door

Dear Marianne,

I just heard some obnoxious little shite on the radio discussing a bit of research from Bristol University which seemed to indicate that men still prefer not to do the childcare. Wow, really? How much did they pay three PhD students, two Fellows, a Doctor and a cuddly toy for that one. Actually, I kind of agree that men are not really the chosen ones for childcare, especially in the early years. When Archie was two, Craig dressed him and took him to nursery for the day. After work I went to pick him up, where I found him dressed in a very fleecy tracksuity looking outfit, which was however, clearly (to me and all the female staff), a set of pyjamas. To this day Craig has hardly any idea whose clothes belong to whom in the family, and on that rare occasion when he has to put the clothes away, he needs help. So he shows each piece to Anna so that she can say: “Archie’s, Becky’s, Mum’s, yours...etc.”
She performs this task with the kind of condescension which only a five year old daughter can show to her father.

Anyway back to the “expert” on the radio. His argument was that of course men don’t want to do childcare, they need to be out earning the money and since men are paid more,then blah blah blah. It was the need and the want which I wanted (or needed) some clarity about, you may need to work, but is that the same as want, you may want to do childcare, but is that the same as need. However, since neither he nor the interviewer were prepared to listen to me, even though I was shouting very loudly in to the radio, I did what I eventually do every morning now, I tuned in to Radio 2. After all these years I realise now that I may need John Humphries but I want Terry Wogan!

Craig and I are having a childcare conversation right now too, an ongoing one, one that turns up every day, one that creeps in to conversation and sometimes just jumps right up in our faces screaming for attention in the middle of a quiet cup of tea. It is tricky for us because we work from home and in schools, so that with six weeks of school holidays, we are here, our work is here, our five children are here, but our going out to work work has gone. We do have work to do, but worringly we can do it at any time between midnight and oh midnight – so we are both available and unavailable for looking after the children between those hours too. Anyway, we resolve it like a couple of nervous boxers, bobbing and weaving, pulling our punches until the bell, at which point we agree to divide the day into unworkable portions.

Craig is off to do his unworkable portion with Anna and Mike right now. His plan for park, more park and a wander to the shops has come a bit of a cropper due to the rain and the rain and oh the rain. But they are dressed in fun rain stuff so they look quite keen. Becky is down in her room, it is 11.30 am, she has been up once to take food down, I will be down later to bring the plate up and that will be that until lunch time, when she will be up to ask what she can take down for lunch. Is she grateful for lunch, does she remember the rainy days I spent taking her down the park, wiping the swings and slide with the only dry bit of my jumper, just so that she could swing and slide in comfort? Nope.
It’s not that she doesn’t want my company or conversation or endlessly inventive parenting skills, she just doesn’t need them anymore. So I’m looking forward to stashing away the work later, to do my portion and enjoy making stained glass windows with one colour of sugar paper and two shades of blue tissue paper, because I know that whilst they may want to hang out with me now, too soon they won’t need to.

Rx

...its not quite a jaguar

Dear Marianne,

We don't have a car anymore, the Daewoo(0 to 60mph in 15 minutes)died on the M25 last month(outside lane to hard shoulder in 4 "life flashed before me" seconds). The police were right there straight away, it was 5:30am and it did look like I was drunk. They couldn't help at all as it turns out though, and I refused their kind offer of a silver blankety thing to keep me warm whilst I waited for the AA Man. I may have a shite car, I may have missed giving the one paper I give every five years and I may have been standing shaking with cold by the side of the road in T. shirt and shorts... but I still had my dignity.

So, I am borrowing Bonnie's car. The deal was that I drive her family to Gatwick Airport for their two weeks in the sun (not at the airport you understand, although it was a close call) and then two weeks later I pick them up, and in between times we get their car. A simple and effective plan you might think. Except, I'm not sure whether you have heard, but there has been a bit of trouble on the planes, and the trip to Gatwick was a round trip repeated (one way) the next day. I think they got there the second time, I know that they were determined to reach the south of France one way or another and the last time I spoke to them, planes to Northern Italy as well as trains from Paris were mentioned.
I suspect that this summer’s farce at the airports has provided a real sense of smugness for British holidaymakers up and down the country, as they sit on crumbling Victorian piers, in the freezing wind and driving rain, eating candy floss out of a plastic bag and drinking lukewarm tea from flasks. It may not be Provence, they’re thinking, but at least I didn't have to put my piles spray, tampons and false teeth in a see through bag just so I could get on a plane that wasn’t there.

You know what you notice when you don't have a car? How many unnecessary journeys you make in one. However after one week of walking purposefully everywhere and banging on about your new found sense of freedom to friends who are: “still bound by the limitations and a false sense of security provided by your car, actually Zoe”, you realise you can't go shopping for "big stuff". You can't go to the tip, you can't go on fun days outside the town, you can't pop in to grandma's in the village next to the town, you can’t drop people off, you can't pick people up, you can’t go swimming etc. etc.
Actually, apart from the tip you can do all these things by bus, but fuck that for a game of soldiers; I need a car.

Rx

i like driving in my car

Dear Marianne,

When Anna was three and a half I took her and the three older children to see Shrek 2 at the Odeon. Shrek 2 is a great film, I know, because I have watched it on DVD. Unfortunately I didn't get to watch it at the cinema because, as I’d predicted to Craig half an hour before we sat down to watch, Anna wouldn’t sit through it.
Before the film had begun I had taken her to the toilet twice, by the time the honeymoon sequence at the beginning was over she was sitting on my lap and as Shrek, Fiona and Donkey were on their way to Far Far Away Land I was in the foyer with her wondering how I would kill a couple of hours without spending another fourteen pounds on sweets.

I haven’t fancied a trip to the cinema with Anna since then. But this weekend I took her to see CARS, and as everyone had warned me, it was shite. But she did stay in her seat, mostly. It was a last minute decision to go and she was really there just to sit next to her cousin Sam, who she loves, in fact she would have been just as happy watching his face for two hours whilst eating half a ton of popcorn and three litres of coke.

We were supposed to go to one of those family fun days I have mentioned. My sister, her husband and their son Sam were staying and we were going to go en masse with our three (the boys are on holiday with their mum in Italy) to the free fun day which seemed just the ticket, until the rain came down. Now you know I don’t like rain, and a fun day in the rain would have tipped me over the edge.

So the gang dispersed, husbands and smallest went around the shopping centre and then to a wet park, the oldest hung out at home with her friend and the two five year olds went with Mothers to see CARS. I can’t tell you about the film because there is nothing to tell. Little Anna and Sam did not mention anything about it after we left the cinema, big Anna (my sister) said “I give that a four” as we got in the car, where conversation quickly turned to the trailers we were shown for what seemed much funnier films. I would have been happy to have gone after the adverts to be honest, and I’m not sure the children would have noticed. The adverts were funnier, cleverer, better to look at and managed to provide a more interesting story line in two minutes than CARS did in one and a half, or was it seven, hours.

Mind you, we weren't just there for the film, its the whole experience isn't it? I know it's not like the old days when we went to the "pictures", where we all sat in the stalls and stared at the back of each other's heads, or watched blue plumes of cigarette smoke swirling around us, and ate our posh (in tubs with spoons) ice-cream bought from the lady at the front with the torch and high heels, as the lights really went out and the high red velvet curtains swished majestically aside to reveal the screen. Then a silence fell upon (what felt like) the entire population of Crawley, as we sat transfixed by: da daa da daa da daaa da da da, da daa da daa da daaaaaa, da!

But, I enjoy the modern version too. The swirly plush carpets, the luminous sweets, the small (huge), medium (too huge for my lap) and large (can't see the screen)cartons of popcorn and fizzy drinks, the noise of surround sound, the luxury seats with cup holder, the spilled popcorn on the steps (do they pay someone to throw popcorn on the floor before each film is show?) and the anticipation.

The thing to remember though, is to leave before CARS comes on.

Rx

rainy days and mondays always get me down

Dear Marianne,

We went to Margate on Saturday. Why? I hear you cry. To see family. I hear me answer. It was the same when I travelled to North Dakota. Why? Asked the air stewardess. To see family, answered the air steward. And then they both laughed - at me.

Margate is 60 miles from my home as the crow flies, but 180 as Network Southeast trundles, both my town and Margate are in Kent, but I can get to Leicester in the time it takes for me to reach my sister on the east coast. So taking this into account, and coupled with a severe headache, five scratchy children, three changes of train, engineering works (bus from ramsgate to margate - uhm tempting)and a twenty minute walk in torrential rain this end, it is a wonder we set off at all. The only thing missing was a thunderbolt and a booming voice saying "DONT GO, STAY HOME!"

But we went, we braved the rain, the three trains,the grim wasteland of East Kent, the rain, scratchy children and the rain. Did I mention the rain?
At the first change at Tonbridge we performed a small comedy sketch for those who were watching, and when you have five children with you, people are watching. Craig stupidly listened to announcements and read departure boards for information, so that he knew which part of the train to go in. I always ignore such detail until I find myself sitting on the arse end carriage of a stationary train, whose front end is on its way to my destination. But this time, what with "engineering works and everything love, all the boards are wrong" as was the computerised voice on the train. So, with every new piece of misinformation, we first charged up and then down the platform. Then, when we got on the train we discovered we were on the bit that gets left behind at Ashford so we had to relocate to the front four coaches, at which point we discovered that it was all pointless because nothing was going past Ramsgate except some buses, which looked like they were last driven by Reg Varney with a big titted bird on his lap. We rang uncle Iain and booked his skoda and a taxi to ferry us to sunless Margate.
On the way back everyone, including the grown ups were tired , wet and cold. The rain streaming down the windows was entertainment for a while, but as we slothed past and then frustratingly back to the huge power station chimneys and the modern windmill that never turns, which decorate the desolate landscape of the post- Ramsgate and pre-Sandwich stage of the journey, end of tethers were everywhere. Our "parenting skills" were tested to the limit for the three hour trip, only aided by some coke and a kilo of sweety bribes; but anyway I think we did well.
We dragged our exhausted bodies up the hill from the station in the dark and, yes honestly, in the rain. We got everyone dressed and into bed and fell asleep to the sound of rain drumming on the wheelie bin in the front garden.

By the way, my sister was funny and cutting in equal measure, and made a heart stopping guacamole with 9 avocados, my brother in law was sweet and calm and too kind - why wait for ice-cream to become defrosted when Uncle Iain will make it happen,now. The cousins chatted, giggled, sat with and on one another, ran around madly, and eventually stopped long enough to pile under a duvet and watch spy kids in the front room.

Why else would I be in Margate in the rain?

Rx

an englishman's home is a property

Dear Marianne,

We have found a house buyer for the second time - hurrah!

There were two of them, they were room counters and they arrived in workman's boots, shorts and t. shirts, all splattered liberally in plaster and paint. They could have been two members of a more hetrosexual Village People. Maybe the look was contrived to impress upon us that though they were room counters, they were serious builders and not just any nancy boy room renters. To be honest they could have come dressed as Sonny and Cher for all I cared, as long as they wanted to buy my house.

Well they came, they wandered, they counted and then they went home and put in a very low offer. Which, out of utter desperation we very nearly accepted, but managed to reject and eventually drag from them a slightly less awful offer, which we accepted. They are planning to turn it into two flats, so apparently then this house does have "potential" as yourmove.com says, potential to have its innards ripped out, a few dodgy dividing walls put up and 140a and 140b stenciled on to two shiny new white plastic doors. That will be £100,000 profit in less than nine months ta - kerching!

I'm not going to miss cleaning and hoovering every other day for uninterested people, who have been sent to us by our estate agents even though what they were looking for was a two bedroom bungalow in Lowestoft. The children are going to be even happier because they will be allowed to leave beds unmade, toys in the bath, egg carton and toliet tube space ships on display in the kitchen, and underwear on floors. But it does mean that I will have to invite lots of friends and relatives round for dinner over the next few months so that I am forced to keep the place relatively decent should the builders return for one more snoop.

So all we need now is for you and everyone else we know to keep fingers, toes, arms and legs crossed and we will be out of here before Christmas. But just in case it doesn't all go according to plan, I have put a deposit down on a nice little place on the seafront at Hove. You know, one of those quaint wooden homes right by the sea, no not chalet, what is it, yes I know, a beach hut; we'll all be OK in one of those whilst the solicitors sort out the detail, don't you think?

Rx

cor baby that's really free

Dear Marianne,

At the end of term I spent a day working my way through all the things to do in the summer holidays, you know things like "adventure pirate playground" fun and "family days in the Kent countryside" fun and "visit our tiny and pointless nature centre, we have two sheep a poorly bird of prey and my brover went to Flumwell's sanctuary but all he got me woz dis t. shirt fun.
Then, I carefully wrote on the calendar all the free and fun things that were going on in our Town and county over the holidays. Now of course free fun is an oxymoron as the kids will tell you. If something doesn't cost anything it must be shite. Their argument goes roughly like this: Disneyland (hundreds of pounds train + ticket)the most fun, Legoland (£29 ticket) very fun, cinema (£6 ticket) fun, Swimming (£2 ticket) funish, FUN day (free)no fun.

The first free fun thing I took the kids to, (apart from hunt the lost hamster), was down at the pantiles and consisted of beer and Morris Dancers. Of course when it said fun and free it might also have said something about the morris dancing, but I hadn't bothered with the detail. It was free, we have no money, the holidays are six weeks long and I have five children.
So, I dragged Becky away from Pride and Prejudice (the film), prized Stans fingers from his playstation and ripped Archie's mobile from his ear so that they could join me and the two more keen members of the family for some summer funness.

After a slow start which was actually us watching two blokes putting out rows of chairs for something which clearly wasn't going to begin for hours, the Morris dancers appeared. Now, I don't know whether you hold an opinion on Morris dancers but I do; embarrassing english tradition, silly and eccentric in character, performed by people who drink beer in proper glasses and really do wear sandals with socks, always.

So they danced about in their ripped clown suits and hit each other with their sticks, yelped like wild banshees (there was a bird only group - hairy legged lesbians obviously), jingled their bells and generally entertained my children to the point where I have to admit, they were having fun. At which point some twat dressed as a very frightening if totally unrealistic horse came and scared the hell out of the two little ones so that we had to leave. "Its just a man in a sheet" I tried, but by this time they were petrified. I was upset for them but secretly pleased for me, because whilst they had all been dancing and clapping and generally enjoying it, I had been on the verge of self harm for forty minutes. "Whose for the Park?!" I said as positively as I could, no takers. "Chocolate cake and ice-cream?!"; pathetic I know, but works every time.

I have been to two more fun days since, the first of which was niether fun nor free as it turned out. This was billed as a family fun day at The Beacon pub. But it cost £1 for the little ones to go on their fun stuff and the bouncy castle was limited to five minutes of fun, then exactly at five minutes there was a spotty teenager to call them off - nice. The bbq food was awful, burnt pieces of meat with oven chips - yuk, and the rest of the fun stuff on offer, the bull riding and laser clay pigeon shooting was actually for grown ups behaving like children.
The second outing was brilliantly run by Charlton AFC who know a thing or two about charming the young people of Kent into becoming future supporters. The fun things were quality and free and Archie got five games of 5 a side football in an hour. But I still had issues about the fun for the adults which this time didn't exist at all.

I have five more fun and free days penciled in over the next four weeks, so there is a chance that I really will get a day of fun "for all the family". If someone can rustle up something which includes an Italian cafe atmosphere, a bouncy castle, face painting, a football game, girlie shopping and an outdoor playstation then we will all be laughing.

Rx

green and pleasant land

Dear Marianne,

I see that the government has foiled a plot to blow us all up on our way to happy holidays. Good of the bombers to wait until Mr Blair and family were safely in Barbados wasn't it though, it wouldn't have been right seeing them suffer the misery of waiting at Heathrow airport with thousands of others.
What's that you say? He doesn't fly economy from Heathrow? He has his own plane. How lovely.

See, he did have his reasons for not wanting an immediate ceasefire in Lebanon, he wants one after his holiday, how can he possibly be in two places at the same time. You can't expect him to be sunning himself on the white sandy beaches of the caribbean and in washington learning his lines: "Now look...its like this...you can't have an immediate ceasefire because...well because my mate said so." [Exits stage right].

Watching the flattened bodies in the wrekage of Beirut, Becky asked where the Iraq War had gone. Just wait, I said, its still there festering under the newest news story, along with a whole list of other tragedies in which England has played its terrible part.

I remember the days when it was frowned on to go to war and I have vague memories of Britain operating as part of a unified (ish) group of countries. Not anymore, what happened to an ethical foreign policy and a tolerant England, where you could go about your business without being shot dead by the police for just being in the wrong place. I know it still exists in some places, but where have all the decent people gone?

Just on cue I tuned in to radio 4 and heard a tribute to Linda Smith - and was reminded of the decent people we don't get to hear from much these days. So I think about the good people I know and don't know, the thousands that continue to March and such like for peace and I look at my children and hope that some of the shreds of the philosophy I grew up with, the liberal thinking, tolerance for others and respect for all human life have managed to seep through my tired and embittered forthysomething self into their hearts and minds. So that when they grow, they can undo some of the damage done to our character, and then people can again go safely on their summers holidays without the threat - real or not - of suffering the same fate as the people of Lebanon.

Rx

swings and roundabouts

Dear Marianne,

“Down the Park” is a phrase which fills me with dread. Play parks are places filled with things for children to fall off, run into and hit their heads on. Mike bit right through his tongue on a slide at my Mums Park, Stan broke his arm on the Monkey bars at a Park in Primrose Hill. Anna cut her knee on gravel at Priory Park in Crouch End, then she regularly reopened it by falling off other things at other play parks throughout the summer. The knee only really healed after Grandad (whilst I wasn’t looking) went at it with TCP – the Scottish version of TLC.

Play parks are dangerous and boring too. They are places where I am forced to watch and worry and where I make my children lose their self confidence by continually shouting “watch out...stop...careful...don’t”. A day at the park with me is not a good trip and I avoid it. All the kids have learnt that if they want to go to the park they need to talk to their Dad/stepdad. When he says yes he makes sure that he has a good book and/or magazine to take with him to read. How is that possible? If and when I am forced down the Park I don’t take a book – nappies, change of clothes, bananas, water, sweets, crisps, wipes, bucket and spade, summer clothes, winter jackets - maybe, but a book, when would I read it?

Down the Park I have to make sandcastles, push swings, be a train driver, climb up behind the smaller ones on the big slides, play catch the hat on the roundabout and generally join in. But Craig doesn’t join in and more significantly isn’t asked to join in; it is not discussed, just understood. He creates a kind of invisible forcefield around him which can only be broken if urgent first aid, toilet trips or football retrieving are required.

I was tempted to the park yesterday by the promise of fresh air and company. I arrived with three of my five to meet my soulmate Bonnie and her two boys. I began as usual with the: be careful of swings, people, dogs, cats, dog poo, cat poo, bicycles, tricycles, scooters, skates, skateboards speech, and segued into the more direct, “watch the swing, don’t go round too fast, mind each other, stop..!”
But then something beautiful happened, Archie, my Archie (aged 10) not Bonnie’s Archie (aged five), but don’t call Bonnie’s Archie little Archie because he doesn’t like that. Anyway, my Archie, took over! He has grown into something of a hero for Anna and Mike and Bonnie’s boys and for once in his life, he was the oldest and most interesting person ever and from the admiring look on the face of Archie (5) the most loveable. He orgainsed them into groups of cubs, x-cubs and mini-cubs, don’t ask me what that’s about, I only lasted two weeks in the Brownies, I couldn’t stand Brown Owl’s abuse of power, the festering heirarchy and the mini dictatorships run by the “sixers”.

Anyway, the little kids loved being told what to do, they climbed, jumped, slid, swung and skipped according to Archie’s commands. This continued to Bonnies’s house where we landed for tea. Archie securing not only high levels of food intake for the young ones, but general all round good behaviour by dint of his position as unelected team leader. I think all parks should provide this form of child labour, with ages relative to the group they supervise, pay given in massive gobstoppers and MacDonalds, quantity of pay based on overall performance and targets met; that is quantity of fun enjoyed per injuries incurred.

But then if Archie was in charge what would I worry about, who would I shout at, and how would Craig manage without that quality time with his book?

Rx

scouting for boys - no just another wedding

Dear Marianne,

I don't care what you or anyone else says I have just sat through the longest, and least funny best man's speech in the history of weddings.
A best man's speech should be either very very funny, very very rude, or very very sentimental, if it can't be any of these let it be short.
This speech was so long that the Best Man actually got heckled by guests, others went for really long wees, I kept myself going by watching the kids playing kick each other outside and fantasising about being out there with them. He had been going half an hour when at last he moved on from memories of the scouts, [group sigh of relief]to memories of the venture scouts [group sigh of desperation].
Eventually he arrived at the toast. "And here's to Steve and Pauline - Hurrah." - ouch! The bride came over: "The most boring man in the world" she sighed. "Yes Maureen", I said.

This was my third wedding of the year and the second in two weeks. The first was Christian, the second was Humanist and the third Civil. So, I have experienced three different types of ceremony, three styles of canapes and greeting drinks, three different flower arrangements, three different meals, three different types of childcare provision and three different sets of speeches, and here are the results of the English jury.....

Anyway, back to this weeks wedding.
As I tried to belt up the M25 in our rented renault clio, (papa it doesn't like fourth gear- nicole I am your father but I want to fuck you...), with the big kids, I suddenly thought that maybe I had got the time wrong for the wedding. Having lost all the crucial details of the day, sent four months before, I only had a faded entry in the calendar to go on, and now I thought well it could have said 11.30 not 1.30pm. This made the shortish journey to Bromley feel quite long, and the contempt from the big kids in the back was hurting my neck. Unfortunately the matter took a while to resolve, when, as we arrived for the wedding to see people milling around, I realised I only knew one other person at the wedding and I couldn't see them milling. So we stood by the car for a while as I put my clacky shoes on, and we shifted about for a bit. I was all for going over and saying is this Steve and Maureen's wedding, but Craig and the kids wanted to stay put. It was a little tense, with everyone wanting to blame me for our predicament, but concerned that I might have the first bastard to speak.
Eventually the "person I knew" came round the corner so we all relaxed and headed to join the throng at the doorway, but then she stopped, looked up and did a U turn back to her car. What was she doing, where was she going had she made the same mistake? Come back person I don't know well enough to ask! We were all moving one way now and there was no going back for us.
Another ten minutes of unbearable tension as we made small talk with the "millers" whilst trying not to mention key words like, Maureen and Steve. At last we were asked to come through to the garden at the back where another fifty people were standing, including the bride and groom who I did know. I thought it was one thirty I said.
The ceremony was the shortest I have ever been to. It was peppered with adults laughing, children crying, jumping, singing, and one shouting out "are they married now ...are we married now?" and a belter from the brides Mum ( I think) who, at the bit when we are asked if we know of any lawful reason why..., shouted "he's a drug dealer!"
The registrar looked like she wanted to be somewhere else, like Morrisons check out. Her lack of interest was palpable and she spoke with that same crescendo and decrescendo which air stewardesses use. "Welcome to THE WEDDING OF steve and maureen... and NOW, we come to THE LEGAL PART of the ceremony, ... and the exit doors ARE HERE, here and HERE." She might as well have been talking about sick bags, it would have been equally poignant.
The vows and things were said with the speed of a couple who had their eyes on the food and drink! I wanted to shout, "look behind you, there's people here, give us some sort of a show, some music, a short poem perhaps". But the combined drive of the happy couple and the "yeh-whatever" of the registrar meant that it was over before I had time to get uncomfortable in my shoes.

The rest of the day was lovely, the food fantastic, the place beautiful with grounds for the kids to run around in, then back to their house for more fun. Football for the boys, pirates of the caribbean (Depp and Bloom) for the girls, food and beer for us. But as the evening wore on my soberness became more acute, I didn't seem to want to cuddle people as much as others did, or to talk so loudly or dance on the table or show my tits to strangers. So I dragged my happy husband and three happy children away from new found friends so that I could get home in time to get drunk, cuddle people, dance on the table and show my tits before I fell asleep.

As we left I heard Maureen desperately trying to reassure the best man: "No really, it was lovely,... no, but funny is not your strength, you're more emotional and sweet". I suspect though that later as she danced, tits out, on the table, her words were less reassuring.


Rx

hamster

Dear Marianne,

Despite my best efforts the hamster I am looking after for a friend is still alive; my friend will not be pleased. When I went round to water her garden and feed the rodent I found a note she had left for me, which said that I shouldn't worry about the hanging baskets, if they died they were on their way out anyway and if the hamster should die, I should equally not worry. In fact I got the distinct impression she would be happy for it to die whilst it was in my care so that she wouldn't have to explain it to her son - she even left a box to bury it in "if the worst should happen".
But I can't kill it.
I turned up with most of the family today to find it magically missing from its very large modern home. But because of its modernist take on the "cage", it has a few flaws, one being that the hamster can get out of the lid thing at the top.
After blaming everyone standing near me, shouting, slamming doors and shaking the cage for evidence of dead hamster, I eventually set about looking for the little bastard. I was worried about coming face to face with it but at the same time hoping to find it alive. An hour later and Archie and I had seen every part of the kitchen including the furry bits under the cupboards. I thought I had followed a trail of hamster poo (possibly mouse)to a corner I couldn't get to. But mostly I knew the thing was dead and I had to decide the best way to text such information without sounding too dramatic or too caring.
When I told the kids it was time to go they complained because we were going to have pizza and sit on their big sofas and watch sky tv on a massive telly. But I didn't fancy hanging around and cooking things in a kitchen with a dead hamster rotting somewhere. Also Anna and Mike had been told that the hamster had gone for a walk and the lie was starting to look ... well like a lie.
Just as I was shutting the door I saw the little furry bastard wandering nonchlantly, actually blindly, down the kitchen, it had found a route from the hidden corner over the bottom bit which I had pulled away. I shussed the kids, and picked it up it screeched and bit me on both hands, I screeched threw it in the sink, Anna screeched because I had, Archie shouted, Becky pissed herself laughing and Mike carried on doing his Sporticus fitness dance. The hamster was not injured of course, since it's obviously a robot hamster,which can live off no food or water for three days. Eventually I got it back home with the help of a tea towel. I re-wrote my text to my friend to say that I had saved the hamster's life and although I had been bitten all was fine, even the hanging baskets were perky and she wasn't to worry. She wrote back to say how sorry she was that the hamster was still alive.

Rx

will ye no' come back again?

Dear Marianne,

Grandad John is awa' hame tae Dundee. I cried when he left, Archie worried about me and Mike told me "it isn't funny!". I will miss him, he is such a lovely generous man. He laughed a lot at the weird stuff the kids did, he did his best to find where's bloody wally, he stroked Anna "the dog" and Mike "the cat" when asked to, he took the big kids to Superman and later watched Notting Hill with them, on my newest favourite friend FILMFOUR. He walked for hours around Canterbury Cathedral with a sore toe, he braved gale force winds, man-sized gulls, and the loonys on the Pier at Brighton. He even helped feed my friend's horrible hamster.
And all week he has been a walking bank, shoving bundles of notes first in to Craig's hand and then when Craig was out of the way, in to my hand. "Please don't give me any more" I pleaded, "please tak it" he pleaded back.
I remember my first time in the company of John(Craig's stepfather)and Margaret, his Mother. Thick working class Dundonean accents, splattered with wonderful onomatopoeic vocabulary like dub (puddle), breenge (a quick run), drouth (thirst), dry boak (gag/retch), cundie (drain), stramash (altercation) and others that you wish you used yourself, like ken, twa', bairn, and troosers. All of which I am right at home with now, but the first time I heard them talking together I was a wee bit out of my depth. I cringe now, as I remember that evening, when I answered "uh...sorry?" to every question, giving up after the fourth time of asking back and then turning the conversation to subjects less stress inducing like The Clearances.

Craig took him to London today to see him on his way. It is hard to see him go on his own, without Margaret, who died a year ago this week, I miss her too.

Rx