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.
Friday, August 20, 2010
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!
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