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.
Friday, June 18, 2010
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?
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