Everywhere you look - particularly at this time of year - we're surrounded by aspiration. Glossy magazine covers flaunt their wares with tantalising catchlines, implying that you too could look this good if only you'd remembered to marry a banker/manage a hedge fund. Newspaper articles list handy guides to what you should buy your loved ones (or what you should covet....) TV adverts portray people (let's be more accurate here, it's always the women) efficiently ticking off their Christmas present shopping list and getting a buy-one-get-one-free into the bargain.
There have been days this month, in the run up to the big X, when I got sucked into all this and utterly overspent. Then felt conned. Cue row with my beloved (this is not verbatim): "How come we're overdrawn? It's not even Christmas yet.."
"Because, for once, I've been super-efficient and bought nearly everyone's gifts already. What do you think we should give your Mum?"
"Couldn't you have kept an eye on our statement and tranferred money across from our savings?"
"Maybe we should communicate better on what we're both spending....like those football tickets you bought. Better still, you do the Christmas shopping!" *SMUG AURA VANISHES - STOMP OFF IN HUFF*
But we forget that this is meant to be all about giving. Refreshingly, my kids' letter to Santa this year was fairly modest. But yesterday, the eight-year-old asked "just" for an iPad! Just! He meant he'd forego lots of little presents for one big one & had no idea what £450 meant, relatively.
Which is why this website caught my eye. It's about an organisation based in Oxford where members commit to giving away 10 per cent of their income. I have nothing to do with them so this is no plug. Not many of us are Gates-like philanthropists who can afford to give away 10 per cent of our income, especially on the day, it's just been announced, unemployment has risen to 2.5 million in the UK.
But today, too, the World Bank's development fund has said it will cost 49.3 billion dollars (37 billion euros) to provide loans to poor nations during its 2011-2014 campaign. So there's a bigger need out there. Without being holier than thou, to learn that we could all be more efficient with giving by choosing a charity that is better run or that is involved with work that saves more lives intrigues me.
Take a look and happy - row free! - Christmas to one and all.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
BMB - A CHRISTMAS CAROL
This post was written in response to a thread suggested by British Mummy Bloggers #BMB
A TROPICAL CHRISTMAS PAST
My most memorable Christmas was spent on the islands of Vanuatu as a teenager. Never heard of it? I hadn't either. But my dad worked at the agricultural college there for a couple of years in Port Vila, the capital. I say that glibly but acknowledge how fortunate we were to have had that experience. Swimming, sunbathing, learning to scuba dive on Hideaway Island, barbecues on the beach and giggling at some of the Pidgin English phrases we'd learnt. Having previously been based in sub-Saharan northern Nigeria for five years, while we four daughters did the boarding school thing, the change of scene was doubly welcome. It was hot, humid, prone to cyclones and earth tremors and a long, long way away!
As a 17-year-old supposedly studying for my A Levels in between all that sun and sea, I travelled out there with my two younger sisters via Dubai or Singapore, then Sydney, sometimes Brisbane, Noumea and then a tiny 'elastic band' style plane to Port Vila. We wiled away the minutes waiting for our connecting flights by racing up and down the travelators (I'm sure fellow passengers were impressed!) or spending our pocket money on Duty Free goodies like M & Ms - which you couldn't get in the UK at the time. Once we finally got there, ignorant about the likes of DVT, the heat hit us in the face like a sauna and the jet lag was something else!
This particular year, my dad was given a suckling pig by some of his colleagues so that we could celebrate it traditional Ni-Vanuatu style. We dug a pit in the very fertile soil (you pick up these details when your dad's a tropical agriculture nerd!), tossed in some stones and lit a fire on top of them. While that was taking hold, my mum prepared the meat. A great cook with a well-thumbed Mrs Beeton tome, I don't think she found a recipe for this, but someone at the Corona women's society (like the W.I.) probably gave her the heads up. She sprinkled salt on the outside of the pork and stuffed it with apricots and prunes to give it a tropical flavour, then wrapped it in banana leaves. The bundle was balanced on top of the hot stones and covered in soil to trap the heat like an underground barbecue. Then the big wait began.....
It secretly simmered for hours as it was too hot to eat a big meal in the middle of the day anyway. I remember prancing around excitedly in my t-shirt night dress for ages and then we busied ourselves unwrapping presents, ringing the grandparents and my older sister back home to share festive greetings and trying to figure out what time we had to tune in to the World Service for the Queen's Speech. Of course, we nagged Mum constantly, "Is it ready? Is it ready?" and dad would go over and prod it with the gardening fork and look like he knew what he was doing! Then, finally, the moment came. We could see if it had worked. What if it was inedible? The soil might have got into the package or maybe it was still raw. The dangers of salmonella! Whose idea was it to put prunes, of all things, inside it anyway?
Well, it was the most tender meat I've ever tasted and, prunes aside (literally, on my plate anyway!), it was a good job we liked it because there was so much left over it almost filled the freezer. And somehow, a traditional turkey wouldn't have worked in those sunny climes without snow and carols, sherry and mince pies. Our secretly simmered suckling pig was super special. And I think that's what Christmas is about. Not getting your family and friends exactly what they want as presents but making memories. From the sentimental Christmas tree decorations your kids have crafted to the carefully chosen crackers (we've gone for posh London ones this year) and table decorations, it's about setting the scene for the anticipation of something special. Then waiting and waiting until, finally, the big moment arrives. Merry Christmas fellow bloggers!
A TROPICAL CHRISTMAS PAST
My most memorable Christmas was spent on the islands of Vanuatu as a teenager. Never heard of it? I hadn't either. But my dad worked at the agricultural college there for a couple of years in Port Vila, the capital. I say that glibly but acknowledge how fortunate we were to have had that experience. Swimming, sunbathing, learning to scuba dive on Hideaway Island, barbecues on the beach and giggling at some of the Pidgin English phrases we'd learnt. Having previously been based in sub-Saharan northern Nigeria for five years, while we four daughters did the boarding school thing, the change of scene was doubly welcome. It was hot, humid, prone to cyclones and earth tremors and a long, long way away!
As a 17-year-old supposedly studying for my A Levels in between all that sun and sea, I travelled out there with my two younger sisters via Dubai or Singapore, then Sydney, sometimes Brisbane, Noumea and then a tiny 'elastic band' style plane to Port Vila. We wiled away the minutes waiting for our connecting flights by racing up and down the travelators (I'm sure fellow passengers were impressed!) or spending our pocket money on Duty Free goodies like M & Ms - which you couldn't get in the UK at the time. Once we finally got there, ignorant about the likes of DVT, the heat hit us in the face like a sauna and the jet lag was something else!
This particular year, my dad was given a suckling pig by some of his colleagues so that we could celebrate it traditional Ni-Vanuatu style. We dug a pit in the very fertile soil (you pick up these details when your dad's a tropical agriculture nerd!), tossed in some stones and lit a fire on top of them. While that was taking hold, my mum prepared the meat. A great cook with a well-thumbed Mrs Beeton tome, I don't think she found a recipe for this, but someone at the Corona women's society (like the W.I.) probably gave her the heads up. She sprinkled salt on the outside of the pork and stuffed it with apricots and prunes to give it a tropical flavour, then wrapped it in banana leaves. The bundle was balanced on top of the hot stones and covered in soil to trap the heat like an underground barbecue. Then the big wait began.....
It secretly simmered for hours as it was too hot to eat a big meal in the middle of the day anyway. I remember prancing around excitedly in my t-shirt night dress for ages and then we busied ourselves unwrapping presents, ringing the grandparents and my older sister back home to share festive greetings and trying to figure out what time we had to tune in to the World Service for the Queen's Speech. Of course, we nagged Mum constantly, "Is it ready? Is it ready?" and dad would go over and prod it with the gardening fork and look like he knew what he was doing! Then, finally, the moment came. We could see if it had worked. What if it was inedible? The soil might have got into the package or maybe it was still raw. The dangers of salmonella! Whose idea was it to put prunes, of all things, inside it anyway?
Well, it was the most tender meat I've ever tasted and, prunes aside (literally, on my plate anyway!), it was a good job we liked it because there was so much left over it almost filled the freezer. And somehow, a traditional turkey wouldn't have worked in those sunny climes without snow and carols, sherry and mince pies. Our secretly simmered suckling pig was super special. And I think that's what Christmas is about. Not getting your family and friends exactly what they want as presents but making memories. From the sentimental Christmas tree decorations your kids have crafted to the carefully chosen crackers (we've gone for posh London ones this year) and table decorations, it's about setting the scene for the anticipation of something special. Then waiting and waiting until, finally, the big moment arrives. Merry Christmas fellow bloggers!
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
THE SAVVY SOCCER MUM
Ok, so you're a mother or father of boys. Welcome to the fold! Especially if, like me, that makes you the solitary female in your household - a footy mad household at that!
Fortunately, I was a tomboy and played as a child. So, welcome too, to anyone who has football-loving daughters. Thank goodness they're able to play the game now, whereas in. my day, there was uproar when I shunned netball for the beautiful game in PE lessons. I even went so far as to buy loads of bubble gum packets with each week's pocket money so I could fill my sticker book with pictures of Bob Latchford (Everton?) and Kevin Keegan!
Now, my children play - and boy is it a serious business! It took a while to understand the intricacies of being offside or the variations on the rules that apply to Under 10s teams. But I've come a long way since I first signed up my eldest son to play for a local youth team. So, here are the mud-splattered tips that I've picked up on the way.
1) GIVE THEM A HEAD START
Whether you sign them up to a local Saturday fun club like SCL or PSR Coaching or maybe a local professional team has a kids' coaching section that comes to your children's school, it helps to get in plenty of practice in the garden or the local playing fields beforehand. This gives you a chance to explain the basic rules, instil a bit of "it's only a game" ethos into them, before they flounce off at every miss-kick and might mean you have to be keeper - always a joy! Especially as they learn to put real power behind their shots and you end up winded, eyes watering, congratulating them on their skills!
2) THE NEXT STAGE
It doesn't take long for them to outgrow the Saturday coaching sessions - maybe by the age of six or seven. Then they'll increasingly want to play matches rather than have endless skills sessions and this is where the fun really starts - for them & for you as chauffeur, kit provider and chief bottle washer! Via word of mouth and Google, find out where your nearest local youth team trains. This is of huge consequence because you'll be gaining a collossal carbon footprint as it is traipsing up and down the county to weekend matches. So to be able to pop down the road to weekly or twice weekly training sessions is a bonus - I wish I'd thought of this before I signed the dotted line!
3) CHIN UP!
Once you've chosen a team, phone up and find out when the team trials are taking place. These are usually sometime in the summer to prepare for the start of the season in September. But bear in mind that there are some really talented kids out there and your child might not get selected. Don't give up though! Children move away or get scouted to play for a club that's higher in the league so try out for other clubs with lots of teams in different divisions to suit all abilities.
4) RULES FOR GROWN UPS
The aim of the game is for your child to learn about fair play, losing and winning gracefully, sticking to the rules and to, hopefully, ward off adding to the obesity statistics into the bargain. So it helps if you're a calming influence on the sidelines rather than a ranting, swearing ref-hating crisis on legs! There are, in fact, strict guidelines on how supporters should behave while their child, niece, nephew or neighbour is playing so bear these in mind or the opposition coach can have a word with your team's coach and it all gets a bit embarassing. There is also a fee to pay, kit to buy and strict guidelines - similar to adult football - on your child moving to another club etc.
5) AL FRESCO
It goes without saying that you'll need boots, gloves, hats, coats and a flask either of the hip variety or containing something caffeinated to keep you going while you cheer on your side. Or wait for play to start. Or warm up after learning how to build the goal posts. But bear in mind that while the male of the species can make do with an overgrown tree, few local football grounds have decent facilities of the lavatorial kind! It's worth recce'ing local pubs and coffee shops in advance. They're also a good place to venture too if you can't take watching anymore - especially if your team is losing!
6) THE SILVER LINING
Ok, so you're out of pocket; you've lost your weekend lie-ins and seem to be perpetually washing horrible nylon fabric or trying to get shin pads clean (at this, I am STILL at a loss!) but, with any luck, you've made some new friends amongst the other MADS - the parental version of WAGS. But most of all, there is nothing like the glory of watching your child revel in the fact that they've just scored, or their team has just won, or they've saved a certain goal or gained the man-of-the-match trophy or, if all else fails, gained recognition for fair play. For that moment, to coin a phrase, it's all worth it!
Fortunately, I was a tomboy and played as a child. So, welcome too, to anyone who has football-loving daughters. Thank goodness they're able to play the game now, whereas in. my day, there was uproar when I shunned netball for the beautiful game in PE lessons. I even went so far as to buy loads of bubble gum packets with each week's pocket money so I could fill my sticker book with pictures of Bob Latchford (Everton?) and Kevin Keegan!
Now, my children play - and boy is it a serious business! It took a while to understand the intricacies of being offside or the variations on the rules that apply to Under 10s teams. But I've come a long way since I first signed up my eldest son to play for a local youth team. So, here are the mud-splattered tips that I've picked up on the way.
1) GIVE THEM A HEAD START
Whether you sign them up to a local Saturday fun club like SCL or PSR Coaching or maybe a local professional team has a kids' coaching section that comes to your children's school, it helps to get in plenty of practice in the garden or the local playing fields beforehand. This gives you a chance to explain the basic rules, instil a bit of "it's only a game" ethos into them, before they flounce off at every miss-kick and might mean you have to be keeper - always a joy! Especially as they learn to put real power behind their shots and you end up winded, eyes watering, congratulating them on their skills!
2) THE NEXT STAGE
It doesn't take long for them to outgrow the Saturday coaching sessions - maybe by the age of six or seven. Then they'll increasingly want to play matches rather than have endless skills sessions and this is where the fun really starts - for them & for you as chauffeur, kit provider and chief bottle washer! Via word of mouth and Google, find out where your nearest local youth team trains. This is of huge consequence because you'll be gaining a collossal carbon footprint as it is traipsing up and down the county to weekend matches. So to be able to pop down the road to weekly or twice weekly training sessions is a bonus - I wish I'd thought of this before I signed the dotted line!
3) CHIN UP!
Once you've chosen a team, phone up and find out when the team trials are taking place. These are usually sometime in the summer to prepare for the start of the season in September. But bear in mind that there are some really talented kids out there and your child might not get selected. Don't give up though! Children move away or get scouted to play for a club that's higher in the league so try out for other clubs with lots of teams in different divisions to suit all abilities.
4) RULES FOR GROWN UPS
The aim of the game is for your child to learn about fair play, losing and winning gracefully, sticking to the rules and to, hopefully, ward off adding to the obesity statistics into the bargain. So it helps if you're a calming influence on the sidelines rather than a ranting, swearing ref-hating crisis on legs! There are, in fact, strict guidelines on how supporters should behave while their child, niece, nephew or neighbour is playing so bear these in mind or the opposition coach can have a word with your team's coach and it all gets a bit embarassing. There is also a fee to pay, kit to buy and strict guidelines - similar to adult football - on your child moving to another club etc.
5) AL FRESCO
It goes without saying that you'll need boots, gloves, hats, coats and a flask either of the hip variety or containing something caffeinated to keep you going while you cheer on your side. Or wait for play to start. Or warm up after learning how to build the goal posts. But bear in mind that while the male of the species can make do with an overgrown tree, few local football grounds have decent facilities of the lavatorial kind! It's worth recce'ing local pubs and coffee shops in advance. They're also a good place to venture too if you can't take watching anymore - especially if your team is losing!
6) THE SILVER LINING
Ok, so you're out of pocket; you've lost your weekend lie-ins and seem to be perpetually washing horrible nylon fabric or trying to get shin pads clean (at this, I am STILL at a loss!) but, with any luck, you've made some new friends amongst the other MADS - the parental version of WAGS. But most of all, there is nothing like the glory of watching your child revel in the fact that they've just scored, or their team has just won, or they've saved a certain goal or gained the man-of-the-match trophy or, if all else fails, gained recognition for fair play. For that moment, to coin a phrase, it's all worth it!
Monday, November 15, 2010
ELEMENTARY
Love, love, love Sherlock Holmes! Much as I struggled to read the books, I adored Julian Barnes’ Arthur and George, which gave an insight into the real-life genius of author Arthur Conan Doyle. So I watched the new TV drama series from a new perspective.
The modern take on the original plots using new techniques like blogging and text messages shown as subtitles on screen was just brilliant.
As for the casting, the chocolate-voiced, quirky, stylish Benedict Cumberbatch was perfect as Sherlock. However, that chocolate voice had a lot to answer for as it very nearly caused a cancelled interview for telly land: a throat infection meant Benedict was quite hoarse the night before he was due to grace our sofa. Thankfully, he eventually decided he was up to it and the script introducing him, rather than one of the series' writers, was quickly reinstated.
Martin Freeman's Dr John Watson, who had been invalided home from the war in Afghanistan, brought the series bang up to date. They meet while Watson is looking for affordable accommodation in London and an old mutual friend introduces them.
I feel sure Mr Conan Doyle would have approved of both the casting and the modern interpretation of his stories, and his descendants seem to have given their approval.
But, whatever I've called this post, at no point in the original stories does Sherlock say "elementary my dear Watson" and these films remain faithful to that. Maybe this will make more people want to read the original Conan Doyle books too? Meanwhile, there’s a competition where have a go at writing something yourself here - click on The Contest.
The modern take on the original plots using new techniques like blogging and text messages shown as subtitles on screen was just brilliant.
As for the casting, the chocolate-voiced, quirky, stylish Benedict Cumberbatch was perfect as Sherlock. However, that chocolate voice had a lot to answer for as it very nearly caused a cancelled interview for telly land: a throat infection meant Benedict was quite hoarse the night before he was due to grace our sofa. Thankfully, he eventually decided he was up to it and the script introducing him, rather than one of the series' writers, was quickly reinstated.
Martin Freeman's Dr John Watson, who had been invalided home from the war in Afghanistan, brought the series bang up to date. They meet while Watson is looking for affordable accommodation in London and an old mutual friend introduces them.
As in the original Conan Doyle stories, Watson is the story-teller and, get this: his character writes up all the cases in his blog, just as Watson wrote up the cases that formed the original books. But this Watson is horrified, at first, by Sherlock's ego and by the way he treats a dead body like a game.
Director, Steven Moffat, of Dr Who fame, said at the time: "Benedict is playing a cold, almost alien-like man in Sherlock and John Watson is the person who humanises him - they are a unit together.
"Whilst other detectives have cases, Holmes has adventures. Sherlock isn't a drama about police procedure - the police are involved but the cases themselves are Sherlock's and he's only interested in the strange ones."
However, it's not all doom and gloom. Moffat continues: "The original books are funny. If you read the Sherlock Holmes stories, the interaction between the two main characters is always funny and I hope we've captured some element of that. Of course it's funny - he's a weird genius, not an ordinary genius."
However, it's not all doom and gloom. Moffat continues: "The original books are funny. If you read the Sherlock Holmes stories, the interaction between the two main characters is always funny and I hope we've captured some element of that. Of course it's funny - he's a weird genius, not an ordinary genius."
But, whatever I've called this post, at no point in the original stories does Sherlock say "elementary my dear Watson" and these films remain faithful to that. Maybe this will make more people want to read the original Conan Doyle books too? Meanwhile, there’s a competition where have a go at writing something yourself here - click on The Contest.
COMMON PEOPLE
I was thrilled to meet one of my musical heroes, Jarvis Cocker, in April this year.
He wanted to 'live like common people' and famously sang about the girl who studied at St Martin's College. I always thought that song was autobiographical and it turns out it was. Jarvis was himself a student at that art and design school in London, graduating with a 2:2 in fine art, before he went on to great success as the lead singer of Pulp and as a figurehead for 90s Britpop. Now he wants to see more children engaged with art and is encouraging them to visit museums.
He’s launched Culture Connect, a partnership of 15 galleries and museums in London, Paris and Brussels. Artists, students from St Martins College of Art and Design and local school children marked the event by creating a modern mural at St Pancras International station depicting world famous works of art from the galleries - including the TATE and Les Galeries Nationales in Paris.
Jarvis hosted an arts series for Channel 4 - "Journeys into the Outside”, which I haven’t seen but it involved following him while he took a trip across the globe, meeting so-called "outsider artists", people who create wacky and wonderful works of art; trying to understand what compelled them to do so. What a great job! But it turns out Jarvis doesn’t actually like going to art galleries, so he understands kids’ reluctance to do so.
In an interview with the Independent in 1999, he said: "They remind me of going to church - the formal atmosphere, people looking at things on the wall, attempting to get some kind of mystical revelation from them."
So he thinks they should be less formal and more creative. In a later interview, for Pitchfork, he: "I want to have as many events that involve some level of participation from the audience as possible. Because I do want to have that feeling that people are actively involved in something, rather than just consuming something. I suppose because it's such a dominant capitalist society now, everything becomes a consumer product. And I don't think that's really appropriate to the creative arts, really."
That explains why, in 2009, ahead of the release his new album, Further Complications, Jarvis and his band installed themselves in an art gallery in Paris for five days. Each day, Cocker and his musicians performed a variety of different tasks. These included soundtracking a relaxation class, inviting local musicians to join them in a jam, and arranging activities with local school-children. The events were organised around Jarvis's public rehearsals for his forthcoming live dates. This was all to explore what would happen if he invited an audience to interact with him and the music. Now something like that, even me and my anti-cultural kids might go and see.
In his interview for BBC Breakfast, he said: "TV, films and the internet may be great at showing you what something looks like, but they're no substitute for seeing them with your own eyes. Some of the world's greatest treasures are housed in museums and galleries in Paris, London and Brussels and I want to encourage people to explore these rich collections."
He has a seven-year-old son, Albert, with his french ex-wife. He's also talked in the past about feeling guilty about just sticking his son in front of a Walt Disney film, when he needed some peace and quiet, because he doesn't think that's how film, art etc, should be consumed. We’re all guilty of that, I’m sure. But we can't always be out at cultural museums and art galleries. For one thing, it's tough to tempt a child to venture there. While many are free to visit, they do need to do something about their ‘stuffy’ reputation and I think they’re starting to get that message. My friend worked for the V&A for years and devised educational backpacks for kids to walk round the exhibitions with, laden with quizzes and things to find. They’ve definitely taken off elsewhere too. So in this era of digital media, it’s worth us all taking the time to visit real relics you can see, sometimes touch, and walk round occasionally. It inspires future creativity and was build to last in the olden days, not like todays disposable 'stuff’.
He wanted to 'live like common people' and famously sang about the girl who studied at St Martin's College. I always thought that song was autobiographical and it turns out it was. Jarvis was himself a student at that art and design school in London, graduating with a 2:2 in fine art, before he went on to great success as the lead singer of Pulp and as a figurehead for 90s Britpop. Now he wants to see more children engaged with art and is encouraging them to visit museums.
He’s launched Culture Connect, a partnership of 15 galleries and museums in London, Paris and Brussels. Artists, students from St Martins College of Art and Design and local school children marked the event by creating a modern mural at St Pancras International station depicting world famous works of art from the galleries - including the TATE and Les Galeries Nationales in Paris.
Jarvis hosted an arts series for Channel 4 - "Journeys into the Outside”, which I haven’t seen but it involved following him while he took a trip across the globe, meeting so-called "outsider artists", people who create wacky and wonderful works of art; trying to understand what compelled them to do so. What a great job! But it turns out Jarvis doesn’t actually like going to art galleries, so he understands kids’ reluctance to do so.
In an interview with the Independent in 1999, he said: "They remind me of going to church - the formal atmosphere, people looking at things on the wall, attempting to get some kind of mystical revelation from them."
So he thinks they should be less formal and more creative. In a later interview, for Pitchfork, he: "I want to have as many events that involve some level of participation from the audience as possible. Because I do want to have that feeling that people are actively involved in something, rather than just consuming something. I suppose because it's such a dominant capitalist society now, everything becomes a consumer product. And I don't think that's really appropriate to the creative arts, really."
That explains why, in 2009, ahead of the release his new album, Further Complications, Jarvis and his band installed themselves in an art gallery in Paris for five days. Each day, Cocker and his musicians performed a variety of different tasks. These included soundtracking a relaxation class, inviting local musicians to join them in a jam, and arranging activities with local school-children. The events were organised around Jarvis's public rehearsals for his forthcoming live dates. This was all to explore what would happen if he invited an audience to interact with him and the music. Now something like that, even me and my anti-cultural kids might go and see.
In his interview for BBC Breakfast, he said: "TV, films and the internet may be great at showing you what something looks like, but they're no substitute for seeing them with your own eyes. Some of the world's greatest treasures are housed in museums and galleries in Paris, London and Brussels and I want to encourage people to explore these rich collections."
He has a seven-year-old son, Albert, with his french ex-wife. He's also talked in the past about feeling guilty about just sticking his son in front of a Walt Disney film, when he needed some peace and quiet, because he doesn't think that's how film, art etc, should be consumed. We’re all guilty of that, I’m sure. But we can't always be out at cultural museums and art galleries. For one thing, it's tough to tempt a child to venture there. While many are free to visit, they do need to do something about their ‘stuffy’ reputation and I think they’re starting to get that message. My friend worked for the V&A for years and devised educational backpacks for kids to walk round the exhibitions with, laden with quizzes and things to find. They’ve definitely taken off elsewhere too. So in this era of digital media, it’s worth us all taking the time to visit real relics you can see, sometimes touch, and walk round occasionally. It inspires future creativity and was build to last in the olden days, not like todays disposable 'stuff’.
TOUGH CALL
Five soldiers were killed by a 'rogue' Afghan police officer they were training in 2009. The soldier opened fire while they were all on a break at a checkpoint in the Nad-e'Ali District of Helmand Province. The divided loyalty he must have felt and their deaths called into question NATO's strategy of working with Afghans to help them run their own country.
BBC Breakfast interviewed Christina Lamb, the Sunday Times' foreign correspondent, because she had had a change of heart over the issue, having previously thought the strategy was justified .
She said: "I've been going there, back and forth, for years and I've changed my mind.
The worse the situation has got, the more successful the Taliban has been in invading the occupying army. The strategy of local mentoring has become a recruiting tool for the Taliban rather than the opposite. A credible Government needs to be able to sit back and try to find another way out of this, no matter how difficult all of this is.
"There was never much trust but now no British soldiers are going to want to work with Afghan soldiers. Where Afghan police have been trained and they go on to hold some territory, there have been cases where they've been raping the young boys of people in the village so local people have had to turn against the very people they thought they could trust.
There's been 30 years of war there so many local people haven't had an education - it's difficult to find the quality of people to recruit {to the ANP} and take on the job.
President Obama has been talking about sending more troops but if people don't believe the Government is doing anything for them, and the local police might be more of a threat to them than the Taliban, you're never going to be successful in containing insurgents.”
For anyone close to the British military, as my local community is, the thought that serving soldiers might be killed by someone they thought was on their side is just terrifying. Here’s hoping our involvement in this very complex war is over soon.
BBC Breakfast interviewed Christina Lamb, the Sunday Times' foreign correspondent, because she had had a change of heart over the issue, having previously thought the strategy was justified .
She said: "I've been going there, back and forth, for years and I've changed my mind.
The worse the situation has got, the more successful the Taliban has been in invading the occupying army. The strategy of local mentoring has become a recruiting tool for the Taliban rather than the opposite. A credible Government needs to be able to sit back and try to find another way out of this, no matter how difficult all of this is.
"There was never much trust but now no British soldiers are going to want to work with Afghan soldiers. Where Afghan police have been trained and they go on to hold some territory, there have been cases where they've been raping the young boys of people in the village so local people have had to turn against the very people they thought they could trust.
There's been 30 years of war there so many local people haven't had an education - it's difficult to find the quality of people to recruit {to the ANP} and take on the job.
President Obama has been talking about sending more troops but if people don't believe the Government is doing anything for them, and the local police might be more of a threat to them than the Taliban, you're never going to be successful in containing insurgents.”
For anyone close to the British military, as my local community is, the thought that serving soldiers might be killed by someone they thought was on their side is just terrifying. Here’s hoping our involvement in this very complex war is over soon.
Monday, October 18, 2010
BOOKS FOR TEENAGE GIRLS
Anything by author Louise Rennison would be a good addition to your birthday present drawer/Christmas present list (if it's not too early for that) if you have daughters.
She came in to Television Centre in July to talk about the end of the series of 10 diary-style confession books that had made her name. They featured 14-year-old Georgia Nicholson - most notably in "Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging" which was made into the film titled "Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging".
But her latest book is a departure. "Withering Tights" features new character Tallulah Casey. Tallulah is at a Performing Arts College in Yorkshire for the summer - something Louise has experienced, having been slated for her depiction of an embryo by her own tutor! And the book explores Tallulah's antics.
Louise lives in Brighton but was brought up in a council house in Leeds and her family emigrated to New Zealand when she was 15. She then moved to London and worked as a play leader, dental nurse, did some travelling and then went to a performing arts course in Brighton.
She toured with her autobiographical show "Stevie Wonder Felt My Face" at Edinburgh Festival and it was made into a BBC2 special.
She has worked for Radio 4, Woman's Hour & the John Peel Show & has written for well-known comedians. And it's her style of writing that's made her a bestseller among the sort of teenage girls who are just starting to get obsessed with boys.
I love this description for instance: "Alex had everything a dream boy should have. Back, front, side. A head."
* The Georgia series has sold 1.7 million copies in the UK alone
* She was shortlisted for this year's Queen of Teen authors' prize alongside 9 others including Jacqueline Wilson and Cathy Cassidy.
* She previously won this (it's been going since 2008) & as it's decided upon by teenagers' nominations and an online vote, there's some kudos here.
* She says she loves hanging out with teenagers for her research - "the best fun known to humanity".
* Has great anecdote about living in NZ above the geothermal geezers that used to make their al fresco dining a table-lurching experience.
* On the website http://www.georgia-nicolson.co.uk/media/ she interacts with readers and there are several video clips of her chatting
* British comedian/actor Alan Davies plays Georgia's father in the film "Angus"
* There must have been issues around the title as the film was called "On the Bright Side, I'm now the Girlfriend of a Sex God" in the US.
* She talks about her own first boyfriend and the time she bleached her hair and some of it fell out (a scene repeated in "Angus").
* Publishers: HarperCollins
REVIEWS
On Angus: "Bridget Jones for teenagers - but funnier. Expect Potter-esque queues for the sequel."
On the Georgia Nicholson series: "Either these books make you chortle like a loon in loon pants or you live on another planet."
So, inspiration for writers and food for thought for readers.
She came in to Television Centre in July to talk about the end of the series of 10 diary-style confession books that had made her name. They featured 14-year-old Georgia Nicholson - most notably in "Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging" which was made into the film titled "Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging".
But her latest book is a departure. "Withering Tights" features new character Tallulah Casey. Tallulah is at a Performing Arts College in Yorkshire for the summer - something Louise has experienced, having been slated for her depiction of an embryo by her own tutor! And the book explores Tallulah's antics.
Louise lives in Brighton but was brought up in a council house in Leeds and her family emigrated to New Zealand when she was 15. She then moved to London and worked as a play leader, dental nurse, did some travelling and then went to a performing arts course in Brighton.
She toured with her autobiographical show "Stevie Wonder Felt My Face" at Edinburgh Festival and it was made into a BBC2 special.
She has worked for Radio 4, Woman's Hour & the John Peel Show & has written for well-known comedians. And it's her style of writing that's made her a bestseller among the sort of teenage girls who are just starting to get obsessed with boys.
I love this description for instance: "Alex had everything a dream boy should have. Back, front, side. A head."
* The Georgia series has sold 1.7 million copies in the UK alone
* She was shortlisted for this year's Queen of Teen authors' prize alongside 9 others including Jacqueline Wilson and Cathy Cassidy.
* She previously won this (it's been going since 2008) & as it's decided upon by teenagers' nominations and an online vote, there's some kudos here.
* She says she loves hanging out with teenagers for her research - "the best fun known to humanity".
* Has great anecdote about living in NZ above the geothermal geezers that used to make their al fresco dining a table-lurching experience.
* On the website http://www.georgia-nicolson.co.uk/media/ she interacts with readers and there are several video clips of her chatting
* British comedian/actor Alan Davies plays Georgia's father in the film "Angus"
* There must have been issues around the title as the film was called "On the Bright Side, I'm now the Girlfriend of a Sex God" in the US.
* She talks about her own first boyfriend and the time she bleached her hair and some of it fell out (a scene repeated in "Angus").
* Publishers: HarperCollins
REVIEWS
On Angus: "Bridget Jones for teenagers - but funnier. Expect Potter-esque queues for the sequel."
On the Georgia Nicholson series: "Either these books make you chortle like a loon in loon pants or you live on another planet."
So, inspiration for writers and food for thought for readers.
SUGAR GLIDERS
One of the strangest interviews I have ever set up, on September 14th 2009, involved arranging for a woman to come into the studio for a live interview with two of her sugar glider pets.
It was my first introduction to the joys of the notorious Risk Assessment form at my new employer. Oh boy, I thought filling in my tax return as a self-employed freelance was tricky. Here, you have to think of everything. Imagine the horror of a presenter being bitten by an unusual creature live on breakfast telly while viewers were munching their muesli?
I'd never heard of these creatures before but was soon to become semi-expert in their needs because the purpose of the item was to warn people against having them as pets - despite their cuteness.
For instance:
* They're liable to show their affection by jumping on your head (or down your top!)
* They are mostly awake at night
* They need a large cage to run around in.
Our interviewee, Marie Bannister, brought in Dinks whom she had looked after for six years.
She said: "They can live to around 15 so a lot of thought needs to go into a decision to have one as a pet. They need an indoor aviary-type structure really, as they can't cope with the British climate, with some logs in to make them feel like they're in their natural environment and the space to run around or to be able to glide.
"But they're nocturnal and make a lot of barking noise at night so they are not for sleep-lovers. Looking after them is much harder than say a hamster or anything like that. It's not easy to buy food for them from just any pet store. You have to give them live insects, locusts or mealworms, and I give them fresh fruit and vegetables, boiled eggs, bee pollen and nectar drinks."
It's thought the little creatures got into the pet trade after they were smuggled here and ended up in London Zoo in the 1800s. And they certainly are cute. But I’ll stick to my dogs for now….
Read more about them here
It was my first introduction to the joys of the notorious Risk Assessment form at my new employer. Oh boy, I thought filling in my tax return as a self-employed freelance was tricky. Here, you have to think of everything. Imagine the horror of a presenter being bitten by an unusual creature live on breakfast telly while viewers were munching their muesli?
I'd never heard of these creatures before but was soon to become semi-expert in their needs because the purpose of the item was to warn people against having them as pets - despite their cuteness.
For instance:
* They're liable to show their affection by jumping on your head (or down your top!)
* They are mostly awake at night
* They need a large cage to run around in.
Our interviewee, Marie Bannister, brought in Dinks whom she had looked after for six years.
She said: "They can live to around 15 so a lot of thought needs to go into a decision to have one as a pet. They need an indoor aviary-type structure really, as they can't cope with the British climate, with some logs in to make them feel like they're in their natural environment and the space to run around or to be able to glide.
"But they're nocturnal and make a lot of barking noise at night so they are not for sleep-lovers. Looking after them is much harder than say a hamster or anything like that. It's not easy to buy food for them from just any pet store. You have to give them live insects, locusts or mealworms, and I give them fresh fruit and vegetables, boiled eggs, bee pollen and nectar drinks."
It's thought the little creatures got into the pet trade after they were smuggled here and ended up in London Zoo in the 1800s. And they certainly are cute. But I’ll stick to my dogs for now….
Read more about them here
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
FREE HOLIDAY ANYONE?
I wrote something for the website HaveaLovelyTime.com
Please feel free to leave your comments after you've clicked on the link above and cast a glance.
Thanks!
Please feel free to leave your comments after you've clicked on the link above and cast a glance.
Thanks!
Friday, September 10, 2010
22) Is state schooling best?
A good friend of mine has just installed her seven-year-old daughter in private school. Each to his or her own, of course. But.... we could have shared both the school run and several more coffees/glasses of wine if she'd stayed put and hadn't been too busy sewing name tapes on to expensive blazers and skirts to come out and play. Aside from the fact that I'd rather spend our hard-earned cash on family holidays, nice shoes and handbags, I also believe that we should keep our children in state schools so that we can keep the pressure on local authorities to keep these schools good. However, I understand her reasons for doing what she's done - small class sizes, continuity of education as they're a military family who move a lot etc. I just worry about the pressure she's putting on her daughter as well as the social and financial burden it's putting on her family.
We're lucky. Where we live, the primary schools are mostly good. It gets trickier at secondary school because many of them are in a no-man's-land and are not a natural feeder to any of the 'big' schools. Many of those comprehensives are MASSIVE: 1200 pupils in each. One of the secondary schools in the nearest town has no sixth form, which is sometimes a clincher for people who want the continuity of their child studying for A'Levels there too. Another is a sports' specialist school. As such, school hours are a bit different, and if your child isn't into sport, that's a no-go. The other secondary school has a large percentage of pupils for whom English isn't their first language - another feature that makes some parents pause for thought, no matter how cosmopolitan they claim to be. Then there's the school that is on special measures, so a neighbouring head teacher has just been asking to take it on, as well as his own, in order to improve its performance. Does that mean that the new school he's working at is the place to opt for because it will have just pulled up its socks? We're in the catchment for his old school, but will he still have his eye on the ball there?
Fortunately, I don't have to think about this for my elder son, until next October. But it's such an important decision - something that people move house for - that we're thinking about it early. Fortunately too, we simply can't afford the private school option, otherwise we'd be even more confused. But even if we could afford it, reasonable schools are available locally and if we can get it for free I think we should. Not just because we're tight-fisted either. Having been to a small, minor private school myself (and maybe this is the real reason....) I found the big leap to university unnerving. I'd rather my children were used to being small fish in a big pond so that they are more confident and able to cope in what is a big and competitive world.
My main worry is bullying. You'll get bullies anywhere - but I've yet to come across anywhere that deals with it effectively. For a start, if someone's bullying you, the advice is to tell someone. Inevitably, the bully finds out that you've dobbed them in. So how are they going to react? They're going to pick on you even more for getting them into trouble. And I guess sheer numbers and sheer space suggest that there will be more bullies if your children are at a bigger school. So the importance of your child getting in with a good crowd of friends that can protect and absorb any threats from undesirables is a huge one. But how to foster that when parents have so little involvement in secondary schooling? Gone are the PTA meetings, social events and coffee mornings at many places. From what mothers of older children have told me, your son or daughter tells you they're going home with a friend after school and often you've never heard of them, have no idea where they live or what they're like. Your "I'm not a snob but I am really" hackles start to rise!
That's why my friend - in fact, three of my friends - have opted for private school. More attention, less chance of getting beaten up. But is it worth it for the lack of competition from 'normal' people that you'll face every day in adulthood and working life? Is facing up to bullies a rite of passage that nearly every child has to go through? There seem to be so many websites out there for new mums but none for new mums of tweenagers! Any tips?
We're lucky. Where we live, the primary schools are mostly good. It gets trickier at secondary school because many of them are in a no-man's-land and are not a natural feeder to any of the 'big' schools. Many of those comprehensives are MASSIVE: 1200 pupils in each. One of the secondary schools in the nearest town has no sixth form, which is sometimes a clincher for people who want the continuity of their child studying for A'Levels there too. Another is a sports' specialist school. As such, school hours are a bit different, and if your child isn't into sport, that's a no-go. The other secondary school has a large percentage of pupils for whom English isn't their first language - another feature that makes some parents pause for thought, no matter how cosmopolitan they claim to be. Then there's the school that is on special measures, so a neighbouring head teacher has just been asking to take it on, as well as his own, in order to improve its performance. Does that mean that the new school he's working at is the place to opt for because it will have just pulled up its socks? We're in the catchment for his old school, but will he still have his eye on the ball there?
Fortunately, I don't have to think about this for my elder son, until next October. But it's such an important decision - something that people move house for - that we're thinking about it early. Fortunately too, we simply can't afford the private school option, otherwise we'd be even more confused. But even if we could afford it, reasonable schools are available locally and if we can get it for free I think we should. Not just because we're tight-fisted either. Having been to a small, minor private school myself (and maybe this is the real reason....) I found the big leap to university unnerving. I'd rather my children were used to being small fish in a big pond so that they are more confident and able to cope in what is a big and competitive world.
My main worry is bullying. You'll get bullies anywhere - but I've yet to come across anywhere that deals with it effectively. For a start, if someone's bullying you, the advice is to tell someone. Inevitably, the bully finds out that you've dobbed them in. So how are they going to react? They're going to pick on you even more for getting them into trouble. And I guess sheer numbers and sheer space suggest that there will be more bullies if your children are at a bigger school. So the importance of your child getting in with a good crowd of friends that can protect and absorb any threats from undesirables is a huge one. But how to foster that when parents have so little involvement in secondary schooling? Gone are the PTA meetings, social events and coffee mornings at many places. From what mothers of older children have told me, your son or daughter tells you they're going home with a friend after school and often you've never heard of them, have no idea where they live or what they're like. Your "I'm not a snob but I am really" hackles start to rise!
That's why my friend - in fact, three of my friends - have opted for private school. More attention, less chance of getting beaten up. But is it worth it for the lack of competition from 'normal' people that you'll face every day in adulthood and working life? Is facing up to bullies a rite of passage that nearly every child has to go through? There seem to be so many websites out there for new mums but none for new mums of tweenagers! Any tips?
Friday, August 20, 2010
CHURCHILL
For my own part, looking out upon the future, I do not view the process with any misgivings. I could not stop it if I wished; no one can stop it. Like the Mississippi, it just keeps rolling along. Let it roll. Let it roll on full flood, inexorable, irresistible, benignant, to broader lands and better days.
A lesser known part of his speech from 70 years ago today.
A lesser known part of his speech from 70 years ago today.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
21) NO SUCH THING AS A FREE HOLIDAY?
What’s a holiday for? A chance to prop open a novel while soaking up the sun? To go hill-walking, rock climbing, sight-seeing or meandering down country lanes, snail-like, in an overstuffed car?
Well, every other parent I spoke to in July had plumped for some form of camping this summer. Whether in a trailer tent, camper van or fully-fledged austerity in a farmer’s field, we each swapped notes on the most effective insect repellent to pack; the best tinned substances to stash away and the worst scare stories on communal shower blocks, then set off in our different directions.
Comparing notes again after the event, we've all enjoyed the great outdoors and the children have roamed free range while picking up a few life skills along the way. The main difference between our holiday and others' was that our accommodation was free. We hadn’t won a competition or borrowed a friend’s place. This was a “barter stay” where my husband and I each worked for 20 hours over four days in exchange for a fully kitted-out bell tent for a week. (I say 'worked' but that's a bit of an exaggeration.... ) In addition, the owners cooked us a delicious barbecued smorgasbord beside the communal camp fire on our last night.
Instead of forking out £635 for that week or £875 for a seriously luxurious lodge at the site, we stripped beds, collected barbecue and wood-burning stove ash, wheelbarrowed new stocks of logs, crockery, topped-up paraffin lamps and tea lights to the tents and beat back a bit of bracken. Normally quite happy to pay our way, we opted for this because it sounded a bit different and we wanted to get a bit of an insight into the running of the place while still having time to explore Yorkshire – somewhere, woefully, I’d never been before.
A quick phone call to the owners reassured me that we could do this while our two sons, nine and seven, played safely nearby and they had a week available that suited us for the one weekly volunteer couple or foursome that they accept.
Jolly Days Luxury Camping is at Buttercrambe Wood, near the Viking battleground of Stamford Bridge, half an hour’s drive from York. It’s been open for two years and is run by architect and designer Christian and Carolyn Von Outersterp. They’d lost a few million running a business in London so their new venture had to work. And it seems to be on the right track.
“We got the idea from staying at a bush camp in Kenya. It had mosquito nets and comfortable beds. We didn’t see why we couldn’t replicate the idea here – all the wonders of the outdoors but with added extras to make our guests’ stay more like a hotel experience,” says Carolyn.
“It’s wonderful to see the city types gradually unwind as they start to soak up the tranquility of a place like this.”
It’s the couple’s relaxed attitude and the little retro chic touches they’ve added that catch the eye. “Welly Boot Way” is a path beside which spare boots are upended on a rack, like flowers, for visitors to borrow. Wheelbarrows for transporting suitcases, logs of wood and tins of beans to your tent double up as a makeshift child’s joyride. There are two white, wooden shower blocks, each with large sinks for washing up; three decent-sized hot shower cubicles; separate sinks with mirrors; a power point for hairdryers; electric lighting and, joy of joys, soft loo roll! The reception tent has a wicker hamper crammed with maps and books you can borrow and an honesty box/IOU book for the posh lollies, lemonade, snacks, hot drinks and charcoal on sale, alongside a mobile phone charging point for online addicts.
The site runs on only five kilowatts of electricity so candles and torches are a must, but that adds to the eco-credentials Christian is so keen to preserve.
“It involves a lot of maintenance. There’s always something to paint, make or mend. We have to replace the bell tents every October because mildew takes hold once the rain sets in, but we source them locally. We also use reclaimed furniture wherever possible, which we simply paint white.”
For lodge-tent dwellers, that furniture includes a four-poster bed with muslin drapes, separate bedroom complete with twin beds, wardrobes, a Victorian slipper bath, a couple of sofas and candelabras, creating a wonderfully romantic setting.
Even the bell-tents, have coir matting on top of wooden decking, cushions, soft blankets, paraffin lamps and pretty bunting slung inside the tent. It feels a bit like cheating - this isn't real camping! So it's a good job there are wasps, woodlice and cooing wood pigeons at dawn to give that authentic sleeping-under-the-stars feel, but that sleep is on back-friendly futons with duvets and pillows.
With a Duke of Edinburgh Award and 17-year military career between us, my husband and I know a thing or two about rucksacks, route maps and rainy route marches. But it was heartening to gradually confine those experiences to memory. We washed the children’s socks, blackened by endless earthy football matches under the trees, and munched barely palatable soya mince bolognaise for just one meal, purely as catharsis. A few hours of restoring eco-order in the undergrowth may have entailed gaining a few blisters but an inner glow from burning calories, rather than a hole in our pockets, was the order of the day.
A canopy, covering both the tent opening and a wooden hut, containing a two-ring gas stove and all our cooking utensils, meant we could barbecue or eat al fresco in all weathers. Frozen rather than hot water bottles chilled our cool box and a wood-burning stove kept us warm.
Meanwhile, many of the younger campers took a break from zooming off on their bikes for a short course in bushcraft and archery under the expert instruction of former headteacher Andrew Middleton who holds regular sessions at the site.
There was also time to wander down The Shambles in York city centre, to visit the Jorvik viking Centre, to terrify ourselves at York Dungeons and munch on fish and chips in the quaint seaside town of Robin Hood's Bay, as well as strawberry picking at the farm shop farm a mile and a half away.
The children loved staying up late roasting marshmallows over the campfire while we sipped wine and got to know our fellow campers. Add because we'd added a bargain into the bargain, we were smiling all the way to the bank! And, by the sounds of it, so are the owners.
“We’ve now been approached by nine or ten other landowners throughout the UK who are interested in us setting up an identical business for them so we may start to become involved more in that aspect of the business in future,” says Christian.
So, who knows, my ‘little secret’ may soon start to become more commonplace – let’s hope so!
Well, every other parent I spoke to in July had plumped for some form of camping this summer. Whether in a trailer tent, camper van or fully-fledged austerity in a farmer’s field, we each swapped notes on the most effective insect repellent to pack; the best tinned substances to stash away and the worst scare stories on communal shower blocks, then set off in our different directions.
Comparing notes again after the event, we've all enjoyed the great outdoors and the children have roamed free range while picking up a few life skills along the way. The main difference between our holiday and others' was that our accommodation was free. We hadn’t won a competition or borrowed a friend’s place. This was a “barter stay” where my husband and I each worked for 20 hours over four days in exchange for a fully kitted-out bell tent for a week. (I say 'worked' but that's a bit of an exaggeration.... ) In addition, the owners cooked us a delicious barbecued smorgasbord beside the communal camp fire on our last night.
Instead of forking out £635 for that week or £875 for a seriously luxurious lodge at the site, we stripped beds, collected barbecue and wood-burning stove ash, wheelbarrowed new stocks of logs, crockery, topped-up paraffin lamps and tea lights to the tents and beat back a bit of bracken. Normally quite happy to pay our way, we opted for this because it sounded a bit different and we wanted to get a bit of an insight into the running of the place while still having time to explore Yorkshire – somewhere, woefully, I’d never been before.
A quick phone call to the owners reassured me that we could do this while our two sons, nine and seven, played safely nearby and they had a week available that suited us for the one weekly volunteer couple or foursome that they accept.
Jolly Days Luxury Camping is at Buttercrambe Wood, near the Viking battleground of Stamford Bridge, half an hour’s drive from York. It’s been open for two years and is run by architect and designer Christian and Carolyn Von Outersterp. They’d lost a few million running a business in London so their new venture had to work. And it seems to be on the right track.
“We got the idea from staying at a bush camp in Kenya. It had mosquito nets and comfortable beds. We didn’t see why we couldn’t replicate the idea here – all the wonders of the outdoors but with added extras to make our guests’ stay more like a hotel experience,” says Carolyn.
“It’s wonderful to see the city types gradually unwind as they start to soak up the tranquility of a place like this.”
It’s the couple’s relaxed attitude and the little retro chic touches they’ve added that catch the eye. “Welly Boot Way” is a path beside which spare boots are upended on a rack, like flowers, for visitors to borrow. Wheelbarrows for transporting suitcases, logs of wood and tins of beans to your tent double up as a makeshift child’s joyride. There are two white, wooden shower blocks, each with large sinks for washing up; three decent-sized hot shower cubicles; separate sinks with mirrors; a power point for hairdryers; electric lighting and, joy of joys, soft loo roll! The reception tent has a wicker hamper crammed with maps and books you can borrow and an honesty box/IOU book for the posh lollies, lemonade, snacks, hot drinks and charcoal on sale, alongside a mobile phone charging point for online addicts.
The site runs on only five kilowatts of electricity so candles and torches are a must, but that adds to the eco-credentials Christian is so keen to preserve.
“It involves a lot of maintenance. There’s always something to paint, make or mend. We have to replace the bell tents every October because mildew takes hold once the rain sets in, but we source them locally. We also use reclaimed furniture wherever possible, which we simply paint white.”
For lodge-tent dwellers, that furniture includes a four-poster bed with muslin drapes, separate bedroom complete with twin beds, wardrobes, a Victorian slipper bath, a couple of sofas and candelabras, creating a wonderfully romantic setting.
Even the bell-tents, have coir matting on top of wooden decking, cushions, soft blankets, paraffin lamps and pretty bunting slung inside the tent. It feels a bit like cheating - this isn't real camping! So it's a good job there are wasps, woodlice and cooing wood pigeons at dawn to give that authentic sleeping-under-the-stars feel, but that sleep is on back-friendly futons with duvets and pillows.
With a Duke of Edinburgh Award and 17-year military career between us, my husband and I know a thing or two about rucksacks, route maps and rainy route marches. But it was heartening to gradually confine those experiences to memory. We washed the children’s socks, blackened by endless earthy football matches under the trees, and munched barely palatable soya mince bolognaise for just one meal, purely as catharsis. A few hours of restoring eco-order in the undergrowth may have entailed gaining a few blisters but an inner glow from burning calories, rather than a hole in our pockets, was the order of the day.
A canopy, covering both the tent opening and a wooden hut, containing a two-ring gas stove and all our cooking utensils, meant we could barbecue or eat al fresco in all weathers. Frozen rather than hot water bottles chilled our cool box and a wood-burning stove kept us warm.
Meanwhile, many of the younger campers took a break from zooming off on their bikes for a short course in bushcraft and archery under the expert instruction of former headteacher Andrew Middleton who holds regular sessions at the site.
There was also time to wander down The Shambles in York city centre, to visit the Jorvik viking Centre, to terrify ourselves at York Dungeons and munch on fish and chips in the quaint seaside town of Robin Hood's Bay, as well as strawberry picking at the farm shop farm a mile and a half away.
The children loved staying up late roasting marshmallows over the campfire while we sipped wine and got to know our fellow campers. Add because we'd added a bargain into the bargain, we were smiling all the way to the bank! And, by the sounds of it, so are the owners.
“We’ve now been approached by nine or ten other landowners throughout the UK who are interested in us setting up an identical business for them so we may start to become involved more in that aspect of the business in future,” says Christian.
So, who knows, my ‘little secret’ may soon start to become more commonplace – let’s hope so!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
20) NOSTALGIA
If I was to breathe in the sweet perfume of a biscuit barrel filled with custard creams or the congealed stench of those third of a pint bottles of full-fat milk, I would instantly be transported back to break time circa 1982.
I was a tomboy of about 11 and had just moved from a comprehensive junior school in the Midlands into a world where I shared a “common room” with fellow girl pupils, all dressed in brown - though there was nothing common about anyone else there, as far as I could tell.
I was at a boarding school with parents living overseas, three sisters at other institutions and other family and friends a seemingly endless train journey away, so writing and receiving letters became my full-time hobby.
The joyous mid-morning ritual of the post arriving was something we all looked forward to. We would gather round a green, felt board criss-crossed with black elastic and marked out with the letters of the alphabet. Craning my neck, I’d try to see from the back of the queue whether anything had been wedged into the section to which my surname belonged.
On the occasion when I spotted my mother’s neatly hand-scripted style on airmail paper, I was overjoyed. Her words were tightly packed together and often ran down the side of the page, as if she was trying to cram in as much news as possible. Often, there was a squiggled note from Dad at the bottom and I learnt early on how to avoid tearing open those airmail folds too harshly for fear of ripping off the crucial sentence end!
Later, the letters became typed or tapped out on our new Amstrad computer -a huge, revered cream object for which my mum sewed special green dust covers.
Time pressures later meant that there was one carbon-copied letter for all four sisters. The lucky one got the original and the unluckiest got the barley-legible whispers of the smudged bottom copy. But they were always careful to make sure we took it in turns and there was usual a tailor-made biroed message to each of us individually.
The written word became so valuable that I still can’t bear to part with any of the crumpled, folded, scribbled-on and elastic-banded letters I received at that time.
Those words of encouragement drove me on and I’d write reams back. It’s cringe-making to read some of the teenage rubbish I used to tell them; some of the concerns that I was so pre-occupied with at the time that really weren’t important.
I expect I told them I was envious of a girl called Helen who often had weekly parcels of fruit cake and ‘tuck.’ No way would my family spend money on things like that for me - the school was feeding me wasn’t it?
We had special wooden lockers where we kept our stash and one of the first things we were obliged to purchase was a padlock for our private locker.
Some girls gathered beside theirs in the evenings to nibble on their favourite snacks before bed or stash away their secret something or others.
The dictionary describes nostalgia as “a yearning of some period of the past or wistful memories of it.” And while I don’t want to back to the past, there are some days when a certain smell or song or a certain feeling makes me wallow in nostlagia and switching off from the present moment, feels just right.
Although I sometimes denounce writing as a lonely, passive occupation, it is a doing thing. Words can fill an empty moment and the right words, thoughtfully put together, can inspire, make sense of the senseless and give us cheer or purpose. So I won’t be throwing out any of those old dog-eared letters just yet.
What takes your mind back to a bygone time – pleasant or otherwise?
I was a tomboy of about 11 and had just moved from a comprehensive junior school in the Midlands into a world where I shared a “common room” with fellow girl pupils, all dressed in brown - though there was nothing common about anyone else there, as far as I could tell.
I was at a boarding school with parents living overseas, three sisters at other institutions and other family and friends a seemingly endless train journey away, so writing and receiving letters became my full-time hobby.
The joyous mid-morning ritual of the post arriving was something we all looked forward to. We would gather round a green, felt board criss-crossed with black elastic and marked out with the letters of the alphabet. Craning my neck, I’d try to see from the back of the queue whether anything had been wedged into the section to which my surname belonged.
On the occasion when I spotted my mother’s neatly hand-scripted style on airmail paper, I was overjoyed. Her words were tightly packed together and often ran down the side of the page, as if she was trying to cram in as much news as possible. Often, there was a squiggled note from Dad at the bottom and I learnt early on how to avoid tearing open those airmail folds too harshly for fear of ripping off the crucial sentence end!
Later, the letters became typed or tapped out on our new Amstrad computer -a huge, revered cream object for which my mum sewed special green dust covers.
Time pressures later meant that there was one carbon-copied letter for all four sisters. The lucky one got the original and the unluckiest got the barley-legible whispers of the smudged bottom copy. But they were always careful to make sure we took it in turns and there was usual a tailor-made biroed message to each of us individually.
The written word became so valuable that I still can’t bear to part with any of the crumpled, folded, scribbled-on and elastic-banded letters I received at that time.
Those words of encouragement drove me on and I’d write reams back. It’s cringe-making to read some of the teenage rubbish I used to tell them; some of the concerns that I was so pre-occupied with at the time that really weren’t important.
I expect I told them I was envious of a girl called Helen who often had weekly parcels of fruit cake and ‘tuck.’ No way would my family spend money on things like that for me - the school was feeding me wasn’t it?
We had special wooden lockers where we kept our stash and one of the first things we were obliged to purchase was a padlock for our private locker.
Some girls gathered beside theirs in the evenings to nibble on their favourite snacks before bed or stash away their secret something or others.
The dictionary describes nostalgia as “a yearning of some period of the past or wistful memories of it.” And while I don’t want to back to the past, there are some days when a certain smell or song or a certain feeling makes me wallow in nostlagia and switching off from the present moment, feels just right.
Although I sometimes denounce writing as a lonely, passive occupation, it is a doing thing. Words can fill an empty moment and the right words, thoughtfully put together, can inspire, make sense of the senseless and give us cheer or purpose. So I won’t be throwing out any of those old dog-eared letters just yet.
What takes your mind back to a bygone time – pleasant or otherwise?
Friday, June 18, 2010
19) DOWNSHIFTING
Well, it's D-Day today. My husband's last job in the military after a 17-year career. It's taken him to Singapore, Portugal, Thailand, The Seychelles - all very briefly. But mostly to Plymouth, Portsmouth and now Pirbright. (Well, that's where the kids go to school, and it's the nearest place to us that begins with a P!)
So, come September, he'll no longer be Lt Commander but Lt Commuter, bound for the 0716 to Waterloo. He's really excited about it; so lucky to have got a job to go to after leaving and glad to have made the move while he's still young enough to retrain. Hopefully, it'll be a smooth transition. He's a creature of habit and routine but I think after the summer off, bar one or two resettlement courses, he'll be keen to get started.
In fact, I've been interrupted, he's just walked through the door, wearing his uniform for one of the last times ever after a morning of farewell speeches and too many cakes. And he's said he's a little worried about how it's going to impact on me.
As an independent, go-getting career woman (well, someone who's taken that route because her house-keeping and cake-baking skills are non-existent), I'll have to spend more time at home. It'll mean I have to juggle my work even more than I do already as he won't be able to help with school drop offs and picks ups. But I don't work regular days enough to justify the childminder/au pair thing. So, I've decided to spend more time writing, properly, and generally enjoy being more of a homebody. We might even get a dog!
I'm finding this quite difficult to admit. I feel like I HAVE to work because I got to a certain stage with my career 10 years ago and then having the children brought it to a gradual standstill. Then we moved abroad. Now I've got my head back round the technology again and climbed a little way up the ladder, albeit only on a freelance basis, but I don't want to slide back down the snake at the next throw of the dice.
Plus, we've settled in Surrey - of all the not-cheap places - because this is where we ended up, so we need to make ends meet. My income's always been an added extra that's made me feel entitled to buy the odd thing for me. I'm not the Jimmy Choo's type (I wish!) but I don't want to feel even more guilty than I already do for buying a new pair of shoes/jeans/glasses.
I've considered studying for a year and would love to do a law degree, but for the cost! I've considered going into teaching but then reasoned that I ought to use the qualifications that I've got. So, I'm going to write, from home, as often as possible, and see what my keyboard has tapped out by the end of the year.
When I'm feeling confident I think I can do it but I constantly have doubts. Look at the books out there: the inspiration that spawned blueeyedboy by Joanne Harris, which has an additional blog on myspace as well as an iTunes playlist to supplement the story. The literary crafting that someone as young as Zadie Smith churned out. I'm nowhere near their league. And for all the derogatory sneers at chicklit, mastering a convincing plotline and writing about romance is a tough gig.
But if I don't give it a go, I'll never know. So here's to a future where I'll be keeping you fellow bloggers company on a more regular basis come September.
So, come September, he'll no longer be Lt Commander but Lt Commuter, bound for the 0716 to Waterloo. He's really excited about it; so lucky to have got a job to go to after leaving and glad to have made the move while he's still young enough to retrain. Hopefully, it'll be a smooth transition. He's a creature of habit and routine but I think after the summer off, bar one or two resettlement courses, he'll be keen to get started.
In fact, I've been interrupted, he's just walked through the door, wearing his uniform for one of the last times ever after a morning of farewell speeches and too many cakes. And he's said he's a little worried about how it's going to impact on me.
As an independent, go-getting career woman (well, someone who's taken that route because her house-keeping and cake-baking skills are non-existent), I'll have to spend more time at home. It'll mean I have to juggle my work even more than I do already as he won't be able to help with school drop offs and picks ups. But I don't work regular days enough to justify the childminder/au pair thing. So, I've decided to spend more time writing, properly, and generally enjoy being more of a homebody. We might even get a dog!
I'm finding this quite difficult to admit. I feel like I HAVE to work because I got to a certain stage with my career 10 years ago and then having the children brought it to a gradual standstill. Then we moved abroad. Now I've got my head back round the technology again and climbed a little way up the ladder, albeit only on a freelance basis, but I don't want to slide back down the snake at the next throw of the dice.
Plus, we've settled in Surrey - of all the not-cheap places - because this is where we ended up, so we need to make ends meet. My income's always been an added extra that's made me feel entitled to buy the odd thing for me. I'm not the Jimmy Choo's type (I wish!) but I don't want to feel even more guilty than I already do for buying a new pair of shoes/jeans/glasses.
I've considered studying for a year and would love to do a law degree, but for the cost! I've considered going into teaching but then reasoned that I ought to use the qualifications that I've got. So, I'm going to write, from home, as often as possible, and see what my keyboard has tapped out by the end of the year.
When I'm feeling confident I think I can do it but I constantly have doubts. Look at the books out there: the inspiration that spawned blueeyedboy by Joanne Harris, which has an additional blog on myspace as well as an iTunes playlist to supplement the story. The literary crafting that someone as young as Zadie Smith churned out. I'm nowhere near their league. And for all the derogatory sneers at chicklit, mastering a convincing plotline and writing about romance is a tough gig.
But if I don't give it a go, I'll never know. So here's to a future where I'll be keeping you fellow bloggers company on a more regular basis come September.
Friday, June 11, 2010
18) SHARE AND SHARE ALIKE
So, my three night shifts are over this week but I reckon I'm still about 10 hours behind on the sleepstakes. Calulating things like that become an obsession when you've done a few overnights but not quite fully changed over your bodyclock because school picks ups/swimminglessons/cubs etc get in the way of full daytime sleeps.
Anyhow, it's the weekend. Time to catch up. My husband's away at his brother's and, to be honest, I'm going to enjoy sleeping right across the middle of the bed and not being disturbed by his coughing, fidgeting and compulsory early-rising. (I mean the waking up kind, before you get any other ideas!)
In between watching the "baie lekker" world cup coverage, going to the village fete, tennis lessons, the Saturday morning park run and trying to get my new telly to do its new-fangled online thing, there'll be lots of relaxing. I hope. Once I've sorted out the telly. You can get YouTube on it and everything - hence it's purchase in the first place - but our wifi signal seems to be either very weak or non-existent. And playing with technology is not my kind of fun when I'm short on zeds.
Nor is listening to my two beloved offspring constantly bicker. Here's where you come in, lovely reader/follower/browser/lurker. How do I stop them from picking on each other just for the mean-hearted pleasure of observing the other one lose it and get into trouble?
For background, they are very bright, healthy, energetic, football and book-loving boys aged nine and seven. We moved house in March and they now share a bedroom but it's a decent size and they each have their own half, more or less. I know #1 son actually finds some comfort in having someone else in the room with him, though he won't admit it, and #2 son idolises big bro so he's happy. But is sharing a room breeding contempt? Their baiting game seems to have spiralled ever since they moved in together. I suppose that as I relish some me-time, I can relate to that. But we want a spare room so I can blog here and put up family and friends without too much of a squash.
The usual pattern is for #1 son to make sarcastic or repetitive comments to his brother so that #2 loses his rag, hits #1 and gets told off for it. So the telling off has to stop if he's been provoked I suppose, but I'm trying to teach him to use words not fists, so how will that help?
Obviously, I try and reason with the elder boy but he's going through a very rebellious 'I'll do what I like' phase mingled with a "You don't understand Mum!" that I desperately want to nip in the bud before the dreaded teen years catch up with us. I've even emailed him as he's just got an email account so loves to see if there's a boldening of his Inbox sign when he logs in. There, I can message him at my leisure and with reasoning, appealing to the caring side of his nature.
I sometimes think that if I'd had three children rather than two, at least they'd have a distraction, but as the youngest of three himself, my husband was adamant that someone would always be picked on or left out and that would be awful. So it didn't happen. The boys have got plenty of friends. Just not that nearby.
Of course, there's also the parental guilt about what I've done to create two boys that don't get on that well all the time. Did I argue with my husband in front of them once too often? Are they imitating my occasionally sarcastic turn-of-phrase? They seem to ignore each other most of the time, but there are flashpoints in the day - like when my back is turned or I leave them sitting next to each other in the car for five minutes - when things go awry.
And I am too soft. I can't believe I got talked into buying not only four sets of Match Attax cards but also a football magazine and a comic, when we'd just discussed a new monthly pocket money regime for them so this should come out of their pocket, not mine.
This last half hour has been bliss as #2 son is glued to the new not-quite-all-working telly and #1 son has been at football training. Peace reigns. Meanwhile, I'd better batten down the hatches before everyone's home. At least our yelling at each other is revenge on the neighbours who kept me awake the other day with their noisy kitchen extension bangings about. Always a silver lining!
Anyhow, it's the weekend. Time to catch up. My husband's away at his brother's and, to be honest, I'm going to enjoy sleeping right across the middle of the bed and not being disturbed by his coughing, fidgeting and compulsory early-rising. (I mean the waking up kind, before you get any other ideas!)
In between watching the "baie lekker" world cup coverage, going to the village fete, tennis lessons, the Saturday morning park run and trying to get my new telly to do its new-fangled online thing, there'll be lots of relaxing. I hope. Once I've sorted out the telly. You can get YouTube on it and everything - hence it's purchase in the first place - but our wifi signal seems to be either very weak or non-existent. And playing with technology is not my kind of fun when I'm short on zeds.
Nor is listening to my two beloved offspring constantly bicker. Here's where you come in, lovely reader/follower/browser/lurker. How do I stop them from picking on each other just for the mean-hearted pleasure of observing the other one lose it and get into trouble?
For background, they are very bright, healthy, energetic, football and book-loving boys aged nine and seven. We moved house in March and they now share a bedroom but it's a decent size and they each have their own half, more or less. I know #1 son actually finds some comfort in having someone else in the room with him, though he won't admit it, and #2 son idolises big bro so he's happy. But is sharing a room breeding contempt? Their baiting game seems to have spiralled ever since they moved in together. I suppose that as I relish some me-time, I can relate to that. But we want a spare room so I can blog here and put up family and friends without too much of a squash.
The usual pattern is for #1 son to make sarcastic or repetitive comments to his brother so that #2 loses his rag, hits #1 and gets told off for it. So the telling off has to stop if he's been provoked I suppose, but I'm trying to teach him to use words not fists, so how will that help?
Obviously, I try and reason with the elder boy but he's going through a very rebellious 'I'll do what I like' phase mingled with a "You don't understand Mum!" that I desperately want to nip in the bud before the dreaded teen years catch up with us. I've even emailed him as he's just got an email account so loves to see if there's a boldening of his Inbox sign when he logs in. There, I can message him at my leisure and with reasoning, appealing to the caring side of his nature.
I sometimes think that if I'd had three children rather than two, at least they'd have a distraction, but as the youngest of three himself, my husband was adamant that someone would always be picked on or left out and that would be awful. So it didn't happen. The boys have got plenty of friends. Just not that nearby.
Of course, there's also the parental guilt about what I've done to create two boys that don't get on that well all the time. Did I argue with my husband in front of them once too often? Are they imitating my occasionally sarcastic turn-of-phrase? They seem to ignore each other most of the time, but there are flashpoints in the day - like when my back is turned or I leave them sitting next to each other in the car for five minutes - when things go awry.
And I am too soft. I can't believe I got talked into buying not only four sets of Match Attax cards but also a football magazine and a comic, when we'd just discussed a new monthly pocket money regime for them so this should come out of their pocket, not mine.
This last half hour has been bliss as #2 son is glued to the new not-quite-all-working telly and #1 son has been at football training. Peace reigns. Meanwhile, I'd better batten down the hatches before everyone's home. At least our yelling at each other is revenge on the neighbours who kept me awake the other day with their noisy kitchen extension bangings about. Always a silver lining!
Sunday, June 6, 2010
17) INSOMNIA
It’s 5 a.m. on a Sunday morning and I’m up! In my household, this is unheard of. I’m always the last to rise, partly through laziness and partly because I use the excuse of doing occasional night shifts as a reason to ‘need to catch up’ or prepare myself for the next one. I used to get insomnia quite often but sheer exhaustion seemed to have put paid to it. I used to enjoy it occasionally, as it was always the best time to write. But my worry now is that after a gloriously sunny half term break, I can feel the banished eye-bags I gained evaporating before my still-tired eyes.
Maybe it’s because I didn’t take my usual combination of antihistamines last night. They’ve been keeping me from an existence that would otherwise involve conversations staccatoed with sneezes, with a nose pouring like Victoria Falls and the most un-get-at-able itch at the back of the throat. It really is the most harmless but irritating of conditions and the doctor won’t give me the cure-all antihistamine jab I had during my school exams – something about side effects. So each year I sprinkle pollen on my cereal or try to source local honey & tinker with tinctures on the ‘natural remedy’ shelves, and then resort to a combination of proper pills. But they always make me dopey, despite the promised ‘non-drowsy’ label on the packet and especially when combined with the odd seasonal spritzer or Pimms… But last night I forgot.
Well, the pills are still packed somewhere as we’ve been away for a few days. So maybe it’s because it’s been so warm lately and we’ve got all the windows open. I’m also pre-occupied with the fact we now have just one day of the holiday left to do some promised jobs around the house: treat the decking outside, paint the chalk wall onto the chimney breast in the boys’ bedroom, dismantle the spare, oversized, double bed in preparation for the new single but stackable ones that are due to be delivered later this week and clear away yet more stuff into the garage.
Or maybe it’s because I went to bed spellbound by Spelbound’s performance on Britain’s Got Talent last night. They may not be able to spell (I expect there’s a trademark reason why they can’t have Spellbound as their title - oh, I just found out it's because tey're from Spelthorne) but boy can they gymnasticate! And the suggestion that they might open the London 2012 Olympic games ceremony made me quite proud to be British. My only talent is flaring my nostrils but what a great show a ‘Best of…’ BGT would be!
But perhaps it’s because I’m processing all the things we did over half term – visiting Legoland with friends we haven’t seen for two years and then having them round for a rowdy takeaway. We agreed that the best part of Legoland was Miniland, where someone or some people have spent hours building replica cities out of Lego pieces with incredible patience. The same theme emerged when we traveled to Lancashire to visit relatives, and a part of the country, that we visit far too infrequently.
One of the places we explored there was a stately home owned by the Gillow family who were renowned furniture makers. The tour guide told us that part of the lure of a Gillow piece was that it always had an extra use or a secret function. So a sewing storage unit would be made of sandalwood to keep moths away from the fabric and had secret drawers in it. A children’s games table had a reversible lid on it for chess or chequers. The dining room table was the first ever telescopic design, so it could be altered to seat 22 rather than 10. The card table was hexagonal with fold-down flaps to push down, indicating that you were out of the game. And the wood, usually mahogany, was always beautifully turned with ornate legs and designs. I reckon if Richard Gillow visited our plasticized, disposable Tesco-filled homes these days, he’d be horrified.
Talking of the environment, what about the oil that’s still gushing into the Atlantic? It’s been leaking for nearly six weeks now. Seeing the television pictures of oiled sea birds is horrifying. How much pollution can one ocean take before the whole seafood chain becomes poisoned?
So if we could just solve that problem, cure the common cold and hay fever, get together with friends and family more often, practice our obesity-busting flick-flacks and use our design skills to better effect, the world would be a better place - and I could get some sleep.
But I’m off to get the Sunday papers now so I’m sure that will generate more food for thought!
Maybe it’s because I didn’t take my usual combination of antihistamines last night. They’ve been keeping me from an existence that would otherwise involve conversations staccatoed with sneezes, with a nose pouring like Victoria Falls and the most un-get-at-able itch at the back of the throat. It really is the most harmless but irritating of conditions and the doctor won’t give me the cure-all antihistamine jab I had during my school exams – something about side effects. So each year I sprinkle pollen on my cereal or try to source local honey & tinker with tinctures on the ‘natural remedy’ shelves, and then resort to a combination of proper pills. But they always make me dopey, despite the promised ‘non-drowsy’ label on the packet and especially when combined with the odd seasonal spritzer or Pimms… But last night I forgot.
Well, the pills are still packed somewhere as we’ve been away for a few days. So maybe it’s because it’s been so warm lately and we’ve got all the windows open. I’m also pre-occupied with the fact we now have just one day of the holiday left to do some promised jobs around the house: treat the decking outside, paint the chalk wall onto the chimney breast in the boys’ bedroom, dismantle the spare, oversized, double bed in preparation for the new single but stackable ones that are due to be delivered later this week and clear away yet more stuff into the garage.
Or maybe it’s because I went to bed spellbound by Spelbound’s performance on Britain’s Got Talent last night. They may not be able to spell (I expect there’s a trademark reason why they can’t have Spellbound as their title - oh, I just found out it's because tey're from Spelthorne) but boy can they gymnasticate! And the suggestion that they might open the London 2012 Olympic games ceremony made me quite proud to be British. My only talent is flaring my nostrils but what a great show a ‘Best of…’ BGT would be!
But perhaps it’s because I’m processing all the things we did over half term – visiting Legoland with friends we haven’t seen for two years and then having them round for a rowdy takeaway. We agreed that the best part of Legoland was Miniland, where someone or some people have spent hours building replica cities out of Lego pieces with incredible patience. The same theme emerged when we traveled to Lancashire to visit relatives, and a part of the country, that we visit far too infrequently.
One of the places we explored there was a stately home owned by the Gillow family who were renowned furniture makers. The tour guide told us that part of the lure of a Gillow piece was that it always had an extra use or a secret function. So a sewing storage unit would be made of sandalwood to keep moths away from the fabric and had secret drawers in it. A children’s games table had a reversible lid on it for chess or chequers. The dining room table was the first ever telescopic design, so it could be altered to seat 22 rather than 10. The card table was hexagonal with fold-down flaps to push down, indicating that you were out of the game. And the wood, usually mahogany, was always beautifully turned with ornate legs and designs. I reckon if Richard Gillow visited our plasticized, disposable Tesco-filled homes these days, he’d be horrified.
Talking of the environment, what about the oil that’s still gushing into the Atlantic? It’s been leaking for nearly six weeks now. Seeing the television pictures of oiled sea birds is horrifying. How much pollution can one ocean take before the whole seafood chain becomes poisoned?
So if we could just solve that problem, cure the common cold and hay fever, get together with friends and family more often, practice our obesity-busting flick-flacks and use our design skills to better effect, the world would be a better place - and I could get some sleep.
But I’m off to get the Sunday papers now so I’m sure that will generate more food for thought!
Monday, April 19, 2010
15) THE ITALIAN JOB
There must be so many stories like this around at the moment. Where were you when you first heard about the ash cloud? How did you wangle getting back home? How many days off work and school did have? What did you have to reschedule at great cost in the form of mobile phone, extra hire car, train or hotel fees? Well here's our version of events....
It was not the most restful holiday idea to begin with: the four of us staying with friends living near Naples who had five children under 10. But we'd missed our friend Kirsty's 40th and had always wanted to visit the land of pizza, pasta, ice cream and ancient ruins. A recipe for the perfect family holiday, surely, with built-in entertainment from other small people meaning a chance for the grown ups to catch up over chilled Prosecco or lush Chianti?!
In Italy, the Easter holiday was over so Kirsty & Nick's children still had to get to school and all the youngsters were early risers anyway, so it was definitely going to be more of an adventure than a chance to devour a stack of novels. We were up for that. But after the travel chaos caused by the outpourings from an Icelandic volcano with an unspellable let alone pronouncable name, it proved to be a memorable holiday for the craziest reasons!
It was halfway through our week-long holiday when I heard what had happened. I switched on the news to drown out the sound of the early morning cacophony being created by those five children as well as my two - as WELL as two from another family who were passing through on the way to Sorrento. It seemed so unlikely. Here we were, admiring the pumice stones we had collected on our trek up a cloud-covered Mount Vesuvius the previous day, and now, on BBC Breakfast, there was talk of another less sleepy volcano causing a cloud of ash that was disrupting flights.
Our initial thoughts were that it would soon, literally, blow over and we'd be on our way. But I made some wan comment about how not-terrible it would be if we were forced to extend our stay because flights were cancelled. An underground tour of old Naples and a drive down the stunning hairpin bends of Positano later, that was about to become a reality.
In theory, we didn't have to rush back I suppose. I was meant to be working on Monday 19th but knew that, as a freelance, though I hated to let people down, I could be replaced. I also had an interview which I thought I could reschedule and, in any case, felt my chances of getting that job were slim. The boys would miss a bit of school but dragging them round Herculaneum and practicing our Italian accents would compensate for that a little. My husband would miss work and a stint at being 'duty' but could contact colleagues to swap with someone. So, all these rearrangements were made - we'd never found our mobile phones more useful!
I was tempted to wait it out and see when we could get back by conventional means, but a fear of flying caused concern at potentially being one of the first bunch of passengers to brave the atmospheric elements. Our decision to head back by road was prompted by our friend's coincidental need to head to Portsmouth for a course at the end of the week and get his tempestuous VW Caravello vehicle back to the UK so he could exchange it for a new, more reliable people carrier better designed to cope with Italian pot-holes, drivers and their Waltons-size offspring.
After a surreal meal in an eclectic restaurant built inside yet another volcanic crater - this one distinctly less troublesome - things became definite. Online, it became obvious that things were more chaotic than we had envisaged. A rail strike in parts of France eliminated train travel as an option. The usual Dover to Calais ferry & Eurotunnel routes were fully booked. The only available channel crossing we could find was at 0400 on Monday morning from Dieppe in France to Newhaven near Brighton. Apart from the early hour, that suited us fine - giving us two days to drive there and with the chance to stop off at my husband's parents in northern France to freshen up.
Scrapping plans to visit the island of Procida, we cut short our stay by a day and started packing. This left poor Kirsty to cope with the melee of clearing up after our departure and the inconvenience of us taking off in the only vehicle that could comfortably suit her entire brood.
So, leaving early was one unexpected turn of events. The second was acknowledging how amazingly well our two lively boys, who get fidgetty if they go a couple of hours without running around kicking a ball, coped with being cooped up in a tin box on wheels with ever dwindling amounts of sleep over the successive few days. They took it all in their stride, hardly complained, slept almost on command and I got the impression that if I'd told them we now had to get a hot air balloon to Ougadougou at 2 a.m., they wouldn't have batted an eyelid!
The third was when Vincent the Van, as we christened the Carvello after feeling the need to offer verbal encouragement to the vehicle we were in, gave up the ghost!
He had battled on, to be fair, bravely lasting out when a petrol station failed to materialise during another force of nature - a giant electrical storm. The rain drops were so fat they caused local drivers, renowned for their fearlessness, to shelter under motorway bridges or on the hard shoulder. As Brits used to deploying windscreen wipers at full pelt on a regular basis, we simply ploughed on, eyes extra-peeled in the hope of a glorious Agip or Servicio sign. We must have been on the last few vapours of diesel by the time we pulled in, gratefully, to fill up.
Laying to rest our visions of huddling by the roadside in flimsy rain coats while we summoned some kind of roadside recovery job, we trundled on. Vincent was noisy, rattly, throaty and seemed to have an arthritic gear box, but had recently had a lot of work done on him, so we thought he'd survive the trip. We ticked off the kilometres - almost reaching 1000 - but he then complained of the metallic version of a headache by showing us his battery warning light.
Inconveniently, at this point, we were due to head through what seemed like the 50th motorway tunnel in the Alpine mountains - but this was the biggest beast at Frejus and it came with a hefty €46.40 toll fee. There were confused scenes when we turned up there with a huge collection of lorries and cars forming a car park effect at the entrance. Unsure what was going on, we barged into the queues in recently-acquired Italian style.
Just as we thought we were finally going in and exultant after almost hitting our target of making it beyond Rome, Florence and through Italy on the first day of driving, steam appeared from under the bonnet and driver Nick could not shift the gear stick. Gestured to pull over, Nick managed to force the vehicle into first but amidst a whiff of burning oil, we were forced to switch off the engine and wait 10 minutes while it cooled down before the authorities would let us enter.
Thankfully, the storm had finished by then but it was with bated breath that we drove through the white-sided, claustrophobic bore-hole, dazzled by lights, and 'phewed' our way out the other side. To have broken down in a storm would have been a morale-dampening experience but to break down in a tunnel inside a mountain would have been a huge, not to say panic-attack inducing problem!
Buoyed by Vincent's tenacity, we ploughed on. It's all a bit of a blur now but as it was the early hours of the morning, the mother in me had set my sights on a comfortable roadside motel in which we could at least get ourselves horizontal for a while before resuming our cushioned but none-the-less noisy expedition. In fact, the engine was so rattle-and-hum that the kids couldn't hear the dialogue from the film on the in-car DVD player that was to be our saving grace when cooped-up tantrums threatened. However, delighted at this rare technological treat, they seemed happy enough to guess what was going on.
(It was Nim's Island, by the way, in case anyone out there can fill me in on why Jodie Foster was leading some kind of OCD existence as a writer and then ended up living out the very plot she was scripting, on some desert island with a buccanner character played by the dazzling Gerard Butler.)
I knew Nick and my husband would rather have shared the driving and ploughed on through the night instead of stopping. But I was concerned that Vincent needed a break; knew I wouldn't get any sleep amidst the tight turns, noise and nerves of our escapade and thought we'd all fare better after a genuine rest. However, my tactful observations that we'd just passed an Ibis sign or that that picture of a bed on the road sign looked interesting, went either unheard or ignored for a while longer. And, in the end, thank goodness they did!
We stopped at one Campanile, only to be thwarted by a bizarre warren of one-way signs which didn't seem to lead to our intended destination at all. So we stopped an hour later at a second ray of hope, only to find, armed with two teddies and three pillows, that they were frustratingly 'complet'!
If we had just been our family, I would normally have dissolved into grumpy, sleep-deprived abusiveness by this point, reminding all males present (and I was utterly out-numbered) that the fairer sex had suggested HOURS AGO that booking somewhere to stay might have been a good idea. But we were so aware that our plight could very easily lead in that direction that our attitudes had morphed into one of 'this is going to be some story to tell', rather than frustration.
And again, this proved serendipitous (thanks for the thesaurus-ness Nick!) As someone who used to get car sick and who generally does all the family driving because my husband has a different anticipatory reflex to me (i.e. I tend to gasp and put my right foot to the floor seconds before he does when I'm his passenger!) I was keen to take my turn at the wheel.
With the help of some caffeine, the boys asleep and daylight breaking, I got to know the Caravello's foibles and ploughed on down the motorway with the view of endless flat fields blurring away out of the windows. Then, over the brow of a hill, I felt a slight clunk and the speedo dial started decelerating despite my right foot being flat to the floor.
Luckily, there was little traffic and I slowly cruised to a halt on the hard shoulder by a conveniently located SOS phone. Within 20 minutes, and thanks to Nick's impeccable French, a huge mechanic's truck pulled up and Vincent the van was hauled onto it as we jumped into the driver's cab, to the boys' great excitement.
Jean-Luc, the mechanic, drove us all to his garage in the nearby village of Messin and my eldest son and I went to stretch our legs (and I found another hotel - again, in vain!) while the men assessed the damage. By the time I returned, Jean-Luc had declared the vehicle kaput, mort, finis! It was then my job to steer the vehicle backwards while the men pushed him into a graveyard of similarly kaput contraptions - many with British number plates. We had thought that a new battery or some tinkering with the alternator or transmission (these being the only parts of the engine I could name!) might be possible. But, sadly, this was not to be. Indeed, Nick had to pay Jean-Luc for the privilege of him having the car for spare parts, which seemed the wrong way round to me.
It was then that that a couple of lines from the Italian Job sprung to mind: "He was only meant to blow the bloody doors off!" and "Rozzer's having trouble with his differential..."
But anyway, Jean-Luc volunteered to take us to a nearby hotel beside a lake and my baggy-eyed, jaded brain started to throw serious credit card swipes at this suggestion! Despite this not materialising, of all the places to break down, this was a perfect one with a restaurant, gorgeous views, a children's play area, cafe, benches, boats, you name it. The added bonus was that my husband's parents lived within reasonable reach and they kindly cancelled all their plans to come to our aide, driving a vehicle each, so that we could borrow one to drive back to England in and meet our planned channel crossing.
They arrived around five hours later to find us camped outside a tourist office, sunbathing deliriously, having at least had a snack, cleaned our teeth, washed our faces and changed some clothes. The three hour drive to their house was tortuous but most of us slept, there was the joy of air-conditioning and it was great to offload our worries and unwind in familiar company.
Once in the little village of Framecourt, the boys just wanted to run about while the grown ups showered and slept. We were woken at 9:30 pm to the mouth-watering fragrance of crisp roast pork with all the trimmings followed by fresh strawberries and ice cream. The men then had a power nap while the rest of us watched the news for the latest travel updates - at that stage, the flying ban had just been extended but test flights were being carried out.
Leaving the in-laws behind at midnight, we set off on the two-hour drive to Dieppe armed with a picnic in case of further eventualities and with the boys once more nodding off. Arriving at the port in plenty of time, we were relieved to see that though there were lots of foot passengers, our worries about queues of lorries and other vehicles were unfounded.
Although we envied those passengers who had baggsed the large, comfortable airline-style seats, we experienced a calm, quiet four-hour crossing and somehow managed to fold our bodies into neck-cricking sleeping positions in the main lounge bucket chairs of the SS Seven Sisters.
Other passengers slept on the floor, the window sill, with heads on tables, in the toddler's well-padded play area - the place was awash with exhaustion. As we started to pull into Newhaven at sunrise, other people's stories started to unfold.
The table of four next to us hadn't known each other until they had tried to check in at an airport the previous day. Told they wouldn't be flying anywhere, they managed to club together for a hire car and travelled across the continent together.
The elderly couple opposite us had spent an extra thousand pounds on hotel stays and train travel to get to the ferry and had no idea how they were supposed to get a train for the final leg of their return journey to their London home.
They told us of an acquaintance who had started his trek home by train Montenegro, where so many passengers boarded that the driver refused to budge. That was until the passengers effectively mutinied and pinned him to the carriage demanding to be driven onwards!
So, after a diversion to Gatwick to collect our own car, we eventually pootled home beneath eerily quiet skies and Airport Closed roadsigns feeling, really, quite lucky. And bed had never been more welcoming.
It was not the most restful holiday idea to begin with: the four of us staying with friends living near Naples who had five children under 10. But we'd missed our friend Kirsty's 40th and had always wanted to visit the land of pizza, pasta, ice cream and ancient ruins. A recipe for the perfect family holiday, surely, with built-in entertainment from other small people meaning a chance for the grown ups to catch up over chilled Prosecco or lush Chianti?!
In Italy, the Easter holiday was over so Kirsty & Nick's children still had to get to school and all the youngsters were early risers anyway, so it was definitely going to be more of an adventure than a chance to devour a stack of novels. We were up for that. But after the travel chaos caused by the outpourings from an Icelandic volcano with an unspellable let alone pronouncable name, it proved to be a memorable holiday for the craziest reasons!
It was halfway through our week-long holiday when I heard what had happened. I switched on the news to drown out the sound of the early morning cacophony being created by those five children as well as my two - as WELL as two from another family who were passing through on the way to Sorrento. It seemed so unlikely. Here we were, admiring the pumice stones we had collected on our trek up a cloud-covered Mount Vesuvius the previous day, and now, on BBC Breakfast, there was talk of another less sleepy volcano causing a cloud of ash that was disrupting flights.
Our initial thoughts were that it would soon, literally, blow over and we'd be on our way. But I made some wan comment about how not-terrible it would be if we were forced to extend our stay because flights were cancelled. An underground tour of old Naples and a drive down the stunning hairpin bends of Positano later, that was about to become a reality.
In theory, we didn't have to rush back I suppose. I was meant to be working on Monday 19th but knew that, as a freelance, though I hated to let people down, I could be replaced. I also had an interview which I thought I could reschedule and, in any case, felt my chances of getting that job were slim. The boys would miss a bit of school but dragging them round Herculaneum and practicing our Italian accents would compensate for that a little. My husband would miss work and a stint at being 'duty' but could contact colleagues to swap with someone. So, all these rearrangements were made - we'd never found our mobile phones more useful!
I was tempted to wait it out and see when we could get back by conventional means, but a fear of flying caused concern at potentially being one of the first bunch of passengers to brave the atmospheric elements. Our decision to head back by road was prompted by our friend's coincidental need to head to Portsmouth for a course at the end of the week and get his tempestuous VW Caravello vehicle back to the UK so he could exchange it for a new, more reliable people carrier better designed to cope with Italian pot-holes, drivers and their Waltons-size offspring.
After a surreal meal in an eclectic restaurant built inside yet another volcanic crater - this one distinctly less troublesome - things became definite. Online, it became obvious that things were more chaotic than we had envisaged. A rail strike in parts of France eliminated train travel as an option. The usual Dover to Calais ferry & Eurotunnel routes were fully booked. The only available channel crossing we could find was at 0400 on Monday morning from Dieppe in France to Newhaven near Brighton. Apart from the early hour, that suited us fine - giving us two days to drive there and with the chance to stop off at my husband's parents in northern France to freshen up.
Scrapping plans to visit the island of Procida, we cut short our stay by a day and started packing. This left poor Kirsty to cope with the melee of clearing up after our departure and the inconvenience of us taking off in the only vehicle that could comfortably suit her entire brood.
So, leaving early was one unexpected turn of events. The second was acknowledging how amazingly well our two lively boys, who get fidgetty if they go a couple of hours without running around kicking a ball, coped with being cooped up in a tin box on wheels with ever dwindling amounts of sleep over the successive few days. They took it all in their stride, hardly complained, slept almost on command and I got the impression that if I'd told them we now had to get a hot air balloon to Ougadougou at 2 a.m., they wouldn't have batted an eyelid!
The third was when Vincent the Van, as we christened the Carvello after feeling the need to offer verbal encouragement to the vehicle we were in, gave up the ghost!
He had battled on, to be fair, bravely lasting out when a petrol station failed to materialise during another force of nature - a giant electrical storm. The rain drops were so fat they caused local drivers, renowned for their fearlessness, to shelter under motorway bridges or on the hard shoulder. As Brits used to deploying windscreen wipers at full pelt on a regular basis, we simply ploughed on, eyes extra-peeled in the hope of a glorious Agip or Servicio sign. We must have been on the last few vapours of diesel by the time we pulled in, gratefully, to fill up.
Laying to rest our visions of huddling by the roadside in flimsy rain coats while we summoned some kind of roadside recovery job, we trundled on. Vincent was noisy, rattly, throaty and seemed to have an arthritic gear box, but had recently had a lot of work done on him, so we thought he'd survive the trip. We ticked off the kilometres - almost reaching 1000 - but he then complained of the metallic version of a headache by showing us his battery warning light.
Inconveniently, at this point, we were due to head through what seemed like the 50th motorway tunnel in the Alpine mountains - but this was the biggest beast at Frejus and it came with a hefty €46.40 toll fee. There were confused scenes when we turned up there with a huge collection of lorries and cars forming a car park effect at the entrance. Unsure what was going on, we barged into the queues in recently-acquired Italian style.
Just as we thought we were finally going in and exultant after almost hitting our target of making it beyond Rome, Florence and through Italy on the first day of driving, steam appeared from under the bonnet and driver Nick could not shift the gear stick. Gestured to pull over, Nick managed to force the vehicle into first but amidst a whiff of burning oil, we were forced to switch off the engine and wait 10 minutes while it cooled down before the authorities would let us enter.
Thankfully, the storm had finished by then but it was with bated breath that we drove through the white-sided, claustrophobic bore-hole, dazzled by lights, and 'phewed' our way out the other side. To have broken down in a storm would have been a morale-dampening experience but to break down in a tunnel inside a mountain would have been a huge, not to say panic-attack inducing problem!
Buoyed by Vincent's tenacity, we ploughed on. It's all a bit of a blur now but as it was the early hours of the morning, the mother in me had set my sights on a comfortable roadside motel in which we could at least get ourselves horizontal for a while before resuming our cushioned but none-the-less noisy expedition. In fact, the engine was so rattle-and-hum that the kids couldn't hear the dialogue from the film on the in-car DVD player that was to be our saving grace when cooped-up tantrums threatened. However, delighted at this rare technological treat, they seemed happy enough to guess what was going on.
(It was Nim's Island, by the way, in case anyone out there can fill me in on why Jodie Foster was leading some kind of OCD existence as a writer and then ended up living out the very plot she was scripting, on some desert island with a buccanner character played by the dazzling Gerard Butler.)
I knew Nick and my husband would rather have shared the driving and ploughed on through the night instead of stopping. But I was concerned that Vincent needed a break; knew I wouldn't get any sleep amidst the tight turns, noise and nerves of our escapade and thought we'd all fare better after a genuine rest. However, my tactful observations that we'd just passed an Ibis sign or that that picture of a bed on the road sign looked interesting, went either unheard or ignored for a while longer. And, in the end, thank goodness they did!
We stopped at one Campanile, only to be thwarted by a bizarre warren of one-way signs which didn't seem to lead to our intended destination at all. So we stopped an hour later at a second ray of hope, only to find, armed with two teddies and three pillows, that they were frustratingly 'complet'!
If we had just been our family, I would normally have dissolved into grumpy, sleep-deprived abusiveness by this point, reminding all males present (and I was utterly out-numbered) that the fairer sex had suggested HOURS AGO that booking somewhere to stay might have been a good idea. But we were so aware that our plight could very easily lead in that direction that our attitudes had morphed into one of 'this is going to be some story to tell', rather than frustration.
And again, this proved serendipitous (thanks for the thesaurus-ness Nick!) As someone who used to get car sick and who generally does all the family driving because my husband has a different anticipatory reflex to me (i.e. I tend to gasp and put my right foot to the floor seconds before he does when I'm his passenger!) I was keen to take my turn at the wheel.
With the help of some caffeine, the boys asleep and daylight breaking, I got to know the Caravello's foibles and ploughed on down the motorway with the view of endless flat fields blurring away out of the windows. Then, over the brow of a hill, I felt a slight clunk and the speedo dial started decelerating despite my right foot being flat to the floor.
Luckily, there was little traffic and I slowly cruised to a halt on the hard shoulder by a conveniently located SOS phone. Within 20 minutes, and thanks to Nick's impeccable French, a huge mechanic's truck pulled up and Vincent the van was hauled onto it as we jumped into the driver's cab, to the boys' great excitement.
Jean-Luc, the mechanic, drove us all to his garage in the nearby village of Messin and my eldest son and I went to stretch our legs (and I found another hotel - again, in vain!) while the men assessed the damage. By the time I returned, Jean-Luc had declared the vehicle kaput, mort, finis! It was then my job to steer the vehicle backwards while the men pushed him into a graveyard of similarly kaput contraptions - many with British number plates. We had thought that a new battery or some tinkering with the alternator or transmission (these being the only parts of the engine I could name!) might be possible. But, sadly, this was not to be. Indeed, Nick had to pay Jean-Luc for the privilege of him having the car for spare parts, which seemed the wrong way round to me.
It was then that that a couple of lines from the Italian Job sprung to mind: "He was only meant to blow the bloody doors off!" and "Rozzer's having trouble with his differential..."
But anyway, Jean-Luc volunteered to take us to a nearby hotel beside a lake and my baggy-eyed, jaded brain started to throw serious credit card swipes at this suggestion! Despite this not materialising, of all the places to break down, this was a perfect one with a restaurant, gorgeous views, a children's play area, cafe, benches, boats, you name it. The added bonus was that my husband's parents lived within reasonable reach and they kindly cancelled all their plans to come to our aide, driving a vehicle each, so that we could borrow one to drive back to England in and meet our planned channel crossing.
They arrived around five hours later to find us camped outside a tourist office, sunbathing deliriously, having at least had a snack, cleaned our teeth, washed our faces and changed some clothes. The three hour drive to their house was tortuous but most of us slept, there was the joy of air-conditioning and it was great to offload our worries and unwind in familiar company.
Once in the little village of Framecourt, the boys just wanted to run about while the grown ups showered and slept. We were woken at 9:30 pm to the mouth-watering fragrance of crisp roast pork with all the trimmings followed by fresh strawberries and ice cream. The men then had a power nap while the rest of us watched the news for the latest travel updates - at that stage, the flying ban had just been extended but test flights were being carried out.
Leaving the in-laws behind at midnight, we set off on the two-hour drive to Dieppe armed with a picnic in case of further eventualities and with the boys once more nodding off. Arriving at the port in plenty of time, we were relieved to see that though there were lots of foot passengers, our worries about queues of lorries and other vehicles were unfounded.
Although we envied those passengers who had baggsed the large, comfortable airline-style seats, we experienced a calm, quiet four-hour crossing and somehow managed to fold our bodies into neck-cricking sleeping positions in the main lounge bucket chairs of the SS Seven Sisters.
Other passengers slept on the floor, the window sill, with heads on tables, in the toddler's well-padded play area - the place was awash with exhaustion. As we started to pull into Newhaven at sunrise, other people's stories started to unfold.
The table of four next to us hadn't known each other until they had tried to check in at an airport the previous day. Told they wouldn't be flying anywhere, they managed to club together for a hire car and travelled across the continent together.
The elderly couple opposite us had spent an extra thousand pounds on hotel stays and train travel to get to the ferry and had no idea how they were supposed to get a train for the final leg of their return journey to their London home.
They told us of an acquaintance who had started his trek home by train Montenegro, where so many passengers boarded that the driver refused to budge. That was until the passengers effectively mutinied and pinned him to the carriage demanding to be driven onwards!
So, after a diversion to Gatwick to collect our own car, we eventually pootled home beneath eerily quiet skies and Airport Closed roadsigns feeling, really, quite lucky. And bed had never been more welcoming.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
14) OK COMMUTER
I haven't been able to write for ages as we've moved house - more on that another time - and it's taken the obligatory 30 days to get broadband sorted.
But now, I'm back - occasionally. So here's my latest missive:....
I don't own a Temperley, Chloe or McCartney let alone Jimmy Choos or Laboutins (can I even spell it??) For one thing, I can't afford to and for another I'm not sure my 5 ft 3" frame could carry them off. I have an interest in fashion - despite my tomboyish youth and my mother's strictly M & S sense of style.
I'd love the kind of capsule wardrobe fashionista's often recommend in the glossy mags. In fact, I have a friend, who's strictly Boden, who hangs each outfit on a hanger complete with necklace on top and shoes beneath. Maybe that's taking things a bit too far. After all, you have to allow for changing your mind along with the climate and mixing things up a bit. My style is a bit more "Oh crap! What am I gonna wear that suits cycling to the station, traipsing across town on the tube, walking round an overly heated office that's then overly chilled post 5pm that might double up as suitable for interviewing someone vaguely glam or important?"
Maybe there's a niche in the market for someone to open up a new label for people like me. There are other additions too, that might someone with younger children than mine. Like a cardigan or blouse with a thin layer on the top that you can rip off post-puking or dribbling when you say goodbye at nursery drop-off. The possibilities are endless! I feel a new career coming on... Might call the new line ok commuter!!!
But now, I'm back - occasionally. So here's my latest missive:....
I don't own a Temperley, Chloe or McCartney let alone Jimmy Choos or Laboutins (can I even spell it??) For one thing, I can't afford to and for another I'm not sure my 5 ft 3" frame could carry them off. I have an interest in fashion - despite my tomboyish youth and my mother's strictly M & S sense of style.
I'd love the kind of capsule wardrobe fashionista's often recommend in the glossy mags. In fact, I have a friend, who's strictly Boden, who hangs each outfit on a hanger complete with necklace on top and shoes beneath. Maybe that's taking things a bit too far. After all, you have to allow for changing your mind along with the climate and mixing things up a bit. My style is a bit more "Oh crap! What am I gonna wear that suits cycling to the station, traipsing across town on the tube, walking round an overly heated office that's then overly chilled post 5pm that might double up as suitable for interviewing someone vaguely glam or important?"
Maybe there's a niche in the market for someone to open up a new label for people like me. There are other additions too, that might someone with younger children than mine. Like a cardigan or blouse with a thin layer on the top that you can rip off post-puking or dribbling when you say goodbye at nursery drop-off. The possibilities are endless! I feel a new career coming on... Might call the new line ok commuter!!!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
13) LETTER TO MY CAR
She's scratched, dented and often mud-splattered on her silver paintworked outside. She's grey-cushioned and scattered with long journey crumbs on the inside.
But she's safe.
She's not the car of my dreams - that would be a green, two-seater, raved about on Top Gear something or other, but where would I drive that anyway? No, she definitely has the wide-hipped, home-baked, built-for-comfort proportions of a gutsy female.
In snow, pelting rain and in the baking hot rays of the Continent, she's kept me cool enough, warm enough and dry enough. That was back when the air conditioning worked. But I'm prepared to tolerate a few imperfections with this old friend.
She may be tired and shabby, like a well-loved cuddly toy, but I have a feeling I like her all the more because all this rather reminds me of myself - slightly world-weary; practical rather than dressy. And she works. She knows the road and I know her - exactly how much pressure to put on the steering wheel; how to coast in traffic jams; how long I can get away with the petrol guage telling me it's empty before it really is empty.
She's like a trusted friend. And I wouldn't replace her with anything shinier, speedier or classier until I absolutely have to - never mind what the neighbours think!
INSPIRED BY http://www.sleepisfortheweak.org.uk/2010/02/22/writing-workshop-14-childhood-passions-and-a-fantasy-shopping-spree/
AND http://itsasmallworldafterallfamily.wordpress.com/2010/02/18/a-letter-to-my-bed/
Saturday, February 20, 2010
12) TO DO LIST
There are a few things I'd like to do before I'm 40 - which isn't far away now!
1) Go to the opera. I would have shuddered at the thought as a child but now, I actually like the better known of the arias - not that I know anything about them.
2) Take the kids to a musical in the West End.
3) Take the family to Monze in Zambia, where I was born, and to walk past Vic Falls & take in a safari.
4) Have a really proper grown-up dinner party at our new house - we move in in three weeks!
5) Get a short story or novel written from beginning to end - even if no one wants to publish it.
6) Lose half a stone, of course.
7) Make time for a regular massage or facial or, preferably, both!
8) Have a capsule wardrobe of stylish clothes that fit in all the right places (see 6)!
How about you?
1) Go to the opera. I would have shuddered at the thought as a child but now, I actually like the better known of the arias - not that I know anything about them.
2) Take the kids to a musical in the West End.
3) Take the family to Monze in Zambia, where I was born, and to walk past Vic Falls & take in a safari.
4) Have a really proper grown-up dinner party at our new house - we move in in three weeks!
5) Get a short story or novel written from beginning to end - even if no one wants to publish it.
6) Lose half a stone, of course.
7) Make time for a regular massage or facial or, preferably, both!
8) Have a capsule wardrobe of stylish clothes that fit in all the right places (see 6)!
How about you?
Thursday, January 14, 2010
11) AVOIDING "KEYBOARD FACE"
Blathering on about how amazing it is that women can have many different and often conflicting things going on in their pretty little lives at once is nothing new. But I thought I'd dwell on the subject of multi-tasking. Not in that annoyingly martyrish "Woe is me! I've got so much on my plate!" way we women sometimes do, that makes you just want to slap yourself and say, well, do less then. Just as a matter of interest and because I was inspired by a line in this: (http://www.emilycagle.co.uk/blog/2010/01/lost-for-words-five-novel-ways-to-beat-writers-block)
Take this week, for instance. On Monday, the snowpocalypse (as I've heard it nicknamed) finally permitted my children to return to what had become a novelty: school. but at the later start time of 10 a.m. Now, that's my sort of schedule! In addition, the headteacher had organised for staff to meet us at the roadside and escort our children into class like a sort of concierge service so that we wouldn't clog up the already snow-clogged School Lane with our vehicles and could just drop and go. What bliss! While I missed saying a falsely (at that hectic time in the morning) cheery hello to all my playground mum-mates, as I haven't seen them yet this year due to snow and a shared school run with a neighbour, this was a great new system. Only Ritz Hotel doormen-style uniforms would have added to the glamour! But I digress...
I also had the luxury of the children being at After School Club till 6pm - something (and here's a top-tip for "Portfolio workers") I recently enrolled them in for two days a week so that I could try to organise my shifts around my availability to work, rather than vice-versa. And even if I'm not working, I kid myself that it's worth them going so I can "catch up" (usually on blogging, tweeting and facebooking, which is - very sadly - unpaid, would that it were not! But it's my new year resolution to make it housework- honest!) They also love going now, as I've found when I'm trying to drag them home because I've tried to be organised and the sausages are burning! I digress still further....
I'm trying to get onto Tuesday. It was my school-run sharer's turn so I waved the boys off and switched the TV channel from some-cartoon-or-other to luxuriate in a bit of breakfast telly before I got cracking. I had a one-off night shift that evening - I nearly wrote one-night-stand here as that's what it sometimes feels like the morning after - without the *naughty bits*! But it actually involves being desk-bound from 9 pm to 9 am plus travel time of an extra hour - but longer in this Arctic weather - each way. So, I needed to make the obligatory to-do list for my Other Half (hereafter to be known as OH, as I understand is the modern convention, though sometimes prefaced by other adjectives - usually The Saintly - because he is - but, occasionally more venomous terms!) Then get dinner sorted early, make 'lunch' for my 2 a.m. break; do some voluntary work, clean up and pack for my eldest son's *scarey* three nights away on a school trip to Dorset. This also entailed making a Tudor outfit that wouldn't have him backing away in horror, despite the fact that my clumsy needlework and inspiration merely ran to adapting one of my white blouses as I hadn't had the chance or the inclination to buy something more apt from eBay.
So, with the washing machine on the go; something in the slow cooker and my work bag (because I dread forgetting my ID card & bleeping pass for the building) and son's case mostly packed, I set off to meet the mum I'm helping. Home-Start is an excellent charity (See here http://www.home-start.org.uk) that I wish I'd known more about when my two were babies & my not-so-saintly-on-this-occasion) OH was away a lot. I did an 8-week course in the Autumn and now I've got a lovely but struggling Mum to look after. On this particular visit, it involved settling her young daughter down for her day-time nap; something said child is non too keen on. Or rather, she's so exhausted that she can't seem to settle herself to sleep. Having been there, done that & read all the Gina Ford-esque books on the subject, I have been known to put her down for a nap successfully and felt the warm glow of achievement as a result. Not on this occasion. Little One cried and cried until my inner resolve wavered and I ended up trying non controlled-crying methods of sending her off to the land of ZZZZs that enabled her mum to get some much-needed peace. So, for an hour and a half, I held her in my arms, gazed down at her restful little eyelashes and perfectly relaxed complexion, and could do nothing but gingerly shift my position with bated breath, look around and think. It made such a pleasant change! So, of course, as well as admiring the wallpaper, I mentally planned the rest of my day and it occurred to me that maybe we multi-task, as a species, because we're trying to stay awake, just like a baby gets more and more hyper as she fights her need to sleep!
I say this because after getting home again, making batter for toad-in-the-hole, collecting and/or dropping off our shared children while leaving said sausages to almost burn, nevertheless having a cosy dinner together and seeing the children, chuntering, into the bath, I set off to work. I have to admit, there was a spade in the boot and a blanket on the passenger seat just in case, but I wasn't expecting a difficult journey, it's just become habit lately.
Once in central-heated luxury, having arrived early for once, the blur of busy-ness began. It was only when I filled in one of those endless job applications (something I've done a bit of lately, in moments when I feel the need to search for a 'proper' job) that I realised how complex my role is sometimes. Watching the box in the corner of the room from home, it all looks so easy - until something goes wrong. But a ton of work goes into each little segment of a programme. Occasionally, your workload necessitates reading a book, going to a screening or watching a DVD on a future episode of something for much-needed research so I can hardly claim that the job is stressful compared to, say, risking billions on the stock market, coal-mining, open-heart surgery or engineering - or, indeed, teaching. But it's getting ever more technical and definitely requires a methodical, organised approach, attention to detail and lots of double-checking.
So, with new stories breaking - like the tragic Haitian earthquake - and the blizzard outside taking on extra significance, the wee small hours went by in a scurrying blitz. I worked out the clips for and (excuse the geek-speak) edited two packages and a set-up; wrote the cues to three news stories, cut the promos I'd been allocated, got up to speed on the briefs for three live interviewees and sighed phewingly when the reporter fronting a live from the snowed-in Midlands thankfully made it to his location on time despite the inclement environment.
By 7am, I was entering the danger zone. In the absence of adrenaline, with the programme on air and with my caffeine intake already at its palpitationss-avoiding limit, keyboard-face threatened. For the uninitiated, this is the moment where you drop off and, simultaneously, your propped-up face falls off its palm up, elbow-on-desk shaped perch and onto your keyboard. Not a pleasant waking up experience but, more mortifying is the laughter on the amused faces of your, until now, zombie-like colleagues.
To avoid this, when my eyelids had been open for approximately 22 hours, I found myself doing an online course at the same time, while keeping an ear out for instructions and the general mellee around me, purely because (a) I had to do it sometime soon and don't have the software at home and (b) I needed some sort of extra stimulation to stay alert.
I was also at maximum worrying capacity: concerned about how I was going to get home in the snow that had not been predicted to affect our 'patch' & also about aforementioned son's trip away (which ended up being postponed due to the weather anyway) & also about my items as they went to air (Did I choose the right shots? Could that have been written better?) &, with apologies to Victoria Wood, also about moving house, wrinkles, life in general and the baggage retrieval system at Heathrow.
So what did I do? More! After surreptitiously taking a peek at Facebook & Twitter to get road home updates - and the rest - I also tested myself on editorial policy. It worked! No keyboard face. Just the occasional bewildered "Uh?!" as I was asked to do something and forgot which of the 'worlds' I was inhabiting at that particular moment.
The adrenaline kicked in as I navigated my home in the newly (again) whitened world we're having to get accustomed to, grateful that I hadn't taken the train after all as services had been cancelled, and eventually made it back to my bed at around 11 am. Sleep was swift but too brief and then it was back out in the wilderness to collect three boys, two of whom were disappointed that they weren't sleeping over elsewhere - but I wasn't!
So, after a solid block of sleep involving vivid dreams, which I'm told are your subconscious way of sorting things out - still multi-tasking then! - writing this has helped to clear my mind too. I've also thoroughly enjoyed the simple creativity of it. But while the telly's been on as sort of background newzac (instead of muzac), I haven't needed to do too much at once because I'm more-or-less alert now. For me, anyway.
Is there some logic in that? If not, thanks for reading anyway, especially if you were doing something else at the same time!
Take this week, for instance. On Monday, the snowpocalypse (as I've heard it nicknamed) finally permitted my children to return to what had become a novelty: school. but at the later start time of 10 a.m. Now, that's my sort of schedule! In addition, the headteacher had organised for staff to meet us at the roadside and escort our children into class like a sort of concierge service so that we wouldn't clog up the already snow-clogged School Lane with our vehicles and could just drop and go. What bliss! While I missed saying a falsely (at that hectic time in the morning) cheery hello to all my playground mum-mates, as I haven't seen them yet this year due to snow and a shared school run with a neighbour, this was a great new system. Only Ritz Hotel doormen-style uniforms would have added to the glamour! But I digress...
I also had the luxury of the children being at After School Club till 6pm - something (and here's a top-tip for "Portfolio workers") I recently enrolled them in for two days a week so that I could try to organise my shifts around my availability to work, rather than vice-versa. And even if I'm not working, I kid myself that it's worth them going so I can "catch up" (usually on blogging, tweeting and facebooking, which is - very sadly - unpaid, would that it were not! But it's my new year resolution to make it housework- honest!) They also love going now, as I've found when I'm trying to drag them home because I've tried to be organised and the sausages are burning! I digress still further....
I'm trying to get onto Tuesday. It was my school-run sharer's turn so I waved the boys off and switched the TV channel from some-cartoon-or-other to luxuriate in a bit of breakfast telly before I got cracking. I had a one-off night shift that evening - I nearly wrote one-night-stand here as that's what it sometimes feels like the morning after - without the *naughty bits*! But it actually involves being desk-bound from 9 pm to 9 am plus travel time of an extra hour - but longer in this Arctic weather - each way. So, I needed to make the obligatory to-do list for my Other Half (hereafter to be known as OH, as I understand is the modern convention, though sometimes prefaced by other adjectives - usually The Saintly - because he is - but, occasionally more venomous terms!) Then get dinner sorted early, make 'lunch' for my 2 a.m. break; do some voluntary work, clean up and pack for my eldest son's *scarey* three nights away on a school trip to Dorset. This also entailed making a Tudor outfit that wouldn't have him backing away in horror, despite the fact that my clumsy needlework and inspiration merely ran to adapting one of my white blouses as I hadn't had the chance or the inclination to buy something more apt from eBay.
So, with the washing machine on the go; something in the slow cooker and my work bag (because I dread forgetting my ID card & bleeping pass for the building) and son's case mostly packed, I set off to meet the mum I'm helping. Home-Start is an excellent charity (See here http://www.home-start.org.uk) that I wish I'd known more about when my two were babies & my not-so-saintly-on-this-occasion) OH was away a lot. I did an 8-week course in the Autumn and now I've got a lovely but struggling Mum to look after. On this particular visit, it involved settling her young daughter down for her day-time nap; something said child is non too keen on. Or rather, she's so exhausted that she can't seem to settle herself to sleep. Having been there, done that & read all the Gina Ford-esque books on the subject, I have been known to put her down for a nap successfully and felt the warm glow of achievement as a result. Not on this occasion. Little One cried and cried until my inner resolve wavered and I ended up trying non controlled-crying methods of sending her off to the land of ZZZZs that enabled her mum to get some much-needed peace. So, for an hour and a half, I held her in my arms, gazed down at her restful little eyelashes and perfectly relaxed complexion, and could do nothing but gingerly shift my position with bated breath, look around and think. It made such a pleasant change! So, of course, as well as admiring the wallpaper, I mentally planned the rest of my day and it occurred to me that maybe we multi-task, as a species, because we're trying to stay awake, just like a baby gets more and more hyper as she fights her need to sleep!
I say this because after getting home again, making batter for toad-in-the-hole, collecting and/or dropping off our shared children while leaving said sausages to almost burn, nevertheless having a cosy dinner together and seeing the children, chuntering, into the bath, I set off to work. I have to admit, there was a spade in the boot and a blanket on the passenger seat just in case, but I wasn't expecting a difficult journey, it's just become habit lately.
Once in central-heated luxury, having arrived early for once, the blur of busy-ness began. It was only when I filled in one of those endless job applications (something I've done a bit of lately, in moments when I feel the need to search for a 'proper' job) that I realised how complex my role is sometimes. Watching the box in the corner of the room from home, it all looks so easy - until something goes wrong. But a ton of work goes into each little segment of a programme. Occasionally, your workload necessitates reading a book, going to a screening or watching a DVD on a future episode of something for much-needed research so I can hardly claim that the job is stressful compared to, say, risking billions on the stock market, coal-mining, open-heart surgery or engineering - or, indeed, teaching. But it's getting ever more technical and definitely requires a methodical, organised approach, attention to detail and lots of double-checking.
So, with new stories breaking - like the tragic Haitian earthquake - and the blizzard outside taking on extra significance, the wee small hours went by in a scurrying blitz. I worked out the clips for and (excuse the geek-speak) edited two packages and a set-up; wrote the cues to three news stories, cut the promos I'd been allocated, got up to speed on the briefs for three live interviewees and sighed phewingly when the reporter fronting a live from the snowed-in Midlands thankfully made it to his location on time despite the inclement environment.
By 7am, I was entering the danger zone. In the absence of adrenaline, with the programme on air and with my caffeine intake already at its palpitationss-avoiding limit, keyboard-face threatened. For the uninitiated, this is the moment where you drop off and, simultaneously, your propped-up face falls off its palm up, elbow-on-desk shaped perch and onto your keyboard. Not a pleasant waking up experience but, more mortifying is the laughter on the amused faces of your, until now, zombie-like colleagues.
To avoid this, when my eyelids had been open for approximately 22 hours, I found myself doing an online course at the same time, while keeping an ear out for instructions and the general mellee around me, purely because (a) I had to do it sometime soon and don't have the software at home and (b) I needed some sort of extra stimulation to stay alert.
I was also at maximum worrying capacity: concerned about how I was going to get home in the snow that had not been predicted to affect our 'patch' & also about aforementioned son's trip away (which ended up being postponed due to the weather anyway) & also about my items as they went to air (Did I choose the right shots? Could that have been written better?) &, with apologies to Victoria Wood, also about moving house, wrinkles, life in general and the baggage retrieval system at Heathrow.
So what did I do? More! After surreptitiously taking a peek at Facebook & Twitter to get road home updates - and the rest - I also tested myself on editorial policy. It worked! No keyboard face. Just the occasional bewildered "Uh?!" as I was asked to do something and forgot which of the 'worlds' I was inhabiting at that particular moment.
The adrenaline kicked in as I navigated my home in the newly (again) whitened world we're having to get accustomed to, grateful that I hadn't taken the train after all as services had been cancelled, and eventually made it back to my bed at around 11 am. Sleep was swift but too brief and then it was back out in the wilderness to collect three boys, two of whom were disappointed that they weren't sleeping over elsewhere - but I wasn't!
So, after a solid block of sleep involving vivid dreams, which I'm told are your subconscious way of sorting things out - still multi-tasking then! - writing this has helped to clear my mind too. I've also thoroughly enjoyed the simple creativity of it. But while the telly's been on as sort of background newzac (instead of muzac), I haven't needed to do too much at once because I'm more-or-less alert now. For me, anyway.
Is there some logic in that? If not, thanks for reading anyway, especially if you were doing something else at the same time!
Sunday, January 10, 2010
10) EVERY SNOWY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING
OOh! I've just been approved as a member of British Mummy Bloggers. How exciting. I've also gained at least one other reader, judging by my Twitter content, so I'd better get writing a bit more often. Here goes.....
Living in the south east, we've had our far share of the cold white stuff lately. It's meant three days without pay for me and three days off school for the boys - which I'm sure they regard as a good thing. In a way, it's felt like an extension of the Christmas holidays - hanging around at home, playing games, doing family things together, eating lots with the excuse that we need to stay warm. And despite our penury, I've loved every minute of it.
My OH has spent hours outside - way beyond my frozen toe-tolerance levels - carving out an igloo that I think he has enjoyed more than the neighbourhood toddlers it's enticed. And despite the argument going on within earshot right now over the Wii being turned off at last for the first time this morning, we've been able to achieve so much while we've been forcibly housebound.
I've finished the trim on an antique chair I started reupholstering six months ago in a fit of creativity. I'm so proud of it, because it's so against my nature to be that craftsy, that I may well have to post a photo of it here? When I get round to it.
Meanwhile, the ironing pile is more molehill than mountain for the first time in months - with a little help from the in-laws who stayed just after the New Year.
I've found all sorts of buried 'treasure' while rummaging under sofa cushions with the hoover so the lounge actually IS clean, instead of just looking it on the surface.
The children's scrapbooks are up-to-date - a project I started during that creative season I've only just realised I had - in an attempt to stop the house being wall-papered with their schoolwork, certificates and doodles.
The kitchen cupboards are only half-stocked, but that's a good thing because we're moving house next month so we need to get rid of the half-opened packets of lentils and soya mince that no one really likes but which I buy in regular fits of health angst.
We've had loads of quality time with the neighbours, who are now firm friends, thanks to the Blitz spirit the snow, ice and power cuts have inflicted on us. And we may even get to watch the Beowulf DVD my OH has been nagging about since before Christmas now that we've watched most of the Sky-plussed backlog.
Plus, I've been able to update this and I may even bake some bread later.
So, all in all, it's been very much like that situation I've often wished for: "Stop the World I want to get off!" That's the phrase I sometimes utter when I feel overwhelmed, overworked, stressed out and pulled in all directions. Now it's happened! If that's what winter's all about, this sun-worshipper may have to start liking the other end of the year too.
So when the Big Freeze turns into the Big Melt, floods permitting, I'll be ready for the world to start spinning again.
And instead of my usual New Year dieting resolutions, which have been postponed until February, it's been a refreshing change to start the new decade with a huge mental & physical spring clean. Whilst my To Do list is not actually Done (will it ever be?), at least it's shrunk.
Living in the south east, we've had our far share of the cold white stuff lately. It's meant three days without pay for me and three days off school for the boys - which I'm sure they regard as a good thing. In a way, it's felt like an extension of the Christmas holidays - hanging around at home, playing games, doing family things together, eating lots with the excuse that we need to stay warm. And despite our penury, I've loved every minute of it.
My OH has spent hours outside - way beyond my frozen toe-tolerance levels - carving out an igloo that I think he has enjoyed more than the neighbourhood toddlers it's enticed. And despite the argument going on within earshot right now over the Wii being turned off at last for the first time this morning, we've been able to achieve so much while we've been forcibly housebound.
I've finished the trim on an antique chair I started reupholstering six months ago in a fit of creativity. I'm so proud of it, because it's so against my nature to be that craftsy, that I may well have to post a photo of it here? When I get round to it.
Meanwhile, the ironing pile is more molehill than mountain for the first time in months - with a little help from the in-laws who stayed just after the New Year.
I've found all sorts of buried 'treasure' while rummaging under sofa cushions with the hoover so the lounge actually IS clean, instead of just looking it on the surface.
The children's scrapbooks are up-to-date - a project I started during that creative season I've only just realised I had - in an attempt to stop the house being wall-papered with their schoolwork, certificates and doodles.
The kitchen cupboards are only half-stocked, but that's a good thing because we're moving house next month so we need to get rid of the half-opened packets of lentils and soya mince that no one really likes but which I buy in regular fits of health angst.
We've had loads of quality time with the neighbours, who are now firm friends, thanks to the Blitz spirit the snow, ice and power cuts have inflicted on us. And we may even get to watch the Beowulf DVD my OH has been nagging about since before Christmas now that we've watched most of the Sky-plussed backlog.
Plus, I've been able to update this and I may even bake some bread later.
So, all in all, it's been very much like that situation I've often wished for: "Stop the World I want to get off!" That's the phrase I sometimes utter when I feel overwhelmed, overworked, stressed out and pulled in all directions. Now it's happened! If that's what winter's all about, this sun-worshipper may have to start liking the other end of the year too.
So when the Big Freeze turns into the Big Melt, floods permitting, I'll be ready for the world to start spinning again.
And instead of my usual New Year dieting resolutions, which have been postponed until February, it's been a refreshing change to start the new decade with a huge mental & physical spring clean. Whilst my To Do list is not actually Done (will it ever be?), at least it's shrunk.
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