Chok Yak Kek

The hair on my chinny chin chin

2010-10-12T16:26:00.002Z

This morning was surprisingly lovely, so I took my cereal and tea outside. As I stepped into the sunshine I felt the cool breeze through my hair; the hair on my chin and lip that is.

How did it come to this? I don’t remember leaving my twenties, let alone entering my thirties, but here I am at 45 with a hairy face. That’s not the whole story either, I have grey hair on my head and a scrawny neck reminiscent of a cockerel’s thingy, (no, not that thingy). I have skin which stays where it’s pushed and doesn’t anymore bounce back like a pea off a drum. My skeleton no longer allows me to make certain movements and I have muscles which resent being used for anything other than a slow walk from the kitchen to a well upholstered chair. And I never, ever, try a quick darting run these days - I’ll wet my pants.

The hair thing though is the straw to break my aching back. It may have been hip for Frida Kahlo to have a fine dark moustache, but she was arty and interesting, she could paint. You can’t pull off a lady moustache if you aren’t cool. Not if you have to do the school run with other mums who are immaculately dressed and well groomed, then, go to your office, where in the canteen you ‘shoot the breeze’ with young people who see your hairy face but don’t mention it. At least when I am with other 40 Somethings it’s out there, our shared open secret.

What’s terrifying is that I have very clear memories from my teenage years, of my own Mother standing in front of a mirror with a pair of tweezers, plucking individual hairs from her chin and lip. This is one of those things you do not want to see a parent do, it is on ‘the list’. This is a long list which includes: parent trying to climb into underwear, parents having sex, parent drunk, parent dancing, parent having a bath, parent being anywhere near when you are with friends/boyfriend. I promised myself then never to put my children through such nightmares, and I vowed never to have hair on my face, but I was young and foolish, I didn’t understand.

As for the hair, I have tried and failed with cover up and cream and powder of various types, I’m allergic to it all, so I have large swellings on my face as well as the hair. There are other options of course, you can wax or dye it. I tend to avoid this because of my allergic skin, but I was tempted recently when my friend Red gave me a free sample of bleachy-dye stuff. Before I could set about my face though, she rang to tell me to stop, because she had developed an unpleasant five o’ clock shadow soon after using it. You can go for the laser treatment, but I’m just plain scared of that, or you could try the Asian woman in town. She sets about you with some very taught string gripped between some seriously strong teeth and sure hands; she then grates away at your face. This looks like something I could withstand, but it’s in a public place, bang slap in the middle of the indoor shopping Mall. Now, you can be as sure as the hair of my chinny chin chin that every person in this small town, with whom I have ever passed the time of day, will walk right past me mid de-hairing – and they will know!

I think that generally I am coping, though not accepting, the negative trend in which my body is engaged. I wear scarves around my tired neck, I dye my hair so often that I really don’t know how grey I actually am. I try to help the small amount of skin I allow to be visible by drinking lots of water (well it works for Madonna), and my movements at all times are carefully managed. In everything I do I am deliberate and with everything I proceed with caution. But, short of wearing a mask I am not sure what to do with the hairy face. Mind you, I did spot a pair of tweezers in the first aid box in the bathroom yesterday; maybe I’ll try just one or two hairs tonight, whilst nobody is looking.

'Til we have built Jerusalem

2010-05-06T12:16:00.032Z

OK the big day – no not the wedding, the voting. It is worth pausing to think that on this day, at least 35% of those with the vote in this country wont bother to vote; probably the most important statistic so far in the campaign.

I was going to vote Scottish National Party, because I agree with so much of what they say, but apparently they have no one standing in West Kent. I was going to vote ‘intelligently’ as Peter Hain had asked me to but I couldn’t find an intelligent party on the ballot form either. Tragically for this country the BNP were on the ballot, but I only agree with one of their policies, that is to ‘bring our boys home!” innit – but what with all the racism and small minded hatred of the rest of their rhetoric it didn’t balance out well, a bit like voting for Hitler because he made the trains run on time.

Now when I lived in London I voted Labour from the ages of 18 to 32 and only once in that time did I see a Labour victory, and that of course was not real Labour but New Labour – like Labour but without any of the, well, policies, philosophy, decency….Anyway, when New Labour swept to power in 1997 it was quite a shock for our local Labour candidate, because he, like many others was just supposed to be a name on a ballot paper – but there he stood bleary eyed in the early hours of that Friday morning as MP for Finchley. But this is just to illustrate that I have, once, felt like my vote mattered.

Things out here in Tunbridge Wells are much clearer, I know my vote is worthless, here blue is the colour and keeping it is the game – you only have to take a five minute drive around this well heeled town to place it firmly in its natural context the Conservative party. The only reason that the Royal Wells is aware of a recession at all is that Fenwick and Hoopers have both had sales this year! The majority for the Conservative MP is 10,000 and Labour comes in third behind the Liberal Democrats. So for me, today, I knew that unless every other Labour voter in this neck of the woods voted tactically (i.e. for the Liberal Democrats) then my vote was essentially pointless. This is somewhat a disheartening realisation to come to, given that about 100 years ago women were throwing themselves under horses and starving themselves to near death, to get for me the opportunity to vote at all.

If the election was won on size and number of posters, UKIP would have the win in the bag round here. Their signs are massive and pink and argue for keeping the pound, which, don’t tell them, we still have. And have UKIP and their new kind of madness, replaced all the Monster Raving Loony types,where have all the Yogic Flying candidates gone? These people are a vital part of the democratic process for goodness sake.

As I entered the United Reformed (why did it need reforming?) Church Hall, to put my cross on the form, I was still debating whether to vote Labour or Liberal Democrat. I was overcome in the booth itself with a sudden and violent urge to vote UKIP just for the hell of it. However, I eventually placed a cross next to Gary Heather (Labour), a nice young man from Islington (yes, really). It was partly muscle memory that led my hand to that box and partly the knowledge that before Gordon Brown became known (mostly thanks to the media and Blairites) as the demonic, one eyed Scottish, can’t smile properly, should have been voted in, Prime Minister, he was a chancellor whose tax credits, the EMA and various other bits and pieces of money have helped to keep my family and small business afloat for the last eight years. Truthfully, without it we would be living with my parents and out of options.

So there you go, I voted. I wish I felt better about doing it – but I know that it was the lesser of two evils in the end; not the kind of thing you should really be looking for in a government. Anyway, if the rest of Europe goes the same way as Greece,then it won’t matter who is in government because it will be the riot police who will be making most of the important policy decisions.

No More Sitting On The Old School Bench

2010-03-17T12:17:00.035Z

Mike will be at the junior school in September and with him go any hopes of attending another assembly. So yesterday, I saw him in the last school assembly I will ever have to go to.
I have been attending these school and nursery events for 15 years and I felt a mixture of emotions: happiness, utter joy, more happiness, mixed with relief and happiness. If that sounds mean, well perhaps you have been to a better class of assembly than I have, but mine have been mostly dull, life draining hours of boredom. Occasionally something accidentally amusing or interesting has lifted the mood, but only occasionally.

Yesterday's assembly,- which as anyone with a child knows is said: a ssem ber lee -contained all the usual stuff you learn to expect in these things, from confused children, to anxious teachers and the inevitable cock-ups.

Actually I’m not being totally fair I do enjoy some elements – especially the entrance of the Reception classes. Is there anything more wonderful than watching scores of tiny boys and girls, swamped in their two sizes too big school uniforms, wandering aimlessly about the hall wondering where all these grown ups have come from. Once seated, they play with their hair, pick noses, scratch bums and wave unselfconsciously at friends and family and strangers. These half asleep, half smiling wee things don’t realise that they have just totally upstaged the Year 2 class whose assembly this is.

One of the first rules of a good assembly is that electrical equipment must always be available and should either be broken or impossible to operate. True to form, the microphone used by the Year 2 children yesterday augmented their words not one bit, leaving parents and children straining to hear past the first couple of words: 'this term we ha.......’ Over the years however, one learns to guess what they're saying, and it's not that difficult, because the over-worked teachers generally go with the show them the work we have done in class format.

Apparently Mike's class has been doing opposites, and after each child had said a few incomprehensible words about opposites into the broken mic, they each held up a letter to spell that word. OP ITE! declared the letters dutifully held aloft by the class, inevitably the second P and O and the S's were round the wrong way upside down or under the foot of some daydreaming six year old; they never learn, the teachers that is.

At last there was a break from the torturous routine of whispering and showing stuff we had already seen at parents evening, for the children to sing a song. Up they all stood and the back row clambered on benches, so that they could be seen. Within seconds of the very tall child in the middle of the line losing his footing the domino effect had taken out the whole of the back row on the right hand side. Mike, standing safely on the left hand side enjoyed this as much as I and the rest of the audience did. This is the sort of thing you can usually only wish for; but now and again those kids come up trumps. Nobody was hurt, and so on with the show!

The children waited for their music cue and boy it came. The hi-fi system was set at the highest volume so that when the CD was set in motion, the first couple of notes were so loud the older children began to scream and the reception children were left stunned and startled like rabbits in headlights. It was too much to ask surely, I was getting a great last show.

They sang Our God is a great big God, which is a real belt it out number. At home we sing it as: our dog is a great big dog, but Mike kept his mind on the job and sang the correct version. He is mostly religious at the moment, but the cult of atheism will have him too, eventually. After this it was back to the monotony of whispering and holding up stuff. On and relentlessly on it went, with more straining to hear anything followed by something held aloft - a wolf made out of clay, an example of paper weaving, a camel and palm tree sketch - and each parent smiling and nodding reassurance at their own child, whilst suppressing a growing concern that compared to the other children their child was good at nothing.

Eventually it is all over, the class teacher can relax the contorted smile which has been in place since the start of the chaos, and her Year 2 class now speak loudly and clearly so that we can all hear them for the first time this morning. The new head teacher is perfect, she does no more than offer quick congratulations to the children and after another hearty round of applause we are all let off the hook. The old head teacher was sincere but long winded and left parents twitching to get away. His desire to keep the momentum going always reminded me of my Mother’s descriptions of attending our nursery nativity plays. Plays so short that the children would do two or three shows at a time to make up the 20 minutes. My Mother said that it took all her strength not to shout NO! as the keen young nursery leader asked the audience: “Would you like to see that again?!”

Mike bounces over full of pride and we decide that it was the best assembly ever, and not only was his spoken line the best, but his clay wolf would win prizes; after one more great big cuddle he bounces off happily to class and I can head to work.

When our older children put on assemblies at the inner city London schools they attended, you could count the parents in attendance on one hand. Out here in this well-heeled rural town, you have to get to an assembly 15 minutes early to avoid the crush of Mums and Dads and Grandparents. If it’s a nativity or summer show don’t bother showing up without a ticket and don’t ask for more than two. I do care that my children are happy at school, and now and again I like to cheer them on in their shepherds outfits at a nativity, or weep with them as they come 5th in the sack race or clap along during their rendition of ‘All the single ladies” at the yearly talent show. But in between these occasions I will be regularly pressured to help in the class, to help on a day trip, to help with reading, to help making cakes and then to help selling them at the spring fair, and on it goes – even the grandparents find a day set aside for their attendance. But I don’t need to participate in the whole process for my children to be OK, do I? Surely I am the person who they should see when they come home and want to forget about school, and school is somewhere where they should be happy, make friends and if they are lucky learn a little something too.

Wake up and smell the roses

2009-08-09T10:05:00.012Z

I am handwriting this blog and Craig is typing it up. He is my right-hand man, and left-hand man actually. The only thing he hasn't had to do for me recently is wipe my bum - although he may have done that too - a lot of May and June is a total blank.

A day in the life of me, well they vary - but today I am up and writing - so lets take a day like today, because it's more interesting than the horizontal type days. These include lots of laying down and Radio 4, where the bad drama is funnier than the "comedy" - oh, the "Now Show" - laugh, I nearly did... Today, however I am vertical and I can look forward to a day of caffeine-free fun, with eye exercises (yes really) and pills. I am up at about 9a.m. then into the front room for my morning cuddle from Mikey - who bounces about like a Tigger and generally cheers me up. Then a cup of decaf tea with skimmed milk or, as I prefer to call it, tea-coloured water. Then high-fibre cereal with more skimmed milk (not milk) and a gluten-free, dairy-free, taste-free raisin slice. Next, my exercises. I sit down for these and with the position I have to take and the two stone I have put on whilst lying down for six weeks and retaining a v.healthy appetite, I look like a buddha but with all the wisdom of a lump of coal. These eye exercises are designed to re-educate brain and eye to recognise the difference between my movement and movement outwith my body. Not the sort of thing you would imagine you would have to go back to school for, but there you go - what do I know? If you wave at me I try to move with you these days. My exercises make me look like an idiot and I am reminded of that bloke with learning difficulties who was in a documentary which was probably called "The Mentally Handicapped - why are they all so stupid?" as it was broadcast in the early Eighties. Anyway, this one bloke spent his day quite happily staring at a small piece of wood tied to a piece of string which he dangled in front of his face. 2 exercises require me to do similar using my thumb in the place of wood. Inevitably by 10a.m. I am feeling dizzy, or is it wobbly, or maybe off-balance, or just weirdy deirdy doo. I don't have the language for it - but the medical profession will insist on me offering more than "I feel fucking awful all the fucking time, so stop moving".

At this point I have 2 options, rest or "do stuff". On a vertical day I choose doing stuff - it's not very scientific - but I am much less convinced by science than I used to be and steadily working my way towards blind faith - get lost Dawkins, hello Jesus! Doing stuff is always good for my mental health and bad for my physical health. So even though I know that, I am somehow always surprised and upset when I find myself vertigo'ed up by the end of the day.

This vertical day is the best (touch wood, touch wood, cross arms, legs, fingers, breasts) day I've had since last Thursday when a number of things happened - a too physical massage, hayfever, my first visitors proper for months. It could be that one, some, or all of these factors made the dizzy's return - I wish I knew - but I don't which makes this whole rehabilitation thing a wee bit like guess-work and so once again I turn to blind faith. Which is why I have to believe the words of Dr Surenthiran, my guru, and his caffeine-free, chocolate-free, dairy-free, citrus-free, fun-free diet, his brain and eye exercises which make me look and feel ridiculous, not to say faint, and the tiny white 10mg pill called something beginning with N which doesn't seem to do anything but must be doing something in a magical way which I don't understand.

So that's it, a vertical day, pretty good, so far. No doubt I will play one game too many with the kids and have one too many conversations with more than one person and be horizontal by the end of the day. I am an impatient patient and generally a very bad patient - but, slowly, very slowly, with the help of blind faith, Craig and the kids, family and friends, I am learning to slow down and smell the flowers.

Let it Snow...

2009-02-10T21:46:00.003Z

Dear Marianne,

On Monday the snow lay thick and flossy on the ground, we woke knowing something was different. I held up Anna and Mike so that they could look out of the hallway window at the top of the stairs. They were excited to the point of hysteria and ran to every window, just to check that the snow was really there. Becky was delighted to read on her school’s website that the building was closed except for those who “needed to be in”. I didn’t suggest that might be her. Half way through the morning she received a text to say that a classmate had died unexpectedly at the weekend. Later she went out with friends and they consoled each other and had a snowball fight in the middle of their shock.

The last time we had snow like this was April when we went to the cricket pitch on the common to “say goodbye” to uncle Mike and play a game of cricket in his honour. Mike had died suddenly of something in his lung. He was a hippy type of fellow and lived up a mountain in California in a log cabin he built with his wife Linda. He didn’t want a funeral, or any fuss really, so his wife and friends scattered his ashes around his beloved meadow on top of his mountain; they drank Budweiser and smoked joints all night.

Half way across the world, we took the kids to the place he had seen his only cricket match, he loved cricket, although his only contact with the game was through the world service, which delivered giggly British schoolboy commentary all the way up there in the woods. We were thrown by the arrival of snow on a mid April morning, and the fact that we couldn’t find our cricket stuff, but determined to see our plan through, we put a badminton set in the boot of the car and headed off to the common. When we got there we made a snowman, threw snowballs, played a game of snow badminton and toasted Mike with Budweiser and Coke.

This snowy Monday I should have been at a funeral, but the “weather event” stopped me even contemplating getting in to my car and heading north. I am still in that dizzy world of disbelief about the death of this old family friend, she was too young and it was unexpectedly sudden. So I think that if she turned up at the door right now, I would be less surprised than I am to find that she is not here at all.

She was like the big sister you can’t have for real - she was kind, she listened to all my teenage angst nonsense, she was fun and encouraging and a constant feature of my teenage years. She was my real big sisters best friend and my big brother’s girl friend.

Later we would meet as adults, and share stories of life after all that stuff, but she is very firmly there in my childhood memories. Small moments, such as when she lent me her new, cool wellies, and wasn’t cross when I messed them up, or the time she came to say goodnight to me and in my sleep I swore at her and she laughed, or the time she bought me a proper grown up present: white musk talc in a shiny black ball the size of my hand, which you twisted to open; it looked so cool, it smelled lovely and it was so sophisticated.

I didn’t get to her funeral, but with all the kids off school, we played in the snow, baked cakes, read stories, cooked a roast and toasted Sally with a ropey wine we found in the fridge. I think it was a fine way to say goodbye.

do the hustle

2007-06-06T16:40:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

One very hot June afternoon when I was about seven, my Mum stood on the start line for the Gossops Green Primary School Sports Day Mother's race. On either side of her stood other nervous Mothers hoping they wouldn't fall over, bump into each other, win the race or in any other way embarrass their children and scar them for life.

"On your marks, get set, go!" Twenty or so huge lumbering bodies headed towards us, as we sat confined to our class pens. I can still remember the ground shaking and the sound of forty middle aged thighs thundering down on to the dried, cracked, sun baked "field"; it was a sight you never really forget. My Mother in her tight, knee length blue dress with round cut neck and white trimming, looked great, and importantly, she didn't win, fall over, or bump into anyone else; she didn't even lose. The problem was she didn't start the race at all, she simply stood very still watched the other Mother's hare off down the hill, then put on her stilettos and walked calmly to the side of the painted white track.

In her defense - and it is hard to defend such a cruel and callous act - she was rather bullied in to the race by her colleagues, yes my Mother not only didn't run that day, she also taught at my school. The teachers who had organised the day knew that if they could get one Mother on to the start line others would follow, and others did reluctantly join my Mother, obviously feeling for her situation. I guess she then reasoned that she had done her bit and didn't need to humiliate herself by actually running the race. What she hadn't reasoned was that I would suffer from this act of tyranny and betrayal for years to come.

Since then I have been a Mother at a number of Sports Days and have always refused to take part in this summer madness. I really believe that adults should never run, unless it is a)for a bus or b)one is wearing body tight lycra, racing around a proper track in front of 40,000 screaming fans and there is a very good chance one will win an Olympic medal. There are no other times when running as an adult is acceptable behaviour, the "other times" always end in humiliation...

So when I turned up for yet another Sports Day, this time at Anna's Infant school last week, I knew what I wouldn't be doing, at least I thought I did. I hadn't banked on the guilt trip served on me by my "friends" who all chose to sign up for the Mother's Race. This meant that I was the only Mother in the group who wasn't running, or to put another way, the way Anna was looking at me, I was the only Mother who didn't love her daughter enough to run 50 metres with a bean bag on a bat. So against all my natural inclinations, against my gut instincts and most importantly in direct violation of the vow I made to myself after that painful day over thirty years ago, I stood with other foolish women at the start line, red bat in hand yellow bean bag sat on top stupid grin on my face.

Just before the school bell rang to signal the start of the race, some dummy mummys - I think that's the term - from the BMW 4x4/morning cappuccino at Carluccio's/swim in the salt pool at the spa/subscription to LA Fitness (never goes)/blonde streaks compulsory, crew, got hold of our group for a quick chat. They told us that at the Junior School, the parents' races were really competitive with warm ups and stretches and serious racing - we all laughed and tutted and said "how silly". Then dingaling! and we were off, my group and I laughed, we ran slowly, I pushed other people, cheated, managed to avoid getting taken out by the huge Dutch lady falling heavily in front of me, and generally made it slowly to the other end, remembering to smile at Anna and concentrating only on not taking it too seriously.

Meanwhile the pack of dummy mummys had engaged their 4 wheel drive and set off at a hell of a speed, ears pricked back, Fat Face and Jigsaw linen jackets flying in the wind, Crocs and Ugg boots barely touching the ground. They came first second and third, collected their stickers, feigned surprise at their achievement and headed off to hit the Pimms. The rest of us sheepishly made our way to the our children to apologise for our lack of sporting prowess and try and convince them and us it is the taking part that counts.

When my mate Red got home and told her husband about the outrageous behaviour of our "sisters", he said: "you were hustled" love. I think he was right, we was done. I just wish that having been compelled to stand at the start line, I had remembered the hustle my Mum had employed all those years ago, I think I get it now.

Rx

tooth hurty

2007-04-04T17:01:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

I've been very worried about Mike's teeth. He is four and already two of his teeth have gone rotten, another two are on the way, one of them is a front tooth. Mike is my fifth child and they have all had their share of bad for you sweets, chocolate and fizzy drinks - but none of them have lost their milk teeth and although the older ones have fillings this is a rare thing. So what's going on with Mike?
Well, apparently nothing I can do anything about. I took him back to the dentist that had kind of told me off about his, then, one bad tooth. I shuffled in waiting to be branded a bad mother, even though I had been brushing Mike's teeth to within an inch of their life and had banned apple juice and sweets since our last visit.

However, the dentist told me not to worry, that there was nothing I could do, that the second teeth would be fine and that the health of the milk teeth seems to depend on the physical make-up of the child. If I wanted an analogy, he said, then imagine a person who smokes 40 cigarettes a day and lives to a ripe old age and next door someone who has smoked rarely but dies early of lung cancer. I didn't want an analogy, certainly not that one thanks; I was so thrown by this I thought I might have my first ever cigarette there and then.

After the condescending smiles, the sighs, the inappropriate analogies and Winnie the Pooh stickers, I was ready to leave, but Michael wasn't. He had brought Ollie Dog along to the dentist (Ollie dog is named after a friends dog - which is barely alive, despite living on a diet more rich in vitamins, minerals etc. than his owners get - don't tell her I told you, but his food comes with rice and peas...)and Ollie hadn't had his teeth checked yet. So, having already be transformed into an over-indulgent Mother, my fate was sealed by my request for Ollie Dog to sit in the chair and have his turn. To his credit, the big, burly dentist obliged and gave Ollie's teeth the once over with mirror and sharp pointy thing - Michael looked on enthralled and very pleased - Ollie got a sticker on his head and we left.

Outside, I was so relieved, that I could have danced in the street, yes Mike's teeth are falling out, but it's not my fault - I am still a good Mother. Hurrah! We went to town for chocolate cake and coke, well we were celebrating weren't we...

Rx

in your easter bonnet with all the frills upon it

2007-03-19T10:42:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

Easter is a tricky time for us, because apart from the 15 tons of chocolate egg we will need to buy, we also have three of our children's birthdays and my Mum's birthday to cater for - so it's like Christmas all over again; for the bank account that is.
I ask the children what they would like as birthday presents, because surprises aren't what they used to be in our day, i.e. surprises. Today, they are just mistakes, things your parents make you have instead of things you actually want. Well, Mike is getting surprises because whilst he thinks he is generally chatting with me about the toys he likes, really I am taking notes and compiling lists - ha ha.
Anna however is not such an easy target, and has been clear that she wants a complete Bratz (why the z?) birthday. So I bought Cloe (why no h?)her favourite, and my God what a tart she is, the whole range is the same, they're not just Bratz they're Slutz as well. Cloe has such swollen lips and cheeks, that she looks like that bloke from Celebrity Big Brother, you know the man/woman ex-singer, Pete whats his name, friend of the Dundonean Gangster MP who ripped into Barrymore and made us all like him again (Barrymore, not the MP, keep up), that's right Pete Burns. Anyway, that's what this doll looks like, so hideous that I yearned for the delicate and oh so lifelike doll we knew and loved as Barbie.
Archie meanwhile is bound to ask for football stuff when he comes next week and Mike will be getting a castle and some robot stuff - sorry about the stereotyping but we really have absolutely no say over our children, we've tried and failed.
Anna's age group are also expected to have the latest in party entertainment - so that means, RUNAROUND, BOWLING, CHOCOLATE PARTIES (don't ask) etc. We have told her she can take one friend to see something funny at the cinema or something educational at the local theatre - well we didn't sell it like that, we worked on the language for her, we're not idiots you know. She chose funny at Cinema followed by milkshakes etc. at local cafe, so clearly over-selling the Theatre gig had no effect.
I won't go on about parties here because I have been down that sad road before and it only ends in tears. The competition round here is too strong I can never compete, you think the Bowling party is in and so you opt for Bowling, and then someone trumps you with an Open Top Bus DO with clowns, jugglers and a petting zoo. So steady and small we go, and as it happens, the weirdness of opting out of the scramble for best party seems to get Anna some unexpected kudos - my advice to Mothers is go minimal ladies, its so this year!
I got a party for nothing myself this weekend, well it was because I am a Mother - which wasn't really something of note unless you were in the room when I gave birth, in which case your ears will still be ringing and the hair on your head still growing back. But I do like getting the home made (nursery and school- made) cards from the children and I enjoy, though don't really heed, the regular cries of "sit down", "rest - it's Mother's Day". Anyway, after Anna and Mike had gone to bed and I was "resting", the three eldest arrived at my sofa door "all done up", to announce that they had come to take me out - which they did after I had been hurried into a clean top, some eyeliner and a quick spray of perfume.
We were shoved out the door by Craig and arrived two minutes later at the local Thai restaurant, it was a good plan which looked like it might go wrong. The restaurant was very busy and they (Craig) hadn't booked, and the staff, who were already looking strained, seemed frightened by the young people. I know I've said it before, but this place really is really small Town; each time the big kids are out after after dark, I warn them to look out for the child catcher.
We were squeezed in, which was fine by us, Becky took control of the menu, ordering, looking out for Archie and paying the Bill. Stan was entertainment officer and regaled us all with stories of life, love, The Simpsons, friends and his recent charity turn at school, where he turned up on Friday dressed only in nappy and over-sized dummy - no really, he did, even after we slagged up comic relief for, well...he wasn't listening either I'm glad to say.
Anyway, back to the meal, Archie chose something too hot and had to take to the toilets to drink a gallon of water from the tap, but seemed to enjoy his coke. The food was brought very slowly, but eaten at lightening speed, the staff stared at us, waiting for something terrible to happen, still suspicious of these young humans. They needn't have worried they are thoroughly restaurant trained having been out on the Town with us since they could sit up straight in those clip on chairs you get at Wagamamas. The highlight of the night was obviously getting two foxes glacier mints each at the end of the meal. Becky paid (well handed over the money - I suspect Craig may have supplied it) and we headed home, too full of noodles, tired and giggly.

Easter will soon be hurtling towards us, it will come and go in a blur of chocolate bunnies, birthday parties, egg painting and egg rolling, motorway trips to relatives and home-made entertainment. And I will be tired out again, and penniless again but I do love this Mother lark really you know.

Rx

don't marry her fuck me

2007-03-09T11:32:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

We made a vain attempt at sex this morning - a stab, you may say - only to be interrupted by Anna, shouting from downstairs, (where she was supposedly being looked after by the Cbeebies channel) "What do pigs eat?!"
"Apples!" we both shouted back, with a little more venom than I think was warranted. But we don't get many opportunities for sex, and I do mean sex, making love is just a made up thing you see in the cinema (whatever a cinema is). And we have so often over the years had coitus interruptus from children, though the most spectacular has to go to Becky's phone call intervention from her Dad's house. We had an entirely empty home, but as soon as that phone rang I knew two things, 1. I should have pulled the phone line out before we started and 2. That it would be Becky, her sex radar was amazing - and it didn't surprise me that she had sensed we were "at it" from ten miles away.

I promised myself, and silently Craig too, that I wouldn't mention sex in our correspondence, but it takes up a lot of our lives, not, unfortunately, in a physical sense. We spend a great deal of time talking about how we used to take it for granted, how we used to do "it" a lot, we discuss how often it was simply spontaneous - yes drink induced - and how little of it involved micro planning, unless we were attempting something daring such as an outside moment. If we didn't manage to get it together for a while that was OK we would catch ourselves up over the next few weeks. So today, we discuss sex in the past tense and sex in the future tense, and the future is pictured as small windows of opportunity when children are asleep, at nursery or stupidly, like this morning, just far enough away in our tall house not to notice us.

These windows of opportunity are desperately difficult to organise, but every now and again we pull it off (I know, I know), and feel like adults with a life and a future. It's the same for a friend of mine who manages an illicit fag in her design room (shed in garden)once a day, whilst her sons watch CARS and feed on snacks rich in salt. I have another friend who is working towards a BA in History with the Open University - she's doing it part time so should be done by 2020 and another friend - what am I saying, I don't have three friends I have pre-school age children. The rest of the women I know are all Mothers of other children, not friends, definitely not friends, more like enemies really. Anyway, the point is when your life is hour after hour of monotony filled by children and Fimbles, Runaround ("fun" indoor play park)making castles with bog roll tubes, trying to get the little darlings to eat cheese by offering them something called cheesestring and wet pants (their's not mine - well sometimes mine)then you tend to look on the few minutes without all this as sacred time - time to be spent doing ADULT things. Even if you do just want to eat sweeties and watch Charlie and Lola, you know you can't you absolutely MUST do something grown up - it is your responsibility to all the others who suffer too.

So sex, and fags and rock and roll (hey that would make a good title for a song)and beer and swearing and films with ADULT CONTENT and going to the Theatre to see rubbish and going to the cinema to see The Queen, a film you would NEVER have considered when you felt you had a choice, and getting drunk on two bottles of wine in half an hour on your first night out in four months - and calling the husband of that woman from NCT classes a cunt and not remembering why. This is what we must do, this is what we have to do, until we have life's blood, that is TIME, returned to us. Good luck everybody - go forth and for God's sake, don't multiply.

Rx

are you drinking to get maudlin, or are you drinking to get numb?

2007-01-23T22:33:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

I had to go to Welwyn the other day, I thought it would be a sleepy place, and it was. I had a whole hour for lunch so I went in to the village centre for an innocent drink, but was dragged in to a kind of vortex for forty minutes, and only just managed to get back in time for work.

It all started down at the local pub... Now, I have had a number of different pub experiences in my life. The country - you're not from round here - pub experience, the ear bleeding - turn it up - club/pub experience, the city -only time to stand & drink - pub experience, the sports - you can ask us to get off the pool table but we fucking won't - bar experience, the cheeky irish chappy - let's sell them Guinness - pub experience, the faux drawing room - books on shelves, game of backgammon anyone? - pub experience, the families welcome - through the back next to the bogs smiley potato faces - pub experience, the physically dangerous - are you spilling your drink on me! - pub experience, the student - huge black hole beer too cheap desperate for a shag - experience, and the slightly smelly but local - can I cash a cheque - pub experience. But I have never experienced the thanks for your order - but I can't manage it - pub experience. Not until my visit to the centre of Welwyn that is.

This sleepy little village boasts five (could be more)pubs. I noticed a sports pub and a theme/stuff your face with deep fried food for less pub, amongst others, but I wanted a quiet time with a glass of wine and a sandwich. The Black Horse looked happily unassuming from the outside and I thought it might do the trick. It was a bit shabby inside and I hadn't banked on the huge TV screen delivering non stop soft rock videos, nevertheless I carried on.

I odered a white wine spritzer (slightly wanky drink for drivers and people on diets). Then I was lost in Welwyn for a while.

Me:Oh and is there food on?

Barman: I thought you were going to ask me that - no, nothing, but we were thinking of knocking through, but that's no good for you now is it.

Me: Not really, but I'll have the drink.

Ten minutes later the tension in the pub is palpabale. The barman is very red, he is also out of breath, having been up and down the stairs a couple of times.

Me:Everything all right?

Barman: No.(He showed me two bottle openers). This one broke last night and this one wont go into the cork.

He returned to the gently warming bottle and after some more pulling eventually opted for pushing. The cork went in but the wine wouldn't come out. I was running out of lunch time, and, though I hadn't been before, I was now desperate for a drink. The barman looked haunted and embarrassed. I mentioned that I might try another pub, this idea was warmly welcomed along with helpful suggestions on what might be the best place to get a white wine spritzer and a sandwich.

In another pub, the name of which escapes me, I just had time to throw down some liquid and a pie and then run back to work hot and bothered. Next time I go somewhere sleepy, I think I'll keep it easy, visit the local tea shop for a pot of Assam and a tea cake, I should be safe there shouldn't I, they haven't started to theme tea shops yet have they?

Rx

goodnight sweetheart, goodnight

2007-01-20T10:46:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

I calculate that I have had approximately 14 minutes sleep over the last two weeks. Mike's cough is keeping us up all night, it is a real dry hacking cough, horrible. Sleep deprivation apparently is bad for you and is a form of torture, but I'm fine, no noticeable effects from lack of sleep. Michael and Anna's toys are looking after me today, we are having a tea party, it's fun, look at all the pretty colours Marianne...no, really I'm fine.

Anna and Becky have the cough now - so looks like I will be seeing a lot of the night again tonight and tomorrow night and perhaps for another few weeks. I'm trying not to show my panic to anyone else as I stumble up to school with my hair leaning to the left, my eyes black and my clothes leaning to the right, but I am utterly consumed by the fear of this forthcoming lack of sleep. I spoke to London Bird Ali, and we discussed how it used to feel when we had just had a baby. We were quietly agreeing that sleep deprivation came with the territory of newborns, and then she said suddenly and violently, "Yes, you are so tired you wish you were dead, but it's worse than being dead, because you are alive!" Worringly, I completely understood.

Last night in the middle of all this lack of sleep, insomnia got me, how can that be, isn't that a living form of a double negative? I tried to deal with it by staying up very late, watching Australia versus New Zealand, I mean watching Australia crucify New Zealand, in the One Day gigs. This I mixed with a little light relief, provided by American Idol auditions on one of the weird channels. Then I tuned to 24 Hour News - which I have heard is often the cause of sleep.

It is tinnitus which keeps me awake, I have it all the time, and my chosen ear noise is usually high pitched, but sometimes it turns to a low rumble, like a lorry parked outside my bedroom door. When it first arrived about ten years ago, I was so freaked out that I would drive fast in the car in the middle of the night - good for cutting out tinnitus, bad for sleeping; dangerous for sleeping. In the end it was Craig, who read to me every night(I know each Ray Bradbury short story very, very well)who instilled a sense of calm into me and my noise and in the end it worked like a drug - I would often be asleep before the end of the first page.

Last night Craig was asleep before I could put in my bid for a story, and after bad tv had failed me, I eventually tried bed as an option. At 2am I fell in to bed and then at 2:30 out again, to do medicine and milk (for the kids, not me). Howling winds and the lorry parked outside my bedroom door, competed and conspired to keep me wide awake until this morning. And, since fourteen minutes is just not enough sleep for a grown up to operate on, tonight at 7pm, I plan to put on my pyjamas with Anna and Mike and settle down with a blanket, a bottle of milk and a gallon of Medised and have Craig read us all a Bradbury story - should have thought of it earlier, but I was too darned tired.

Rx

like a natural woman

2007-01-08T21:56:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

I had my cervix scraped just before Christmas. When I say scraped, I don't mean like against a wall or something, it wasn't an accident, it was deliberately organised by my Doctors Surgery, obviously to put a damper on the festive season.

I had called the surgery to arrange a test about two years ago and they reminded me that I had had one six months after Mike was born. I had completely forgotten this smear test. I suppose it must have been a combination of a sleep-deprived addled brain, completely numb ladies bits and an indifference to yet another bird fafffing around down there, which put it clean out of my mind.

By the way it's not a smear test anymore its now called something like your: "women's screening programme appointment" - which implies something a little more glamorous and Hollywood-like than the actual fact of laying on a hard bed with your chuffer hanging out and a stranger coming at you, with a lump of cold unforgiving metal, saying,"and relax".

Apparently I will get my results in the new year, so says Jane, my nurse. Jane scored quite well on my Smearometer, a marking system I invented after my first painful smear test experience at a "well woman clinic" in Putney, 24 years ago.
For the Smearometer I give marks for general communication and behaviour on the one hand and for actual undertaking of the smear/scrape/screen on the other. Jane scored very highly in the second category, I would say a seven or an eight, but she lost points for using the word "pop" in the sentence: "pop your knickers off". Although after all these years, you would have thought that I wouldn't have to be asked. But I don't like to presume, I always fear that actually I may have the date wrong and I'm just there for a blood pressure test.

Jane scored less well on general banter etc. which seemed a little forced, and led us up a cul de sac when she said: "It must be very exciting for your children this week",I thought she was still talking about my anxiety over the test but she had moved on to Christmas. However, she had warmed the metal vice (which as always looked the size of a house), which was good, and I didn't get that feeling of ice cold water running through my veins as she scraped, so relatively speaking it was a positive experience.

They send the results to you now whether there is something wrong or not. Jane told me that this is because they found people were so anxious they always called to check in case the letter had been lost, or that somehow the horrible truth was being kept from them. I am very much from the unenlightened school of "don't tell me, don't want to know". In my twenties I got something quite unpleasant after staying in a dodgy flat in Barcelona - the loo was the shower, yes, not in, the shower or next to the shower the two holes were used for the water and wees. Poos had to be held in until you reached the local bar, as a morning person in this context, you can only imagine the terrifying way each day began. Anyway, after feeling unwell for some time I had to leave a stool sample with the Homeopathic hospital in London. "Just post it through the letter box" they said, so I did, and never heard another thing, I never checked, I wasn't called, my bum became my own again, eventually, and, I suppose, someone somewhere woke up one morning to find that the postman had delivered a test tube of poo.

I took the same "head in the sand" view when I was pregnant, saying no to most of the tests they offer when they take your blood, and they take a lot of blood, and wee, it seems when you are pregnant. The folk in the lab in Maidstone ignored me, obviously, and got carried away doing all the tests they could, so they reported back that amongst other things I'm not a man, I don't have hepatitis, or a strange inherited blood disorder etc. etc. After receiving this information I spent months worrying that the results were wrong, see it doesn't help to know you know.

I didn't tell Jane that I'd rather not know one way or the other thanks, it seemed ungrateful. So, here I am pretending not to wait for the brown envelope each morning. When it comes I may just post it back outside or take it down to the Homeopathic Hospital and "pop" it through their letter box.

Rx

the sun always shines on tv

2007-01-05T10:26:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

Mike keeps saying, "don't be silly you fluffy old fur ball" , whenever I suggest something like a bath, or bed time, or tea. It's very charming until you realise that he is regurgitating stuff off the tv, in this case, Bits and Bobs.Bits and Bobs are two fluff balls made with someones old knitting wool. It is a Cbeebies show made with budget of 24p, and the cost is reflected in the utter crap that it has produced. Luckily, for almost everything shown on Cbeebies, (with the important exceptions of Peppa Pig and Charlie and Lola)children under five aren't at all discerning, they will watch any old crap, despite what the child psychologits tell you.

Becky's chosen line was, "I love you more than life itself", which did stop me in my tracks, she was about four and pretty intense, but this seemed a bit much. Turns out it is a line direct from that quite bad Disney film Robin Hood - I think Robin says it to Marian. Actually Becky's love of the film The Wizard of Oz was so deep, and she knew it so well, that she would also quote the opening lines of the tape - "If you are watching a pirate video please contact..." - very scary. That film so dominated our lives for a while that I cannot watch it now without feeling physically sick.

Today Becky regularly offers up quotes from Friends, the programme not the uhm friends, and, if it is on the tv she can turn off the sound and recite every characters words in most of the scenes. I think I may not have spent enough time baking and playing connect four with her. Stan does the same thing with The Simpsons. If there is a gap in the conversation he will start to retell a "funny bit" from the show - it is never funny and always very long.

Craig and I have started to fight back - refusing to listen, or just saying boring, don't know don't care, like the petulant children they used to be just a few weeks ago. Archie knows all the Soaps, since he spends quite some time with his granny in Bognor Regis - we don't even use words, Archie clams up when he sees our faces.

Craig and I have no contemporary quotes, we don't go to films, tv frightens us now with all its reality and celebrity. We do quote ancient history though, such as : "do you remember the time we used to go out after dark, do you remember the times we had conversations with grown up people, do you remember that black and white film, do you remember the time when we read books, do you remember me..?"

Have to go, Mike's calling me now because Granny Murray is on the tv and he knows how much I love the programme Me Too, except I don't, but don't tell him for god's sake. He also thinks I like Lazy Town, Big Cook Little Cook and the Shiny Show. I don't really though, I call the shows, Big Cock Little Cock, The Shitey Show and Arsey Town - it isn't clever or funny but until I have time to tune back into tv quality Dramas or read a whole book, or go to a film or have a conversation with a grown up it's the only way I can fight against the tv land demons who have possessed my children.

Rx

you'll look sweet upon the seat

2007-01-03T12:23:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

Well my biceps are in very good order you'll be interested to learn.

Have I been down the gym? Have I been bullied and bribed into a January fat fighting binge by LA Fitness adverts which tell me off then let me off with their great: discount deals. "Have you stuffed yourself stupid this Christmas? Forgive yourself with four free days at our shiny gym" - their advertising consultant is definitely a Catholic.

No I haven't been seduced by the gym business, or by anyone as it turns out, but that's another story.

I have been down the p..a..r..k (spell it out otherwise the kids hear - if you say Park... doh!) with Anna and her new b..i..k..e. We started without stabilisers (yes, we - it's definitely a joint project), so I spent about an hour bent double and holding on to the shiny purple saddle - absolute hell - my lower back (upper arse) is in agony. Anna was thrilled, terrified and then pissed off - and so to the stabilisers.

When I was young - we had a bike which was one size fits all - the seat went up and down according to who was in a bike mood. Learning to cycle was a couple of trips to the p..a..r..k with Dad, who would run along holding the saddle then let go, this would go on until you got it. I also remember the puncture kit was vital to a day's enjoyment, and having a "slow puncture" was compulsory.

Becky and Stan got sensible, time consuming guidance from loving parents, when they were learning to cycle. Archie, not so much, he was so keen that he got on Stan's too large b..i..k..e at the top of our road in London one time and set off, whilst I shouted, jump now you bloody idiot! as he approached the High Road. I think the neighbours enjoyed it. For a long time Archie would dismount by throwing himself on to concrete, we kept this up as a method for learning, it kind of fitted his kamikaze approach to life.

Anyway, the stabilisers have done the trick, Anna is up and cycling and I can walk upright again. But since the weather has been mostly hurricanes with light gales, much of the cycling has been done indoors between the front door and the cooker. Mike meanwhile has graduated to Anna's tricycle, although it needs to be painted blue because he is a boy, and the pink and purple is all wrong with his violet dress.

By Spring I plan to have Anna on one stabiliser and by Summer she should be proudly on two wheels. As for me, I need to get my lazy arse on a bike too - that's right, no gym for me just two wheels, a calorie counter and a typhoon blowing off the Brighton coast.

Rx

the wonderful thing about tigger

2007-01-01T20:00:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

Nothing says happy new year quite so well as an old fashioned hanging, we should all join the Iraqi people in thanking the American and British governments for bringing democracy to their country, because it is so much better than a dictatorship don't you think. We can all breathe a sigh of relief - that will certainly put an end to the violence in Iraq and probably all the Middle East. Hoorah for invasions and lynchings - Mugabe should be a piece of piss - go USA!

Anyway, Christmas.

We spent it at my parents house, who heroically put up five children and us two old folk. On Christmas eve at 7pm when the two wee ones went to bed we put five stockings around the tree - was supposed to be above the fireplace but there was a real log fire going!
At 11pm when all the big kids had gone to bed, we filled the stockings and then ate the mince pie and drank the whisky which Anna and Mike had left for Santa, then we ate the mince pies and drank the whisky which we had left for ourselves. We sat by the lovely warm fire, with the intention to talk long in to the night about life and love, but within minutes we were overcome by the heat and the single malt and started to doze off in our chairs, like the middle aged parents we pretend we are not.

I wish I had stayed in the chair, because whilst all five children and husband slept, I was wide awake, since Mike, who wasn't comfortable on his temporary bed, was now in ours and sleeping with his feet in my ear. Children know that the trick for a good nights sleep in the parents' bed is to be horizontal to the vertical (its all angles - lessons learned in the womb), so I knew that if we had turned ourselves to sleep sideways with him, he would of course have switched and I would have been head butted instead.
Anyway, after trying to sleep up the other end of the bed, (bravely next to Craig's feet) and then attempting the sofa, the floor and the chair again, I eventually crawled back in to bed and fell asleep about ten minutes before everybody else woke.

The children were really sweet about the presents, all seemed to get what they had wanted, which as any Santa knows,(and by santa I mean tired and emotional Mothers)is a bloody good result. My Mum realised some years too late that she had to stop embracing the fun of giving at Christmas quite so firmly, when she found herself shattered at 2am doing stockings for her grown up children returning from university.

I remember one Christmas Eve, in our teenage years, (long after we knew it was Mum and Dad reeaalllyy), sitting with friends in our front room, washing down sausage horrors (sausage roll with extra stuff which oozed out of the meat)with cans of Colt 45 and Light Ale. Down the stairs came my father dressed in nothing but pants, he walked between and over the lanky legs of us teenagers, grabbed four satsumas from the fruit bowl and some nuts from the nut thingy and quietly made his way back upstairs to help Mum put these goodies with the wrong presents in to the wrong stockings. "Goodnight Santa" we said sheepishly as he disappeared up the stairs.
We were not nearly grateful enough I now realise.

Auntie Linda and uncle Mike sent some great presents from Caly-4-nigh-eh: Anna was fully Barbied out with Barbie ear muffs and gloves and two new sets of Barbie clothes - my god she dresses like a right slag these days, Barbie not Anna.
Mike got a fantastically aggressive robot – which has a gun in each hand(?) And robots around with lights flashing, body swivelling, and gunfire sounds, screaming Stop! Drop the gun! Fire! in very quick succession, very quick succession - honestly we tried it, the robot doesn’t give enough time to put down a gun before it fires; truly an American gift. Linda and Mike sensibly gave money for the big kids - you should see the relief on their faces when they get money and don't have to fake opening gifts they don't want.

The one gift which truly brought family together though was not Deal or no Deal the board game, or Sports Trivia 2007, or Therapy - which turned the family against one another, don't ever play it, it actually invites you to analyse your family relationships - something you want to avoid at this time of enforced family togetherness. No, it was bouncing tigger who was the favourite for grandparent, teenager and three old alike - cuddly, cute, innocent, did what it said on the tin, bounced on his tail and sang in tigger voice, "the wonderful thing about tigger is tigger's a wonderful thing..." If America had stopped its world domination with Disney and coke its ratings would be much higher these days.

Craig cooked the meal, I had a nap for god's sake, Mum and Dad were on grandparent duty, Dad cheating at games and playing football in the park with Archie, Mum doing whatever Anna told her to do and kissing the oh so kissable Mikey. Some old bollocks was watched on the box, Becky read a whole book, Stan drove a very fast car into a police station - on his PS2 of course you fool. At 12ish that night I heated up some brussel sprouts to have with cold turkey and fell in to bed very smiley, having consumed quite a lot of Champagne - it is a testament to Craig's love for me, and his inability to smell, that we are still together.

Hope you had a lovely Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Rx

away in a manger

2006-12-11T23:45:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

OK what's going on? That's the fifth night of storms and gale(ish)force winds we've had, not to mention the Tornado up Town. Helen - fellow chocolate factory worker and generous soup sharer - told us that her 92 year old Mother had called from Dorset to ask, "Is everything alright on that side of the country?" We laughed, but it is a bit weird, the world's trying to cope with its untimely death, and it's difficult to watch.

We are none of us able to do much about it, some of us aren't even trying very hard, but it's not really within our power is it? Yes the four by four drivers (with the exception of those who need the actual power of a 4x4)are all selfish wankers who care more about how they look on the road than what they are doing to the air. Yes I throw away my plastic bottles because there isn't anywhere nearby for me to recycle them, and yes we all use too much water, air, oil, heat, food, etc.etc.etc. But it would take only the commitment of the big economic powers to change the way they run their countries and the world would keep spinning for a while longer.

But they wont and they don't and so here we are with gales and floods and the middle and upper classes unable to find suitable skiing conditions, i.e. snow. I've never really understood skiing, it seems like an awfully difficult, cold and painful pastime, but I like to know its going on, and that the no chin brigade are in their rightful place at the right time of year.

However, not even the end of the world or the snowless slopes of the snow slopes, could spoil my enjoyment of the childrens' Nativity plays. Yes I had two!
Mike's Nativity was yesterday, actually his was three and a half years ago, I'm talking about Jesus. the audience was huge (thirty I think), it consisted not only of Mothers but Fathers, not only grandparents but two great grandparents. We all waved nervously and anxiously at our nervous and anxious children and then the nerves went and they relaxed into that semi-indifferent state that only pre-school children can reach. Despite the staring out of the window, nose picking and absent minded scratching of body bits the show was funny and sweet in equal measure.

After much waving and getting out of seats to greet parents, the show began with a couple of counting songs to get the children in the mood. The first was about disappearing Robins (contemporary song I think) and the other about melting snowmen (not a contemporary song perhaps). Mike went wobbly quite quickly, refusing at first to be a snowman and then just as all the snowmen hats had been handed out, deciding he did want to be one after all. But nobody could hear him. I was there with big sister Becky and Grandma, and whilst Grandma and I have had years of practice watching such things, so managing to keep our anxiety buried, Becky, who is a relative novice, was unable to contain herself and blurted out, "Mike wants to be a snowman!" and so justice was done, hurrah for big sisters.

The Nativity was great, narrated and to be honest, pretty much acted by Patti and the other "Aunties" who run the Nursery. There were about ten angels who brought the good news to Mary and then the shepherds, Mary really wasn't that bovvered, the shepherds were singing Away in a Manger when they were told, so I am not sure they got the message. Patti was heroic, dragging small giggling children (wearing tea towels and stripey material), from Donkey to Inn keeper to stable and manger, all the time hunched over trying and failing to make herself small. Mike was an angel, but not a happy one, although he did get quite close to the manger, so the photos will look impressive.

The play ended with a sweet rendition of Away in a Manger and a violent version of We Wish you a Merry Christmas. It seems to be a Christmas tradition that children sing, We WISH you a Merry Christmas! with as much malice and arm swinging/punching as they can muster.
Then it was chocolate father christmas lollies all round and a queue of parents and grandparents to sign the petition to Save our Nurseries. "I took you and Nick to the House of Commons when you were two, to save our nurseries", Mum said to me as we waited our turn; that was forty years ago and we're still at it.

St James Infant School Nativity provided high class entertainment all round, excellent singing, choreography, acting and narrating. This is the least I have learned to expect from this better class of school. The Nativity clothes provided by parents told the story of a how very well heeled this place is. Obviously there were the obligatory tea towels, all new, unless some mothers have secrets about washing those things that I don't know. But the shepherds, who were dressed as modern day farmers, all checks and rustic, were almost to a girl and boy, sporting tweed flat caps. Now how many people do you know who have those - apparently I know quite a few. All the outfits were very smart - the angels, the shepherds, the wise men, Joseph and Mary (although once again Mary was in danger of being garrotted by the safety pin under her neck.

Anna's class were given the animal gig, half were sheep and the other half were cows, Anna was a cow. She got really carried away with it all and so did I, and instead of supplying just white t shirt and black trousers I made black cow-like shapes and sewed them on. The response from my friends and my Mother was one of amazement and I have to say mockery, I think it was a bit of a shock to them all that I could and would do this, but one can't hide one's light forever...
Anyway the patches looked great, the cows and sheep danced and sang "It's a Baby" in chavvy accents that made it sound like "It's a buy-bee" and the parents cheered and clapped and cried.

Christmas, with it's carols and presents, its trees and tea towel sponsored nativity plays, it's presents, sparkly decorations, chocolate money and it's presents has convinced Anna that there must be a God after all, or at least a Jesus. I hope she's right we could do with a bit of divine intervention and quite soon please, because Saint Nicholas is going to find it almost impossible to park his sleigh on the roof and get himself down the chimney if that wind keeps blowing.

Rx

bye bye baby

2006-11-20T16:22:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

At the risk of making poo a regular feature of this blog, I have to tell you that Mike has just performed his third poo on the toilet - hurrah. He also invited me to check it out, "It's downstairs, go on, you can have a look if you want to." When Mike asks in that way I can't refuse. This isn't ground breaking news I know, but we were beginning to think that nappies would be with us forever, that the baby era would never pass. So for us it is Christmas come early, not the poo itself, but the fact that for the first time in thirteen years our days will be nappy and poo free.

The first nappy I ever changed was on Becky, what made it difficult was that she was lying in an in incubator in the post natal ward at UCH and I had to work through two hand holes cut in the sides. It was like a challenge from the Krypton Factor, I cried with frustration, but though difficult at first, it became funny and by the fourth day we were so accomplished that it was a competition between me, her Dad and the nurses to see who could do it the best.
She was OK by the way, she had fits in the first two days of her life, a ton of antibiotics followed by another ton of anti-fitting drugs, a lumber puncture, for which I wasn't there (I expect to carry the guilt from that for the rest of my life by the way), x-rays and other stuff I never really could understand. She was also attached to a heart monitor which gave an emergency bleep quite often, this made me jump up and down screaming for help, until the other parents (some of whom had been there for months)explained that it was usually a false alarm and they taught me to reset it myself, so that I wouldn't have to bother the overworked nurses.

I think all this is in my mind now because of the new guidelines which say that babies born before 22 weeks should not receive help to live, and those born between 22 and 24 weeks should be treated subject to a decision made by the doctors and parents. This is exceedingly sensible, sane and I think humane, unless of course I give birth to a child at 22 weeks and then I will use all my mental and physical strength and perhaps even a gun to ensure that the doctors keep my baby alive. I think I'm against animal testing until it turns out it helped my cousin with his epileptic drugs, or played a part in creating the insulin which keeps my brother and sister alive, or that may in future produce the drug which stops my dementia taking hold.

Anyway, back to poo. At work I described my delight at Mikey's ability to poo in the holy hole. My co-workers, though sympathetic to my joyful news, were really the wrong audience having grown their children mostly up. But I touched a nerve with them both and we three Mothers talked for quite sometime about the inability of boys (and men) to wee in to the toilet. What is it with the men? Despite a useful attachment with which to direct the wee, it is still beyond them. If you designed the whole task as a geometry project, requiring an ability to locate and measure acute angles, they would have it sorted, but since they have to hurry back to MSN Messenger and FIFA 2006, they just let it go and hope for the best. Then we Mother's come in, smell, snarl, complain pointlessly to all the men, who are outraged by the suggestion that they are responsible and so on and so on...

Mike might be the exception to the rule in the toilet department, what with the pride he takes in his work and all, but I wouldn't want to put that pressure on him; he needs to learn to be a real man and wee on the floor as Stan, Archie and Craig have done before him. I'm glad though that my greatest concern now is wee on the floor and not wee babies, thankfully things do pass.

Rx

all i want is a room somewhere

2006-11-15T07:55:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

Do you know what my current fantasy is? Yes you are close, I do fantasise about me and Daniel Craig romping around on the beach - I'm not sure what I'm wearing (but I look great)he has a nice tight pair of blue swimming trunks and there is a pistol somewhere...
But no, that's not my toppy most top fantasy, my toppy most top fantasy involves me, a toilet and nobody else! I am sitting alone in the house, I receive a call of nature, I go to the toilet and answer the call, and no bastard knocks on the door, shouts up the stairs, asks a question about homework or hurries me because we are going to be late.

It may seem a sad little fantasy, but it is not the only one. Apart from pooing in peace, I want to drink my tea hot, I want to complete conversations on the same day I begin them, I want to stop eating fish finger sandwiches, I want to listen to a song from opening chord to closing crescendo, I want to dance with my husband and not Barney the purple dinosaur, I want to read a book in less than a year, I want to write this blog without someone............Sorry about that, had to find Noddy's car.

As you will have worked out, it's not lots, but one big fantasy isn't it. I want my children to grow up and look after themselves really quickly (next Tuesday would be nice). But why tease myself with such thoughts, I need to enjoy what I have now and the day will come when I will be able to have a bath when I want and afterwards walk up and down the house naked; not necessary but possible you understand. The problem is that when my youngest are grown up I will be grown older and I won't be able to fulfill my fantasies. Pooing will be in to a bag, tea will be banned by my nurse, my brain will be too addled to hold a conversation about anything more than Deal or No Deal and etc.etc.

Anyway the two youngest, whose happy lives are messing with mine, were both off school today and so they accompanied us on another Magical Misery Tour of the South Coast's best kept lies. So we set off with hope in our hearts and "desperate suckers" tattooed on our foreheads to see some more houses in Hove by the Sea. Actually if you leaned to the right it was Hove, but if you stood up straight it was Port - fucking - slade. It was opposite the Lagoon though and "if you listen" said the Lettings Man "you can hear Heather and Paul arguing, tee hee". This is so sad, our Lettings Man must have spent four years trying to shift houses like this - tiny, ugly and with a view of the Power Station - using the fact that the McCartneys live desirably close. Then, for the past year he has been selling them because they are desirably close to two unhappy people, how uplifting for all of us.

The house we were in would have been perfect for us if we had been born blind midgets. "Snug and warm in the winter" said the Lettings Man as I tried and failed to swing a cat in the kitchen. Depressingly small I said to Craig as I went out on to the tiny patio to check that the sky hadn't fallen in. We left sharpish, even Mike and Anna unable to find an upside to the gloom. We then saw a massive (would be good for sharers) house on the seafront and then two fake Georgian houses in succession. To give you an idea of the utter rot that is available on the Lettings market, we are considering one of the Georgian fakes.

After chips in the blustery wind with some old ladies, bikers, and a bloke with tattooed tears from his left eye, we did some pigeon chasing(I know, should have been seagulls - we were confused too), I told Anna that they were on holiday from Trafalgar Square. Then it was home to the Wells, to a house which is looking larger and brighter by the day. Not to worry though, I still retain my fantasy of happy days in sunny Hove for all the family, young and old.

Rx

i do like to be beside the seaside

2006-11-08T16:19:00.001Z

Dear Marianne,

Whilst fighting an overpowering urge to stab myself in the heart with the pencil sticking out of my "houses and flats in Hove" notebook, and standing in the most depressing room, in the most depressing flat, in the most depressing street in the world, I heard the letting lady say (with as much magic as she could muster), "...and from this room you have oblique views of the sea".

Oblique?! Nope, did she mean bleak views perhaps, or devoid of. Maybe she had heard someone else use the word earlier in the day, and thought she'd have a stab at using it now. According to Dictionary.Com oblique means "neither perpendicular nor parallel to a given line or surface;slanting or sloping." Or "diverging from a given straight line or course" or "not straight or direct, as a course." Or "morally, ethically, or mentally wrong; underhand; perverse." The lettings lady was talking crap, she was definitely on the oblique side; a liar I mean.

She said "large rooms" I saw small rooms.
She said "nicely decorated" I saw artex ceilings and an iron shaped burn mark on the green carpet.
She said "Really the sea is your garden" I thought, yes as long as you don't mind crossing a bypass to get there.
She said "oblique views" and well I won't go on...oh too late.

I wanted to say, you do know you're talking out loud, we can hear you, and we are in the same flat you are describing. We have eyes and minds which are working and we have access to a tent at the end of my Mum's garden which, right at this moment, holds a greater attraction than this miserable council flat masquerading as an upmarket "apartment".

The flat was one in a block off the Kingsway - you know those Soviet looking buildings that line seafronts from Ramsgate to Plymouth, filled with tiny, quiet wealthy ageing couples, who pop in and out unseen until finally it is their clogs they pop. But, I've never seen anyone go in or out of these places, just us, today. An ugly comfortable place to live, whilst you get ready to die.

In the car, after the ordeal, we both felt as though we had walked through slime - we needed to get home and have a hot shower. Luckily the day had started better than it had ended, we had seen a perfect house in the morning, and could imagine ourselves and the children enjoying life in the leafy suburbs of Brighton perhaps sooner rather than later. I don't mean to be oblique but, I think there may be a reflected ray of light at the base of the prism.

Rx

gunpowder treason and plot

2006-11-05T17:47:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

When I was young, fireworks night was called Guy Fawkes night and some of us children understood what was going on. A Catholic bloke cocked up his plan to blow up the Houses of Parliament and a Protestant King, and so we have fireworks, baked potatoes and sparklers. When we were young, we made images of Guy Fawkes and toted him around the local area asking for a Penny for the Guy. Today its called Firework Night, children have no idea who Guy Fawkes was, but they still go door to door asking for a Penny for the Guy. Clearly they're hoping for more than a penny, but they've heard the line and know that you get money if you say it to John and Maureen at number 2. I heard a story that when one group turned up at a neighbour's door, asking for a Penny for the Guy, she looked for the stuffed trousers wearing a Scream mask, when she couldn't see one she asked, "Where's the Guy?" ... "What's a guy?" was their response.

When we were young, there were neighbourhood bonfires - unlicensed and dangerous, there were council run bonfire nights - licensed and dangerous, but with baked potatoes, and there were family back garden fireworks - miserable and dangerous; or was that just my family fireworks?

Bonfire Night (that's what we called it) at our house meant danger and possible death, because my Dad sold it that way. Before November 5th he would buy some weedy fireworks and hide them in a silo I think. Then, when the dreaded night came, he would go right to the end of our very long garden, on his own, with the fireworks, firework receptacle, matches, and bucket of water. He would stand us against the wall of the house, where we would huddle in fear and silence, he would then announce that he was lighting the firework, "I'm lighting the firework!" Nick would move to scratch his nose, "Stand still!", Jane would sigh, "Be quiet!"
Then he would stand as far away from the firework as physically possible, whilst still remaining close enough to light it. Then he would shout, "It's alight, stand back!" Obviously, standing back would have meant going in to the house, so we just stood more still and tried to look more solemn and sensible, because this fun lark is a serious business. I can't really remember the fireworks, I'm sure they were lovely, but by the time they were in the air we were either petrified or too busy weeping with laughter at the spectacle of our Father losing it.
Naturally, it was a damaging experience, and for many years afterwards I was afraid of fireworks, even the rubbish ones that go whoooosh...nothing...plop.

Eventually we were all put out of our misery when my brother Nick singed his hand on a sparkler. All outdoor fireworks were banned and in their place my parent's provided a game for all the family to play and some indoor fireworks. Now, if you were thinking how sad, a game for all the family to play, you obviously have never experienced the utter uselessness of indoor fireworks. I hadn't met anyone who had heard of these until the other day when the subject came up and Bonnie's face suddenly registered the image of indoor fireworks, "Yes , I know, turd on a plate", she said "Yes, exactly". Indoor fireworks are perhaps the most pointless things ever invented, although they probably fit in to the same category as quorn sausages, decaffinated coffee and alcohol free lager. They are everything a firework isn't, they are colourless (unless you are in to grey), they are silent, they are safe, boring and small enough to light several on a plate and watch them, well, become turds really.

If I had never met Craig, I would still spend each Fireworks Night inside with the pets, complaining about the noise and the danger. Thankfully he saved me, forcing me to enjoy myself at the majestic Ally Pally display, now I love them and so do all the children except for Mike, who doesn't, but he thinks the hand dryer in public toilets is too noisy. So it was me Becky and Anna who made our way up the road last night to watch the Dunorlan Park display for free, from the roadside - well it was £6.50 per adult and £3 per child to go in. We took sparklers and chocolate cake, and we had a perfect view from just across the road, we stood and shouted out the colours as they came, whilst the police put away their orange cones. At the end, Becky gave Anna a piggy back down the hill, and we were first to be on our way home for baked potatoes, hot dogs and some rather good peppers roasted in red wine.

We had planned for Bonnie, Kevin, Archie and Brodie to be there too, but Archie was not well. I've saved some rainbow sparklers for them, so that we can have another go next week. I just hope that Bonnie didn't succumb to indoor fireworks, Kaliber beer and a nicorette patch to see the evening through.

Rx

let me take you by the hand

2006-10-30T12:09:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

We had a lovely day out in London this half term. Sorry, no we didn’t.

The queue for train tickets was out of the ticket office and along the wall when we arrived at Tunbridge Wells Station. The first train had just the four coaches needed to accommodate the usual number of commuters, but this being half term there were a few more than the usual number of commuters. So we all squashed on to the carriage, Mike on my lap Anna on Becky’s lap, I lost track of Stan and Archie for a bit but we communicated through shouts until Tonbridge where at last they added more carriages. How difficult is this game with numbers and seats on our trains, Mike mastered it the day he got his Underground Ernie train set.
The Underground, by the way, also had a little difficulty accommodating everyone who had made it to the Big City in the half term holiday. Waiting for ten minutes for a District line train didn’t bode well, as the heaving masses of ordinary London folk, joined the throng of unhappy families with back packs and buggies and, as Anna quite rightly pointed out, shoved us beyond the yellow line.

When it eventually arrived, we rushed the train, relying on our sheer weight of numbers and the bulk of Stan bringing up the rear with a sharp edged buggy in hand, to get us all aboard. Anna and Mike promptly freaked out, I got in to an argument with a woman who wouldn’t move up the train, because she had some important bags she wanted to protect, and by the time I had a space to breathe in, I had lost contact with Becky and Archie. So the shouting started again: “Becky where are you?” “Here”, “Is Archie with you?” “Yes, I’ve got his hair!” “Where’s Craig?” “Don’t know?” “We’re getting off at South Kensington!” This I shouted at everyone, including all the strangers who were smiling at me and rather enjoying the free entertainment; I like Londoners.

If we hadn’t yet understood the monumental stupidity of our decision to go to London with all the children on a rainy day at half term, the animal like herding by security (children in luminous green jackets) as we left the train at South Kensington ensured that the penny dropped. Our family and the trillion other families who had the same rotten idea, obediently mooed and baaed the way up the steps to the underground walkway which leads to our great national museums. “This way for the Science Museum!” shouted a small child in a luminous jacket and then whispered something important in to her walky talky; I think it was “suckeerrs…” This way for the queue for the Science Museum actually, and this way for the queue for the Natural History Museum and this way for the queue, oops no, there is never a queue for the V&A what a shit Museum that is; nice café though.

Craig, who I have to say is usually three things: optimistic, decisive and calm, had unfortunately fallen apart. He joined the queue for the Science Museum, which by this time was snaking back to the gates at the tube behind us, and stared, into space. I gently pointed out to him that we were about to stand for forty minutes with five children, all by now white with hunger, to get in to a hugely crowded museum, where they would perhaps get a chance to maybe see a button they couldn’t reach, which would make a skeleton they wouldn’t be able to see, cycle on a bike they could only guess was there. It was a long sentence, but gradually he came round, and suggested a curry; hurrah the children cried.

So we had the most expensive curry of our lives, paying out for seven buffets despite the fact that Mike’s consisted of a bite of a popadum and seven coffee chocolates he charmed out of the waiter. After the curry we found a new sense of purpose, unfortunately our purposes were different, Craig wanted to try the Museums again and I wanted a long walk back to Charing Cross, with support from ice-creams and sweets, pigeons and guardsman etc.

So, we joined the queue for the Natural History Museum, and fifteen minutes later we found ourselves in hell. The building was so crowded that I longed for the space and safety of Camden Town underground station at six o clock on a Friday night. I was scared for our children, it was a dangerous place to be, and not because of T. Rex, because he wasn’t there anymore, and not because of the lifelike Dino Works, because we couldn’t get even close to that; but because of the demented parents charging around with screaming kids, determined to give them a bloody good day in bloody London if it killed them or us.

We did manage to squeeze ourselves in front of the Ant exhibit where we all marvelled at the wee things carrying leaves up and down a horizontal stick. An event I could have supplied for our children in the comfort of our own back yard, for nothing. We left after ten minutes and staggered to the nearest bench. “I want to go home”, said Mike.

The journey home was the same as going, but backwards, well you know what I mean; claustrophobic, sweaty, scary, exhausting, uncomfortable and disappointing. We felt so bad for the children that we foolishly promised extra holiday money as a form of compensation. Anna and Archie immediately took me up on this and I had to spend another hour lugging my lead heavy legs around Victoria Place shopping centre, before I could sit in a comfortable chair with nobody on my lap, and no stranger’s arse in my face.

As we dragged ourselves from the train and up the hill homewards, we experienced the first piece of light relief in eight hours. At the top of the hill, we found a Securicor van parked outside Lloyds Bank and screeching, “Help, the driver of this vehicle needs assistance…Help, the driver of this vehicle needs assistance…Help, the driver of this vehicle needs assistance!” Inside, the large driver was trying to look small in the front seat, whilst giving out reassuring smiles and thumbs up to concerned passers by. Now this was something for the whole family to enjoy, funny, cheap, entertaining. It was only Mike who didn’t enjoy the irony and he deserved a bit of fun, he’d put up with so much nonsense all day. But we should have known that the forces at work hadn’t quite finished messing with our heads, and just another minute up the road, outside the Library stood two Llamas with their keepers, seemingly advertising nothing but themselves; so now even Mikey was amused.

Rx

mountain...bridge...trea...sure island!

2006-10-24T19:30:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

Anna and Mike nicked off school and nursery the other day to go and see Dora's Pirate Adventure at the Assembly Rooms in Tunbridge Wells; me and Craig nicked off work.

My old friend Stephen had spent an arm and a leg on the tickets for his family and mine and when we were there he spent a head and a torso on merchandise. As we approached the Assembly Rooms, he said to me, "If the whole thing is a papier mache head on a stick affair, we're leaving." I knew what he meant, this sort of thing is a lottery, the Australian "kids show" Hi-5 came to Town in April last year and I went to see it with Anna, who is a real fan and particularly keen on Kathleen. Oh, it was grim, all wrong for young children, long, convoluted stories, lots of dialogue and the weakest of piss weak songs. Attention drifted very early on in a very long night, there was a great deal of wandering about, bored faces and tired tantrums, and the kids weren't too impressed either.

The nadir came, not from the awful group of second rate dancers and singers on stage, but from the very close up view I had of a cool Dad, standing and dancing and singing to the sound of Hi-5's theme tune. His wife and child looked on helpless to do anything for him or me, I wanted so much to vomit up the oversized bag of maltezers I had just eaten. But I didn't throw up, or leave, or punch the cool Dad, I held it together for Anna, who, despite being very bored for the whole show and passing the time staring at the other kids, told me how brilliant it was all the way home. I agreed with her whole heartedly, even to the point where I said that I also thought Kathleen was the best, even though she had been replaced on stage that night by someone called Rose.

Dora's Pirate Adventure turned out to be an American production and was therefore magnificent, loud, bolshy, no talking, great songs, lots of shouty characters, exciting sets and it all moved along at one heckava pace. Mike, who was frightened to go, was just blasted into submission by the relentless pitch of the production and sung along and joined in whenever he was told to, by the relentessly positive Dora, he was even quite loud by the time we got to Dora's greatest hit, "We Did IT!". He waved his flag, shone his £8 torch (which broke that night)and wore his Dora baseball hat at a jaunty angle, which shows either a rather camp side to him or a rather cool dude side to him, only time will tell.

After the show I saw a poster which revealed that Chris from Cbeebies would be Buttons in the Panto at the Assembly Rooms this Christmas. I'm torn, Chris from Cbeebies! he's a hero, a breath of fresh air in a crowd of shouty, patronising, children's presenters, he is charming and sweet and very camp; Mike loves him.
I'm torn because, a) we have no money for such luxuries for goodness sake and b)we should be in Brighton by the time Chris scampers on to stage in Kent. But that all depends on selling the house, or as we like to say now, selling the fucking house.

Our poor house stopped being a home when it became our chance to pay off debt and our ticket out of Dodge. It's all fine and dandy whilst things are moving on between us and the buyers, but when it all goes pear shaped then the house gets some serious slagging up. It becomes a great big ugly bulk, and you can't believe you ever liked it, like a boyfriend who was sophisticated, romantic and witty, until that night he came home hugely drunk and you woke to find him dressed in socks, leaning over your dressing table trying to throw up in to the victorian egg cup your grandma gave you... Anyway, you know the kind of thing, you've moved on and he's holding you back.

Our house is holding us back, it is a stumbling block to a better life, where the sun will shine every day, people you've never met will stop to say hello, the neighbours will bring you cups of sugar and children will play in the streets. On the other hand, I could be putting too much pressure on my poor house to step up to the mark and look as sexy as the houses up the road, and I may be hoping for too much from Brighton, can it really be a cross between Passport to Pimlico and Dora's Pirate Adventure. I need to be more relaxed like Chris, and see the world as Dora does, If we sell the house on time we will be in sunny Brighton by December, surfing those crazy waves and having fish and chips for Christmas dinner and we can say "We Did It!" But, if we are still in the Royal Wells, I will be able to take the whole family to see Chris being magnificent as Buttons in Panto. Of course, if Cinderalla turns out to be a papier mache head on a stick type affair, we're leaving.

Rx

i'd like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony

2006-10-17T21:35:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

I am considering going back to College to learn something about journalism and here is my first article entitled: A New Foreign Policy for The West. Constructive criticism will be much appreciated, although you may find it hard to find fault, except in some cases with the grammar.
A New Foreign Policy for The West
Thank goodness for North Korea. No other country puts on a proper patriotic show anymore, with lots of dancing soldiers, twirling their guns, committed and obedient crowds in huge arenas spelling out the words of the Dear Leader: KIL AL MEN which then metamorphoses into a picture of their national flag, if you can't be impressed by that then you have no soul.
We used to rely on the Soviet Union to do this sort of thing, you must remember Misha the Bear, mascot of the Moscow Olympics. The Soviets also supplied the great entertainment that is the military march past with bombs and tanks and excellent manic marching, although for really mad marching the North Koreans are the experts. But, the Ruskies went all soft on us and May Day just isn't what it used to be. So we have to rely on the madness of Kil Al Men and his company of players, for the fifties looking footage of fun at a military parade and after nuclear bomb blast party.

Now, I know the bomb is scary and everything, but I think it might be more useful to focus on the fact that the Dear Leader is deliberately starving to death the people of North Korea, and I think that knowing this The West should jolly well send in lots of their own gun twirling soldiers to sort it out; but apparently that's when this nuclear bomb thing works for the mad boy of North Korea, because the mad boy of the USA is scared even though he has his own much more pretty bomb. I think then that If the Western powers can't quite stomach North Korea, how about showing a bit of bottle in Darfur, Zimbawbwe, The Congo and well lots of other places that nobody cares about.

My extensive research in this area therefore leads me to the suppose that if you've got oil in your back garden you will probably get a visit from the gun twirlers of the West, but if your main export is carrots don't hold your breath. Anyway I don't want to put a downer on it all, I know at least one small boy from Africa who will be eating strange vegetarian food tonight, in a great big house in the English countryside. If you are rich and famous enough you really can buy babies and children, I'm sorry to contradict the Beatles, but money can buy you love.

So, in conclusion, my new foreign policy initiative for The West is that we should make enough rich and famous people, who can then go and buy all the starving children from the other bits of the world that are quite shabby, they can then bring them up in The West on a staple diet of designer clothes and ponies. I imagine that my argument may find those who counter with the suggestion that Western countries have enough money to save us all from starvation, but Governments need that money for the gun twirlers and the nuclear bombs without which, I think you'll find the world would be a very dangerous place.

Note: [The term The West is used as at all times to mean The Wild West]

Rx

all the guilt will be on your head

2006-10-14T17:57:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

I spent half an hour chasing Mike around the front room with hair clippers and scissors this afternoon, during which he screamed and shouted and stamped his feet. By the way, stamping feet is something I think grown ups should indulge in, say for example when you are in a queue at the Post Office or trying to discuss issues relating to parking with local attendants, you will find it is a technique difficult for people to argue against. Anyway, after my Edward Scissorhands impression, Mike stood in the middle of his shawn hair, weeping, his head half shaved, his face covered in snot, wearing only hairy pants(from the hair on his head you understand), - that's all he was wearing before, but it just made the whole image much worse. He looked like a child from the Gorbals circa 1953, staring vacantly up at the photographer from Picture Post, the only thing missing from the moment was a caption reading, "...what future for poor Billy McConnolly?"

Apart from all the obvious misery of the moment and the knowledge that I will have to repeat it tomorrow, what got to me most was that two months ago he sat in the hairdressers chair (on a slat of wood on a chair actually), whilst Janet did him; she cut and combed and sprayed him with water, and he smiled and chatted and laughed whilst sitting very still. I had even taken the precaution of giving her a get out at the beginning of the cut, explaining that he would probably get up and leave after the first snip, but she wasn't to worry and I would pay her anyway and blah blah. Janet smiled and thought, that's with you love, there'll be no such nonsense going on with me and Mike, I'm not his Mum.

This happens all the time with your own chidren. You spend ages explaining to child minders, nursery staff, baby sitters, auntie Sue and Denise from next door that Mike/Anna/Archie needs the light on and the door open at bedtime, her milk warm but mash potato cold, you tell them that blanket and bear are vital for his afternoon nap to be successful, and that he will poo after lunch, so look out for the far away look so that you can get the nappy on in time, or you will be scraping poo off his pants, trousers, hands and your sheepskin rug. When you return from whatever it is you have been doing that makes you feel like a rubbish Mother, you find a happy and contented child who has eaten hot mash potato and drunk her milk cold, had a two hour afternoon nap despite the fact that you drove away with blanket AND bear, asked for a nappy before pooing and is now fast asleep with the light off and the door shut.

When your children are with other people they retract their emotional blackmail antenae and go about their daily business as though life was fair and rules were there for a jolly good reason. Anna used to worry us sick, because her daily food intake at home until she was four, was two peas, half a fromage frais and a third of a small banana. However, she would return from her child minder having eaten two hearty meals with puddings and all the sensible savoury snacks in between. What kind of black magic was this woman dealing in, we used to ask ourselves, until we remembered that she wasn't related to Anna, she didn't need special powers, but more significantly, Anna had no biologically driven special powers to contront her child minder.

I'm not allowed to cut Anna's finger nails, she puts her hands behind her back and starts to yelp before I get the tiny safe childrens scissors out of the plastic holder, but grandad John can put neat TCP on her sore knee without her flinching. I can't get Stan near a green vegetable, but if Denise serves him a plate a broccoli he smiles a charming smile and clears the plate, Archie grunts at us but uses whole sentences when our friends come round, and so it goes on. Friends, school teachers, even passers by get the unfucked up stuff from our children, we get the grim stuff, the end of day, over tired, end of tether snarling that strikes fear into all parents. What nature banks on of course is a parent's emotional and biological connection with these angry snarly things, and nature is right a Mum's got to do what a Mum's got to do. Which in this case, is have another go at Mike's hair tomorrow without bringing up the fact that he was perfectly fine with Janet and what's wrong with Mummy's haircuts?

If he gets the chance to answer this question, he will point out that I make him look like a kid whose Mum uses a wonky bowl to cut his hair, and then he will use his emotional blackmail skills (learned in the womb) to point out that I am his Mum and in his eyes I am supposed to supply, a roof over his head, hugs, kisses, food and chocolate. So tomorrow I will finish the haircut, then I will feel guilty that a) it looks so bad and b) that I should be doing lovely Mummy things with him instead. This see-sawing of emotional blackmail and maternal guilt will then continue for oh, say, another thirty to forty years at which point I can get myself some guilt free senile dementia and then lets see how the children like it!

Although I do foresee some flaws with my plan, because, by this time my children will be playing their own fun version of blackmail and guilt with their children, and they will not have time for me and my wobbly, scary madness. I will quickly find myself in a home (which will not resemble a home in any way) and I will just be able to make out the words Becky is saying to the nurse, "...and she likes her mash potato cold and her milk warm..." before I am wheeled away, down a long corridor smelling of wee, to a dark room, where, despite being without my blanket and bear I will have to endure my compulsory perm, with the home's resident hairdresser, Janet.

Rx

auld lang syne

2006-10-09T18:19:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

With the arrival of his O level certificates my friend Dave and his family are now only days away from making their journey to Kuala Lumpar (I still cannot bring myself to call it KL and, by the way, I think we should keep the Pound). It is good to know that understanding algebra, reading Coming through the Rye and learning the complete table of elephants was worth it. He was only studying enough to take him in to the Post Office as counter staff, how could he know at sixteen, that in twenty years time his project on the Cliffs of Orkney would help to propel him to a new life in far far away land, KL that is(there...I did it...bleugh).

We had our last supper together and got stupidly drunk and cried and laughed and smoked cigars, which is very bizarre because we are all non-smokers. We planned a spectacular banquet for them, well five courses, which is quite spectacular I think. One of the courses was to be a Korean style cook it at your table job, but we don't have anything that would allow us to cook it at the table, although we did consider lighting forty tapers we had sitting being useless in our kitchen useful drawer next to our one chopstick. I rang round the usual suspects to find someone with a camping gaz thingy or Fondue Set - you have to say Fondue Set for the same reason that you have to say hostess trolley.You would not believe the number of people who used to have a fondue set, but now can only find four different coloured fondue forks in their kitchen useful drawer. "...I think my friend borrowed it, or is it in the loft? Rob did you give the fondue set to Cancer Research?!" Obviously my sister (for it was she)didn't think my brother in law had given it to their research lab, she meant the charity shop, the last resting place for stuff.

A couple we know who still live in the big city were so well organised that at four monthly intervals, they would have a clearout of unwanted stuff from their house which they would then take to their local Charity Shop. Ordinarily Dirk would deliver the stuff on his own, but one time Vi helped, arrived at the shop first, delivered her bags and was just about to go back out to help her husband, when she heard one of the old dear volunteers say to the other: "Oh no. Look, here comes that Dirk. He always brings a load of old shit." Catching her breath, Vi, left the shop, walked straight past Dirk without acknowledging him and headed home to be appalled and to laugh for a long time. When they told this story I remember our group outrage, how dare they cast aspersions on our stuff, we donated it didn't we, we didn't dump it at the tip, or worse give it to The Cat Protection Society.

Anyway fondue sets, used to be ten a penny, now you can't get them for love nor money (yes, I did spend the weekend with the Pearly King and Queen of Lambeth). At one time, in the early eighties, they were everywhere and if you went round to a friend's house for dinner you were pretty certain you would be eating four gallons of snot textured cheese with four loaves of bread. Later, when you threw it all up, it looked exactly the same as when it went down.

We never did get hold of a fondue set, nor, even a camping gaz thingy, so instead we set fire to the cooked steak in the kitchen and ran it into the dining room, where it flamed impressively for five seconds and then went cold. However, although I say it myself the food was very good, the strange Malaysian starter, the sweet and salty broth, the flaming meat, the fish from Scotland and the fool from Kent, the drink was lovely, the cigars were...well unpleasant actually.

Why did we have the cigars? I think because we were trying so hard to make it special, the memory of that night has to last us three years for goodness sake. Actually, the memory of six foot four inches of Dave careering up the road in the early hours of the morning accompanied by five foot 2 inches of Denise attempting to support him will stay with me for ever. Which makes the point, I think, we could have had five buckets of cheese fondue for our last supper, and still it would have been a wonderful night, because it is the friends we will remember and the friends we will miss.

I know his Mum was proud, but I wish Dave had never passed his bloody O levels.

Rx

sorry seems to be the hardest word

2006-09-29T19:31:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

John Prescott apologised for having sex with his secretary yesterday, and they lapped it up, even his bird was moved, but I can think of so many more important things which he should have apologised for. The failed education policies, the disintegrating NHS, the terrifying erosion of our human rights, the thousands of children who have been killed in Iraq. I've never really minded who in the Government is shagging who as long as they're not shagging the country, and this lot have been shagging us rotten for quite some time.
Mind you, he could apologise personally to me for the mental image I have of him naked, which I had conjured up as a consequence of his behaviour, goodness knows Prescott with clothes on was a struggle.

One way or another, we all invest a great deal of emotion in the word sorry, knowing how and when to use it is an art. Some people are really good with the word, they are quick to say sorry and they mean it. Others have to have it dragged out of them or sound insincere. I used to be awful at saying sorry - it was years of damage in a long miserable relationship - I don't want to talk about it alright!! Oops sorry. There you go, ten years ago I couldn't I have said that.

We encourage our children to say sorry, but only if they mean it, which causes problems; liberal arseholes I hear you thinking, well yes. And to prove your point, a little while ago Archie refused to say sorry to a boy he had been fighting with in the school playground. The story - so far as I can tell - was that Garry had said something rude about Archie's Mum, or as Archie put it, "He cussed me Muvver innit!" Yes, thank you Piff Doddy I said, he sighed and sucked his teeth, I did remind him that he was a blonde haired, blue eyed white middle class boy - but wot-ever.

Anyway, after the wrestling on the ground came the standing against the wall and after that they were offered their release if they said sorry. Garry gave a surly "sooorrryyyaa!", but Archie refused, because he said that it would be a lie as he wasn't sorry; so Archie lost a week of play. I beamed with pride and then told him off for fighting and then told off the school for its policy of public humiliation.
According to the school head, standing children against a wall is a strategy they use for bad behaviour, I thought it was bullying, but there you go, I'm not a dinner lady with bugger all training and a general loathing of people under twenty so what would I know.

I have a big sorry brewing, I have to produce one for the children who have been galvanised into being upbeat about our move to Brighton, despite leaving friends, schools etc. Now the buyers have gone wobbly on us and we will not be moving for another six months I fear. I may not have it in me to try to sell it again, could I cope with a third round of hoovering this year? Seriously, I really am daunted by the prospect of getting the "house straight" (as we euphamistically say to one another), it is so exhausting and often pointless, what good is cleaning, dusting and baking bread on the day if the gate is hanging off it's hinges, the crack in the side wall is two inches thick and the garage door has been grafittied with suck my nob, again! (that's "suck my nob", not "suck my nob again!")
Sorry is so hard to say, when it is just a sorry, with no follow up like "but here's a new bike" or "don't worry we can stay in auntie sandra's mansion whilst she is away for five years".

I am sorry though, sorry we have to sell, sorry we want to leave this Town, sorry I can't just buy us all another pad with my spare cash, sorry I didn't get a big job in the city, sorry I spent eight years in further education for no return, sorry it all feels so uncertain, sorry the solicitor and estate agent will make money out of our distress, sorry for having to be sorry.

I reckon there will be an awful lot of sorry saying after Tony Blair and John Prescott leave office, not by them I think, but by the next lot who want to run the country. I would consider voting for the slightly autistic Gordon Brown, or smug Jack Straw, the childlike David Milliband, even the conceited John Reid (no, not him, ever), if they apologised for all the domestic and foreign policy cock-ups of the last ten years. But they would have to mean it of course and I don't think they really do mean sorry, they mean, I will do what John Prescott did, I'll stand against the wall for my five minutes of public humiliation, I'll say "sooorrryyyaa!" and then I'll get back to "messin' wiv ya country and cussing ya Muvver up - innit!"

Rx

the monster mash

2006-09-25T10:28:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

Craig was away to London last night to meet his old mate Dirk for a drink at the Hole in the Wall.This concerned Anna in two ways, firstly because Craig does all the cooking, so it would be my stuff she would be eating for tea, and secondly because he is the Monster Puncher, that is, he makes sure that no monsters get near Anna and Mike's bedroom. So,I had to explain that Daddy always leaves a trap when he goes away, and this then led to a tense dialogue about the nature of the trap and the inevitable question, why punch them if you can trap them?

I was only in this predicament because we had to make stuff up in the first place. You read them a monster story, you let them watch Monsters Inc., they go to bed cuddling their favourite monster toy and then you spend the rest of the night telling them there are no such things as monsters and to stop worrying about them.
I have spent many nights shouting at monsters under beds, generally making sure that they are good and not bad monsters; it seemed easier to invent Daddy the renowned Monster Puncher for Anna.

You have to keep an eye on the made up stuff though. For three years all the children thought that Eddy, our bald cat, was from Father Christmas, then two of them worked out that Father Christmas was made up and so we had to come clean about the cat's more humble beginnings in Scotland. Now Archie is on the verge of discovering that Santa is us, slightly merry and very tired trying to shove stocking shaped selection boxes into slightly too small stocking shaped stockings, without being heard or getting the giggles. But he is not quite there yet.I know this because the other day the whole tooth fairy made up stuff, came home to roost.

Now, I don't usually go on about Archie being my step son,but you need some background here. When you have children who are not always with you, ordinary things get complicated. For example, there is the coming and going of clothing. There have been a number of times when I have sent clothes back to Archie's nursery or school just to have them sent back and told they belong to me, only to discover they were Archie's, but from his Mum's house. On the other hand I have sent him back to nursery wearing nursery clothes which I thought were clothes from his Mum's house. Are you keeping up?

Its not only stuff, its ideas and attitudes which differ from home to home - so you have to tread carefully around issues such as Father Christmas and the tooth fairy; you just don't know how far the other parent has gone. And no we don't sit down and discuss this sort of thing regularly because we are too busy worrying about whether to leave each other to cut hair and finger nails.

At some point between eight - when his last baby tooth came out - and the other day when another tooth came out, Craig and I had decided that Archie must be past tooth fairy stage (he is ten). So when he proudly presented me with the tooth he had been twisting and pulling for a couple of days, I reminded him, to "... pretend you are going to put it under your pillow for the tooth fairy" because we didn't want to upset Anna, whose teeth are also falling out and who has become quite rich under the patronage of her tooth fairy recently. He responded by saying,"Doesn't the tooth fairy exist then?!". It was quite a tense moment, we had relatives over, it suddenly felt really very hot in the kitchen. Craig and I looked at each other for help, but no fairy godmother intervened.
Eventually, I mumbled unconvincingly, "of course the tooth fairy exists, what are you like..." but he looked a little lost. I heard him questioning his older siblings and cousins about it outside.

Craig, was all for telling Archie again, but I couldn't now bare it, so Craig (who didn't want to ferret around under a ten year old's pillow) convinced him that after the age of ten tooth fairies pick up the tooth from the, wait for it...fridge! You'd have to wonder about your parents sanity at least by this point. Anyway, Archie was not to be swayed and he duly put his tooth in an envelope in the fridge. At four in the morning I woke in a cold sweat and sent Craig down to put money in the envelope and part freeze his nadgers.

In the morning Archie came down to retrieve the treasure - which in this house is fifty pence per tooth. "Oh" said Archie disappointed. "What?" said I irritatedly. "I usually get £1". This was it then, the mystery and the magic is nothing compared to the money. "Well", I said, "would that be when a tooth falls out at your Mum's house?" "Yes". "Well that's because she has a different payment scale than us for teeth". "You mean you're the tooth fairy?!" "Yes!" you wee money grabbing bastard - I thought the last bit. And that was that.
I felt crap, but it had to happen. We had a chat afterwards about how great it was to be growing up, and how good it would be to be the big brother who would keep the mystery going for Anna and Mike, but I could see he was struggling.

I can completely understand Archie's reluctance to let go of the mystery, the made up stuff, his childhood. This time next year he will be at secondary school with a bunch of nutters (other children)who will all be taller and wider than him. If he gets cornered I'm sure he would love to able to say, "My Dad's a Monster Puncher and he can take anyone of you easy". But he can't, not without being laughed at, so he will have to be hard and macho and fight his own corner using his wit, cunning and perhaps fists.

Anyway you will be glad to hear, I'm sure, that the Monster Puncher arrived home safely from the big city. A bit wobbly and giggly of course, but luckily the trap he set had worked and there were no monsters to be dealt with, otherwise we may have had to call on Archie to sort them out.

Rx

one step beyond

2006-09-20T14:58:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

The daughter of a friend of mine has been isolated from the rest of the school by her headmaster, for having black and white hair. Why would he do that? Perhaps he thinks that two tone hair is catching, perhaps he thinks that it will return to brown if she is left alone long enough, perhaps he is keen on apartheid; well obviously he is keen on apartheid, that's what he's practising.

What worries me most about this is that he found the time to bother his arse. Surely he has a list of things to do as long as his arm, with items such as budgets, timetables, interfering parents, meetings with investors... blah blah blah. Not anything directly related to education or children of course, you're not expected to educate anyone at school anymore, process them for exams - yes, enlighten - nope. So perhaps I left something crucial off the headmaster's list: humiliating children to stamp out individualism. How can coloured hair be a problem for a school, is it because it is a posh Kent school and the headmaster has the time and the inclination to get in-bloody-volved. I think yes - A* for me.
I know that when our big kids were at a seriously stretched inner city school in London their expereince and the experience of the head teacher were coloured by issues other than hair...colour.
A sample of the average morning at Pakebourne Junior School:
Teacher: "Hello children I am your supply teacher for the day. Please stop hitting the wall with your head that boy - stay away from the broken windows that girl!"

School secretary: "Hello supply teacher from New Zealand here is the new girl for your class (that makes 35 children)she is from Turkey she has no English, and she is scared."

Headteacher: "I cannot leave this part of the building to meet with you since the father of Brian in year three wants to stab me."

Stepmother: "Have a nice day Stan."

Stan: "Arsenal have signed Thierry Henry!"

They had a great time, and sometimes a rubbish time, but nobody went for them because they had the wrong hair or wrong uniform, because there was no uniform and hair was, well...hair. Nobody had time to worry about that sort of thing, because half of the kids didn't speak English, half had parents who weren't quite there for them, half were too poor to eat properly, half had stories from their home countries so awful you wouldn't tell to an adult, and half were...oh hang on a minute, I got unclassified for my O level maths.

Anyway the point is that you don't need league tables, or a uniform to learn about the world, or one tone hair, or a straight back. You do need happy and contented children supported by happy and contented teachers and happy contented parents. You need music, and the arts, you need physical activity, you need children out of the classroom. We can do this as a country, can't we, we can be modern, use computers, educate our children in everything from osmosis, to algebra, from the Impressionists to Badly Drawn Boy and web site design to hockey. We can make learning enjoyable and relaxed, taught in classes of no more than fifteen children by enthusiastic well paid teachers. A broad and thorough education for a broad and modern society.

And then I woke up and it was all a dream.

Meanwhile, I thought you might like to know that Becky has just had her hair coloured red and it does not seem to have affected her ability to read and write, listen, talk and learn stuff. So with a scientific study of one child, I can reveal that my findings prove there is no correlation between hair colour and the ability to learn. However, if you attend a GOOD school in Kent and have coloured hair, there is a 98% chance that your headteacher will sit you in a room on your own for a week, where you have a 100% chance of learning nuffink.

Rx

somewhere over the rainbow

2006-09-19T12:16:00.002Z

Dear Marianne,

We are selling the camper van, known to all the family as Rainbow George (no reference to the crazy man who sold his house in Hampstead to fund a comeback for crooner Ronnie Carroll). When we bought the van four years ago there was a happy consensus amongst six of us that Rainbow was a nice name for a nice colourful camper van, but Archie was in a dark Green Day- type mood, so that we had to affix his suggested George to the end of Rainbow, or else.

Anyway, we have to let go of the beloved Rainbow George, - top speed 54mph going downhill with a following wind – because he is dying, actually I think he’s dead. So that when I say selling the van, I mean giving the van away, to a bloke called Paul who has hands the width of my head, which are always covered in oily stuff; he is a real man’s man. He is also a camper van man, he has six kids and a wife, who I suspect has forgotten what he looks like from the ankles up, – he spent a year doing up his bay window camper van circa 1970 (so no need for road tax), replacing the seals, welding the axle, moving the sink… we had a long chat. You too would know that these are important details if you had a camper van, you would also know that when you are on the road in a “dub”, you have to wave at other camper van drivers despite your innate English reserve which makes you want to hide, not wave. Paul, the camper van man drove his ancient beauty to the South of France with wife and kids and a spare engine along for the ride, not necessarily in that order I fear; crazy man! (I mean that in the sense of crazzeee maaaann, and not, mad bastard).

I will miss the rust on wheels that Rainbow George has become, because he was a complete unnecessary luxury which we all enjoyed. We loved the fact that we always had a queue of cars behind us when we went cross country, we loved the fact that there was only one seat belt in the back and room for the kids to roam (it was Russian roulette in reverse for them every time we went out). I loved the fact that when I was hippopotamusly pregnant with Mike I had to get help from Craig to turn the wheel, I loved the fact that we couldn’t get anywhere fast, I loved the fact that one day the gear stick came off in my hands as I was parking, I loved the fact that another day the sliding door slid right off its hinges and into the car behind, I loved the fact that everyone laughed at it but really wanted to go in it, and I loved the fact that the head of our local residents association complained about it because it was, well… a camper van.

This is the point you see, it isn’t just a rusty old thing, it represents a world which the chairmen of local residents associations don’t seem to care for, it provides you with all those things you are expected to feel and to enjoy when you are young and to give up when you are adult. It reminds me of camping, my mum’s orange lipstick, purple wallpaper, white wood furniture, bean bags, paisley shirts, flowery skirts and life in the slow lane. We didn’t own a camper van, my parent’s couldn’t afford one of those cool dude cars, we had a Renault bread van with the funny gear stick at nose height, windows cut in the sides and wood panels built over the wheels for seats. All five of us would be in the back, sometimes six when Dad got nervous (which was often), and he would join us in the back just so he could hold on to the door, I suppose in case a freak typhoon should rip it off and we would all fall out and die. I can laugh about it now, but I’m sure it was the reason I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was nineteen.

It was actually Candy Thomas who owned a yellow and white camper van, well her parent’s owned it, and she just bathed in the reflected glory of the beautiful beast. Candy Thomas was the coolest thing in junior school, I wasn’t sure why, maybe because she had lived in Africa, (I considered Redhill exotic then), her brother was very sweet and sexy, her parents were hippy and groovy, and they had a camper van. I can’t quite remember now why I chucked Candy over for Christine when we had to choose partners for milk duty, but I think deep down I knew that Candy’s camper van set her apart from me. Now, my camper van, which sets me apart, has to go, and with it those moments of freedom, fun and carelessness. In a move heavy with a sense of masochism, we have replaced it with a second hand Rover 400 with fake wood trim and everything, and now instead of sitting up high in Rainbow George, I receive a knowing nod of acceptance frm the chairman of the Residents’ Association.
Help me Marianne - I don’t want to grow up - if it’s not too late I think I will see if I can get my van back from Paul, and then maybe I could convince the chairman to pull us along in it in the Rover.

Rx

let's get lost

2006-09-11T13:06:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

The start of a new term has brought with it the traditional themes of children’s tears and tiredness, failed ironing of pleated school dresses, sunny days and cries of, “Has anyone seen Anna’s lunch box, Mike’s shoes, Becky’s keys, anything belonging to me!?” But this year it also signals the prospect of moving on, which makes me excited and scared and I need to do stuff or we won't be going anywhere; we may not be moving until December but I need to get my arse in gear.

Right now though, I'm doing nothing, I'm sitting on my own, staring out the bedroom window my face covered in the dust of a hundred old photos.

I am supposed to be clearing out the loft and under beds and in cupboards in anticipation of our relocation, part of my general scheme to avoid thinking about moving again. I shouldn’t really be worrying too much, we are not buying a house, so I don’t have to get panicky about the dates for Exchange or fret about Completion, or feel stressed about a communal right of way going through my kitchen or worry that the survey on the new house will reveal thirty years of rot in the basement. But I do have another worry list: I haven’t yet found a house for us to live in, or a nursery for Mike, an Infant school for Anna or Secondary school for Becky. Actually the secondary schools are not schools anymore, they are all colleges of one sort or another – for languages, for media, for arts or more worryingly for community. Don’t get me wrong I love community, some of my best friends are communities, but you put that word in front of the word college and it always ends in tears.

I rang two colleges recently and got a good reception from two fraught admissions staff, both women of course, the third place I contacted was a Catholic school - well I thought I’d have a go it’s in the family. I wanted to know if the School was required to have a quota of atheists in their intake (yes we are seriously lapsed). I received a call back from another admissions woman, who spoke at me in a telephone voice especially selected for parents whose children wouldn’t be coming to the school. She let me know that there are at least eight children on the waiting list for year nine, so I might want to look at other schools in the area; will Becky be attending a Catholic School in Brighton - is the Pope a Communist?

Of course, not to bang on about this again, but in my day we went to our local infant, junior and then secondary school and thank god there was no parents’ choice in the matter. I went to a comprehensive school in Crawley part of which was burned down by two boys in my class; it is now a community college. I have been reminded of the detail of my school days because I have been sorting through “My Personal Stuff” box. I get this out every few years, so that I can sort it out and chuck away irrelevant rubbish, instead of which I add more “personal stuff” and put it back under the bed. From my box of personal stuff I see that I received some “O” levels from the school, I also read that at the end of my Junior school I “had got in with a bad group of children” and that I talked too much in science and was actively disruptive in maths in year three of comprehensive school (I would just say in my defence MISS, that our superb maths teacher was off with cancer for over a year – and nobody bloody told us, we just had to guess, AND his replacement was an R.E. teacher with very little understanding of algebra or ven(?) diagrams). I also see that I received a Merit and a Pass Plus in the Russian Method of Ballet at ages seven and eight, I also have a letter from Mary Ninness, my first Junior school teacher who went off to teach servicemen’s children in Germany and wrote to me from there. There are pictures of old friends, pictures of my parents looking young, postcards circa 1976 (the year of the great drought) and a couple of teenage love letters.

I am sure there are books by psychiatrists about this sort of thing, hanging on to the past, unable to move on, vanity, perhaps it is historical separation anxiety? Mind you, just a word of caution to the “thrower outers”, my mate Dave is off to Kuala Lumpar with his family for three years, and since he has to get a work visa he has to produce evidence of education. Despite the fact that he is now an accountant for a big grown up firm he still has to produce his “O” level certificates for examination; he’s 46 he sat his “O” levels thirty years ago! He couldn’t find them in his loft of course, so he now has to wait for two months for the Scottish Education whatever it is, to find the certificates and send them. I offered to walk to Scotland and look through all the filing cabinets containing all the exams results of the last thirty years and then walk home again (because it would be quicker), but he couldn’t hear me over his sobbing.

This cautionary tale is irrelevant of course, because I keep more useless rubbish than “O” level certificates, and for whatever reason, I find myself unable to throw any of it away again; I will however be adding a clown painting by Anna, and a scribble by Mike. Tonight, I will put the box away under the bed until the next time when I have moved on but need to look back and lose myself in the past for a while.

Rx

i need a hero

2006-09-07T15:01:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

There was an unholy scrum of children, teachers and parents outside chestnut class on Tuesday morning. This is because the hallway is home to two sets of toilets and pegs for four classes, this coupled with 80 freaked out Mothers and their five year olds paralysed by fear created a bit of a log jam which even the most helpful of class helpers couldn’t do anything about.
Between us we found Anna’s peg and put endless bags on it, took out the water bottle (didn’t we used to drink from taps in the loos) and made our way through the unmerry throng to the door of the classroom, where I told the teacher that Anna’s lunch bag was not labelled but that Anna would know it. This was really for Anna’s sake rather than the teacher’s and although she smiled a weak smile at me I knew she was thinking: “do you really think that I care about your daughter’s lunch box or that come lunchtime I will evenly vaguely recall you or the lunchbox, you sad over protective Mother”. I may be putting an unfair spin on the teacher by inventing thoughts for her, but I can’t help it – she has my daughter by the pig tails for the whole day and I just don’t know what goes on do I?

Actually I was trying to make it up with Anna who was not only paralysed by fear, but also upset because I had put her in her winter uniform and despite the fact that I had assured her it would be the thing to do, pretty much every other girl was in her summer dress. This is the sort of thing that can stay in a childs mind for years and which they then draft in to arguments later to prove a point; generally that I am a bad Mum. I have done similar things over time with all the children, but I always take solace in the memory that my sister in law sent her son off to school in his uniform on “super hero day”, and because she was working she was not able to make amends so that her son had to be “super uniform boy” all day. Anyway despite my faux pas with the dress Anna gave me a big cuddle and with her name on a post it note stuck firmly to her cardigan ventured in to the classroom alone. Hooray I thought no worries or wobbles with Anna.

Of course, by day three (today) Anna is very wobbly about going to school, apparently she is upset that some of her friends are not in her new class and more generally she is upset because everything is new; new teacher, new pegs, new rules etc. and despite knowing that this is part of the process at the beginning of each new term I get dragged in to her drama. Anna is probably upset because she was the last to sit down on the carpet, or lost her way to the toilets or because since I don’t know what she’s talking about when she says: “those round strawberry things in packets” I can’t buy them to put in her pack lunch and now she feels different to the other pack lunchers.

Even though I know it is only these small things which are the cause of her unhappiness, and that they will pass when she settles in to the new regime, it doesn’t stop me inventing a scenario to freak me out for the day. As soon as she steps in to the classroom, she is bullied by her teacher, who I am sure now I think about it, is a dead ringer for Miss Trunchball from the film Matilda (no of course I haven’t read the book) which is Anna’s favourite film and she is Matilda, so Miss Trunchball has locked her in a cupboard with nails in the door and now she has got her by her pigtails and is throwing her out of the school window.

I realise that my world view is completely skewed by my children’s t.v. and film consumption. Before Anna became Matilda, The Railway Children was her favourite film and before that Robin Hood (the Errol Fynn version) I think that she may well have been born in 1926. Mind you when Becky was three her favourite film was The Wizard of OZ and she was Dorothy until she was about seven, so it could be genetic. We still have it in our collection, its all stretched and wonky and even in the Land of Oz, it is not always glorious technicolour. I actually feel physically sick when I watch that film now, because I have seen it hundreds of times and it has had a clockwork orange effect on me. I know things about that film that only the editor should know, I know for example, the difference between the film on the video we have and other cuts that appear on t.v. ocassionally, I know that Dorothy trips on the Lions cloak during the song: “Courage” and I know that Dorothy (well Judy Garland – but she will allways be Dorothy to me) nearly laughs during her first scene with the Lion and I know all the dialogue from beginning to end. I’m not telling you this to be a show off or Big Bob as they say in Dundee, but to illustrate to you just how deeply disturbed I am by all this.

Anyway, back to Anna and Miss Trunchball. I mentioned to her best friend Archie that she was feeling a bit wobbly, so that if he could look out for her a bit today that would be great. As I waved her off Archie put his arm around her shoulder and said:”I won’t let you fall over Anna” , he took wobbly literally of course, he’s a bloke after all, but I could have kissed him; if he’d have let me. Who needs Robin Hood, Matilda, Dorothy or even Uniform Boy when you have “Super Archie!”

Rx

just another brick in the wall

2006-09-04T15:58:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

It’s as though we’d never been away. Six weeks of holidays, park, ice-creams, rain and relatives and the conversation at the nursery returned immediately to children’s school uniforms, 11 Plus results and home improvement. Sewing in name tags providing the majority of comment amongst the waiting Mothers.
I really tried to say something, but I’d found it hard enough to live through the last minute school clothes shopping experience, with every other Kentish mother, wedged in between the dark blue gym pants and the lime green blazers in Hobsons; I didn’t want to relive it. The only question I was really interested in answering was the: “how’s the house selling going?” At last I can say: “Moving in December”, I know this makes the family tainted now, but I’m more than happy to join the leper colony outside Kent.

Anyway, Mike wasn’t keen to go to nursery this morning. As Craig pushed him up the hill in the buggy (which I think he will be using when he goes to university) he was still bleating: “no nursery, no nursery...” – I have been at this parent lark for nearly fourteen years and I still can’t cope with that. Obviously (as I should know what with nearly fourteen years’ blah. blah) he was fine, enjoyed himself, ate biscuits, drank juice and came home happily knackered; which is after all why we take them to these places.

And tomorrow Anna will be back to school, she will be in a new classroom, the location of which I know thanks to my friend Zoe who is a proper Mother, and who was therefore also able to describe the characters of each teacher (there are two, it’s a job share – watch this space for that to kick off) the names of the teachers, the name of the class, and the children Anna should avoid being friends with in the class. Unlike Mike, Anna is incredibly excited about returning to school, proximity to the toilets seems to be one reason, sitting next to her best friend Stephanie at lunch time is another, seeing Archie is very important, wearing her new shoes is another reason and playing in the big playground seems to feature quite strongly too. All of these things of course could be organised without the use of a school, the teachers etc. and more importantly without the early morning struggle between good and evil, that is: the morning cartoons versus breakfast, pyjamas versus uniform, hiding under the duvet versus being dragged out by your feet (only relates to teenagers) and walking forlornly up the hill with children, book bags, lunch boxes, P.E. kit versus Stan's suggested “oh fuck it, let’s nick off!”

That’s the trouble with going “back to school”, the only people who benefit are those with a share in BHS, Woolworths or Hobsons, everybody else was doing fine without it. I know I was counting down the weeks, then the days and most recently the hours, but now all the hanging around the house, wearing pyjamas all day (them not me), being rained on at the park, baking flat cakes, trips to Margate, watching Morris Dancers, fighting badly behaved cousins and making messy hand pictures seems like the right way to spend your time. If the most important things to us about our children’s schooling are sewing in the name tags, getting the right shoes and worrying about the 11 Plus then maybe it’s time to take a step back to rethink it all, and consider “nicking off” for a while.

Rx

holiday...celebrate!

2006-08-28T19:41:00.000Z

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

2006-08-24T10:57:00.002Z

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

2006-08-21T12:09:00.000Z

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

2006-08-21T08:19:00.000Z

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

2006-08-17T18:29:00.000Z

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

2006-08-13T18:59:00.000Z

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

2006-08-12T23:52:00.000Z

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

2006-08-10T23:36:00.000Z

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

2006-08-08T17:14:00.000Z

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

2006-08-06T22:10:00.000Z

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

2006-08-04T22:14:00.000Z

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?

2006-08-03T16:49:00.000Z

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

I want to be a Red Coat

2006-07-29T12:49:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

I keep checking the calendar to be sure, but it really is only three days and not three weeks since the end of the school term. I felt bad when all the Mothers were agreeing that it was great to have the summer holidays here at last, because I was also a wee bit worried about it.
I joined in and I meant it. I'm just as tired as they are, feeding dressing and dragging exhausted children up to school to exhausted teachers, who also wish it was the summer holidays, and that they were laying on a beach in the south of France and not working on the mini beasts project.

Mind you, you don't want to actually meet a teacher on a beach during the holidays. I remember one beautiful summers day with my family at Climping beach being completely ruined when we bumped into my trumpet teacher playing beach ball with his friends.
He was a slimy fellow even with his clothes on. Mum said he went red every time he spoke to her, and she thought she knew what was on his mind - yuk. On that summers afternoon, he was wearing only a very tight fitting swimming costume and his slimy grin (none of his teeth were his own , he had them all taken out so that he could play the trumpet better) and even though I was only 12 I felt sick for all the right reasons. I can still see him looking like ...oh what's the word?.. bleugh.

Anyway, holidays. I am glad they are here, and we have the boys for three weeks this year and that Grandad John is coming down from Scotland tomorrow. But six weeks is a very long time when you have to provide entertainment twelve hours a day to a three and five year old.
My friend "Dundee" is berating herself for breaking one of the cardinal rules of "Modern Parenting" (by Susie Swift, 14.99 in all good book shops), she peaked too soon! On day one of the holidays she took her kids on a big, fun, sugar fuelled, friend filled trip to the SEASIDE. Amateur! Actually I nearly went too, but can now be smug about the fact that I didn't. The highlight of day two of the holidays for her children was a trip to the hairdressers followed by stale cakes and rubbish biscuits at my house; she is going to have to throw some serious money and relatives at this holiday to get her parenting badge back up to level three.

Just spent an afternoon of jigsaw puzzle hell. Mike is obsessed with them, but I don't like them, they take too long and there is no point, just look at the picture on the front of the box and then you don't have to bother. After this I had to play the book + buzzer game - another Anna invention - I wont bore you with the details. Actually I will. It is a modern version of the local Library, you press the "on button" and make a buzzing sound and a hard back book gets thrown down the stairs at you - you read it very quickly (or else) press the "off button" and (shut your eyes) the book miraculously disappears back up the stairs.
This kind of thing is difficult, especially if you are hot, bored, hungry, pre-menstrual and don't believe in make believe anymore. In fact the ages four to eight are impossible if you don't believe in make believe and if you don't do surreal, or stories about poo, bums, wee or knock knock jokes.
I walked with a friend to school the other day and her son told a series of rubbish knock knock jokes all the way, which she forbore with her typical patience, but after five long minutes even she was forced to plea "last one then Henry".

Saturday
The plan was this: New day New attitude. I was going to work so hard on my "parenting" skills that I would get my Red Coat by the end of the summer. Today was to be the first day of the rest of my life etc. etc. But then I listened to something about mid-life crisis with Giles Brandwrewthethweth (who I should hate, but I quite like)on radio 4 and I realised that I too am having a mid-life crisis, and that I should buy a motorbike, get a young Greek boy and leave the family to "find myself" somewhere exotic. But since I can't do this I am going to do what all people with no money do when the time comes for a bit of self analysis - keep it inside and grow myself a tumor.
Its better I think than doing the self awareness thing. I don't want to "recognise" (see)the "challenges" (mess)which "play a role" (will)"and pose certain limitations" (stop)"on my daily endeavours" (me living my life).
This is what I "recognise": I have achieved nothing in my career, I will achieve nothing in my career, I have no time or money to do the things I want to do or want my family to do, my body and mind are degenerating, one is going south and the other is going wrong; its all going to end in tears, and sooner rather than later.

Mustn't dwell though, I'm off to feed a friend's hamster which may have died of neglect already, who knows with those things?
Tomorrow will have to be the first day of the rest of my life...

Rx

No Immediate Ceasefire

2006-07-27T07:43:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

So Israel is bombing the hell out of Lebanon and children are dying every day and important people in Rome are unable to find "agreement on an immediate ceasefire".

I looked at the wee ones sleeping soundly last night and thought how lucky I am that they are in no danger from falling bombs, then I worried that they will be, sooner rather than later, then I worried that by the time they are my age they will be fighting people for water and then I worried and then I worried some more.
How can any person not decide on an "immediate ceasefire" - I suppose their children must be sleeping soundly.

Eddy the cat has been in a big fight. He has scratches up and down his chest and a great big bite on his tail.
He really shouldn't even be out - since he is a posh/breed/no hair thing and the most expensive household object we own apart from a tasty Linn sound system which will soon be available to buy on eBay because we need the money for a car.

Most people have a view on our cat - they hate him or they love him. I love hate him. Mike's friend Billy who is two and a half is absolutely terrified of him, but so keen on the dollies and prams we have here that he is willing to take the chance of bumping into him now and agin.. When he does, he cartoon jumps in the air and then hares off shouting "scary cat..scary cat!" , this is a reaction, unfortunately, that many of our adult friends can relate to.

I did get a consolation moment from Eddy the other day though, when Perry the "room counter" came AGAIN, to count rooms AGAIN and look at the back wall AGAIN (a fetish I think)and tell me he couldn't decide between three properties he was looking at.

It's a difficult and complex relationship we have. I can see that he is becoming distant, he is distracted when he is here. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't want to know the details.
He told me anyway - he told me about the other women - Brenda in High Brooms who has fewer rooms than me but has a larger garden and Sara at the other end of Camden Road who he says is cheaper! How the hell does he expect me to feel...why does he keep me hanging on!? Why don't I just tell him to leave me and my plumbing alone...I suppose the truth is, I need him.

Where was I? Yes, the consolation moment came when, as I sat re-reading a bank statement at the table in the yard, in an attempt to look busy and uninterested in him (Perry), I heard a yell from the kitchen. A few moments later he came out with Eddy attached to his shoulder. "Friendly little thing - just jumped right up" he said through gritted teeth as I peeled Eddy's claws from his neck.

"The cat is part of the fixtures and fittings - make me an offer", I said; see how he reacts to tough love...

Rx

Let's get out of Dodge

2006-07-22T21:34:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

There are two kinds of buyer for our house – the family who want to move from London but don’t have enough money for the posh houses around the corner, and have to settle for this place with too many rooms, a yard not a garden and a view of the Hot Pot Cafe, and there are the “room counters” – the buy to rent folk.

I had to show a room counter around the house today. I’m not very good at this and Craig usually does it whilst I take the children out. This time it was me and the children.
So firstly I’m pissed off that I tidied up and hoovered and put cushions on the bed and threw half a hundred weight of plastic toys in to the loft. Because I know that room counters don’t care about tidiness they just count rooms and money.
His name was Perry, so that makes me hate him more. He was suffering from that male disease, “a little bit of knowledge”, and he wondered around the house and yard pointing at cables and pipes asking what they were for. I put up with it for a bit until I said well that’s obviously for the bog, but I don’t tend to worry about these things. He responded with: “Oh, I see you have a crack in your wall” – “Yes – sorry “. This is what happens I end up apologising for everything in the house.
Lots of uhmming, ahhing and chin scratching. Anna kept asking, “What is he looking for?”

“Well I may come back and see it again, or I may send some agents.” He said finally.

“Yes, why don’t my people talk to your people and then you can fuck off and fuck yourself!” I didn’t really say that – I just thought it.
I must leave this sort of thing to Craig.

It was "eco week" at Anna’s school last week. On Friday the children had to dress up in recycled costume. This sort of thing can put me out for weeks, I don’t knit or sew or have any artistic bent at all. So Anna went wearing a rubbish bag with pieces of rubbish stuck to it and a sign which said "recycle me!" – not ground breaking haute couture, but good enough, and more importantly her best friend Sara was wearing the same thing! I could have kissed her Mother for being as crap as me. Other Mothers see this sort of thing as a kind of competition – and true to form there had been some stunning work done over the last month. Sewing, knitting, working well with the media they had chosen for the year 1 project.
“Everyone looks rubbish!” I shouted hilariously as I left the classroom …silence.
My most favourite moment though was watching the Mums drop off their little recycled children and without any sense of irony settle in to the leather seats of their 4x4 BMWs and their Hummers – what the hell are they for? And drive off to put their two cans and four cleaned bottles in the bottle bank, before driving little Johnny to Planet Carnival for the air conditioning. I need to sell this house and soon!

Can’t wait to get to Brighton – see you there.

Rx

This is Kent Calling

2006-07-21T09:56:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

On my journey through London yesterday the announcer at London Bridge tube station took time out from telling us to move down the platform, stand behind the yellow line and stop being so mardy, to encourage us to have a bottle of water with us at all times to avoid dehydration as the temperature will reach 35 degrees today. I liked his concern though and it caused at least one spontaneous conversation to break out amongst the gloomy city folk.

I was in London on my way to Wrexham to interview a race walking Olympic gold medallist who really did get dehydrated during the Rome Olympic Games in 1960, he was in the lead with only 8km of 20km to go and then he was on his face on the ground.

I booked a wake up call last night for 6am – the person on the other end of the phone said they could do 5.55am or 6.05am which caught me off guard and I spent ages considering my options. I really did want 6.00am.

I was pleased to find myself awake at 5.40am so that I would be able to take the call wide awake! But then dissasterously fell into a deep sleep and woke to the sound of lively jazz piano playing in the hotel lobby of my five star hotel somewhere exotic– then woke to the sound of the phone ringing; answered it with a ner...er...

When I got home I was so knackered that I sat and watched any old rubbish on the telly and I managed to catch a woman in her sixties, lower m/c, kindly, delicate looking husband leaning on her arm, being interviewed on the local news (cat up tree-dog down ditch!) last night.
The subject, not surprisingly was immigrants (always to be confused with asylum seekers/foreigners/terrorists/convicted criminals etc.) and she said that she thought “we had got enough now and we shouldn’t have anymore." She said it so sweetly and with so little malice, that I thought she might be talking about biscuits. What did she mean by enough? Has she carried a figure around in her head for years, and now, privvy to numbers on immigration the rest of us don’t have, she finds her personal target reached. Or does she “feel” that there are enough – it only takes one poorly clothed, differently coloured, stuttering english, confused looking neighbour to bring some parts of the south east to a halt.

It must have been somewhere in Kent – I have been got twice in Kent in 6 months by Radio: the first guy asked me to tell a joke he had written down which was un pc I dutifully obliged and then he asked me to say it again “with more oomph”! Why did I say it again? The second bloke wanted my opinion on the “hundred minute bible” I felt so churlish after my “I’m an atheist – so I don’t care “ that I followed it up with a feeble “but there are some good stories in the bible so...”, but he had wondered off by then. This compares favourably though to my response to a tv crew during the queens “annus horribilis”. On picking up the guardian newspaper from Smiths in Victoria station, the interviewer asked, “do you think that the media should be able to criticise the royal family?”, my dashing response was: “they’re up there saying what they want so people down here should be able to say what we want” – what, what, what!? I swear I could see him thinking the word “drivel”. I told myself off (out loud like my dad) all the way to Bromley, and then tried to catch news bulletins all day just to check they hadn’t used it.

Jesus + Wedding Bells

2006-07-19T20:32:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

I know this is summer because i am sneezing like a bastard, I have swollen eyes, its too hot for people over 25 and our neighbours are having a bar b que or is it bbq, barbed cue, barbie que? Never knew how to spell it, which probably is an indication to us northern europeans that we shouldn’t bother. Our back yard – or garden as our house spec on our estate agents web site - says – is engulfed in lighter fuelled smoke, I look forward to popping over later for some food poisoning and knocker freezing mind numbing conversation.

I remember travelling to south london one time, (from north of the river mind - and with children by the way), after watching the dark clouds turn to rain we guests retreated inside a very small kitchen to watch our host burn the food with one hand and gamely fight the wind and rain with an umbrella in his other. His name was (and is) Howard and he does a fantastic impression of a pig being killed when he is very very drunk.

Anna has just asked me who made God – thank you St. James. I do remember Becky becoming devout when she was eight and she had to fight off atheist attacks from me, craig, stan, and even archie aged three (“shut up becky poo poo bum”), but at least it wasn’t school induced.

Apparently Mrs Ash of Daisy Class, not Lilac Class which is Anna’s, but Izzy’s class. Izzy is coming to the party on Friday and she is the elder sister of Milly and Felix, but her mum don’t speak to me any more because I said I thought the 11 plus system was unfair, but no but yeah... are you keeping up? Anyway, Mrs Ash told her that the Lord made us, and the chicken and egg conundrum that this threw up had been on Anna's mind all day. Anyway she says she is a believer, and what am I to do? I can’t compete with Mrs Ash let alone her Class teacher Mrs Grace – you can’t compete with Mrs Grace from Lilac Class.

We went to Paul and Jan’s wedding on Saturday, which ironically, nearly made me a believer. The sun shone all day, it was held in a beautiful chocolate box village in a wonderful church, surrounded by higgeldy piggeldy medieval houses, the bells rang out – people wore white and I didn’t fall over in my high heels, although I did sink into the mud as I backed away from the oncoming happy couple. It was just me and Craig – our wonderful friends had Anna and Mike all day and dropped and picked us up from the wedding – so we owe them.

We cadged a lift from the Church to the reception with a woman who recognised me because “you look so much like your Mum”. The light banter about Paul and Jan’s lucky chance to meet and find true love the second time around, took a bit of a battering for the three very long miles of country road when the mystery Woman delivered her life story. This went along the lines, he left me for a twenty one year old and now I have debt and no life and the worlds full of lucky bastards... It was quite tricky to know what to say – Craig opted for staring out of the window really hard, I went for the “well I hope you...and if... but no... absolutely..oh dear yes, yes I know. “

We kind of avoided her when we got to the Barn.

We had lovely food, wine, wine, food and wine and cried a lot, and by the time mum and dad turned up for the evening do I was quite merry. I managed not to offend anyone and when our mate came to pick us up I loved the world. When we got home we talked at our friends and I ate – apparently- an old chip shop pasty and pickled egg. That's what I call heaven.

Love Rx

Jordan

2006-07-18T19:26:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

Bit of a faux pas this morning standing outside the nursery with other mothers. If I am not having some part of my house done up (which I never am) and I am not eagerly discussing how to get around the catchment area rule to send my child to the better school (which I never do) then the best thing to do is to limit conversation to the weather.

I should have stuck to it this morning. But without thinking I joined a conversation about Jordan and said that I thought the politician from there was great on Newsnight last night about the whole Lebanese, Hezbollah, Israel thing. I said he was really steady and calm but brilliant in his analysis. Turns out that the Jordan in question was the big titted one; felt like a big tit myself. They thought I was making a joke – honestly – but I wasn’t.

Came home, asked Mike if I could borrow the telly to watch lunchtime news, but he was quite keen to catch Lazy Town. Think I better learn to love DIY.

Last Weekend's "Fun" with the Children

2006-07-16T11:59:00.000Z

Dear Marianne,

Saturday

Dropped Anna at RUNAROUND for Saskia’s 5^th Birthday Party. One and a half hours of violent running around and jumping on soft things, going down slides and arguing with friends, followed by half an hour of chicken nuggets and e numbers.

Whilst she was there went with “the lads” (all 4) to pub. Bravely sat outside in cold wind counting seconds until the sun appeared from behind dark black clouds.

Play area wet and broken, but boys enjoyed it – mike was thrilled to be out with big brovers Archie leading him over dangerous precipices, Stan teaching the correct rules of contact 4 on the life size model in the beer garden. Mike knelt on bird poo – so I decided he would get bird flu and we would all die – but soon recovered my senses when I realised that, what with the ice caps and all - the world would end before then any way.

After drinking our beers, coke and eating peanuts off a slightly stained outdoor table we went to the village butchers – family run and organic – bought stuff and five very flaky (not emotionally speaking) warm sausage rolls – yum.

Picked up a tired and pink Anna – with pink balloon, Easter egg and book in tow. This is Anna's 6th party invite this summer – I only remember going to two parties before I was fifteen and you got jelly and sandwiches and scared by “the uncle” and, oh, sandwiches.

Came home , made tea for Mike. His favourite at the moment is poo sandwiches (marmite actually, but whatever makes him eat!) Played with fireman Sam and tom the helicopter pilot – no, not a porno fantasy fulfilled – Mike’s birthday presents.

Food and bed for Anna and “TV bollocks”, as Craig calls anything not drama or news or documentary, with the big boyz until I began to fall asleep and sent them – wide awake – to bed.

Went to bed.

Sunday

We piled children on top of each other in the car and drove to place of fun in the country.

Animals – watch out for diseases. Huge slides – watch out! Trampolines – no somersaulting – lots of kids somersaulting. Soft play areas for small children – more RUNAROUND madness.

After fun we had COLA drinks and TEA FLAVOURED water. The kids loved it – I felt ill with worry. Ice –creams and home – Mike fell asleep sideways and had ¾ of the car seats.

There were lots of questions about melting ice caps which I felt unable to answer properly due to ignorance and fear. Tried changing subject matter to dirty travelling songs.

Home – knackered – Anna and Michael put us to bed…

Monday (today)

Dragged body out of bed and went to friend’s house with Anna and Mike for fun – screaming, sweets, messing up someone else’s house – lovely.

Archie and Stan gutted to discover that my suggestion for morning at swimming pool for them has been overruled by father’s suggestion that they do homework.

Stan buckles down to "Christians and other Religions" and Archie works on Greek Gods – removed all sharp objects in case either of them took me up on my other suggestion that it would be more interesting and educational for them to poke their eyes out with sharp sticks.

Back for lunch – nobody hungry. Which means they will all be hungry at 3ish – just as I take Anna to the Town Hall to see HI-5 - . You know “Hi -5 in the air, let’s do it together – yeah!!” I think I may need the sharp sticks.

Love Rx