Memory Lane

There’s something about old friends.  This is not to detract from the very real and genuine friendship offered to you by people along the way, and some of my good friends are relatively recent, but what I’m talking about are people who had a profound influence on your background and in shaping your life as it is today.

I am very lucky to count three of my best friends as my three oldest friends.  I have known them since I was 10 years old and we met in the institution known as boarding school and have become firm friends ever since.  This is a unique and special relationship that in some ways transcends that of family past and present – you would never tell your mum about your wildest fantasies, but believe you me, they could spill the beans!  And we keep in touch – I’m not talking Facebook or social media (although one lives abroad so it does help) – I’m talking really in touch, phone calls, texts and emails – and we have met up just by ourselves with no husbands or kids altogether at least once a year, for a long weekend for more years than I can remember.  And we take up where we left off the year before, and for the three days that we are together we talk and talk and talk, with a little sleep and a lot of eating and drinking.  And it is fun going back to being just Me – not someone’s Mum, or Wife, or Job Title. 

And like any relationship it’s not without its ups and downs.  We’ve fought, sided with one or two others, we’ve told each other when we don’t like their boyfriends, or choices or situations.  On the other hand, we would drop anything if one was in trouble, or needed something.  We are there for all of the important things – weddings, funerals, christenings, big birthdays and so on.  My kids know my friends as ‘Aunties’ and I am the same to theirs.  They are real, human, non- virtual friends and as I said, we are very lucky, and we cherish this.

But I’m not dissing Facebook – in fact, I have made some very good friends who started off as acquaintances that I added in the spirit of bonhomie, but who have turned out to be really genuine people.  And by the same token it is always good to see status updates of good friends who I see regularly.  But the real reason why I’m not dissing Facebook is that yesterday it actually helped me get in contact with my very oldest friend, whom I have known since I was 8 years old when I lived in Kenya, and lost touch with nearly 30 years ago. In that time she had moved to New Zealand, got married, lost both parents and had two kids.

8 years old in Kenya (with Maasai warrior)

When moments like this happen, memories come flooding back.  There are flashes of memories so deeply ingrained that you can simply reach and pluck them out of the air.  The smell of the washing powder her mum used, the layout of her bedroom at home, the bikes we used to ride, flashbacks of the painful stages from childhood to teenage hood.  And then the odd letter, the promise to keep in touch.  Then nothing.

 

And life goes on, and you forget.  Until one day you remember and wonder.  

And one day you do something about it.

I would love to hear your stories of old friendships, and your comments below!

Alternative Nursery Rhyme (From the pov of a P*** Off Mum)

Rain rain, Go away,

Go find someplace else to play

The air is damp, my hair’s gone lank

I’ve had enough of showers today.

Off out with doggie,

In holes wet and boggy

Tried not to drown, you chucking down

I’ve had enough of being soggy.

Running fast every place

Makeup streaking down my face

It’s utterly grim, when cold sets in

I’ve had enough, give us some space.

I’ve no idea if I’m here or there

Crickets on or off, too much to bear

Summer's here, so disappear

I’ve had enough, it isn’t fair.

Kids games down, with flooded grounds

Emails cancelling, doing the rounds

Grumpy mums, kids twiddle thumbs

I’ve had enough disappointed sounds.

And while I’m at it, tell the snow

It’s not welcome either, go, go, go!

It’s unfunny, when it’s not sunny

I’ve had enough, so just F* O*!

Lent Resolution

So Easter has charged off leaving the sweet sickly smell of chocolate in its wake, and the kids are slowly getting back into the routine of school, and I am slowly getting back into the routine demanded by school kids.  It was a good Easter this year – the Easter bunny had left some eggs, we had a lovely family meal with the traditional roast lamb dinner, and were zonked out in front of the telly by early evening.  As Pa Larkin would say ‘Perfick’. 

I had in vain attempted to convince my family of the merits of giving something up for Lent – but in order to do that I needed to explain what Lent was.  My boys have covered topics such as Buddhism, Hinduism, Judaism and the Muslim faith in their religious studies at school, and so I started off with Easter, as I thought that that was fairly cut and dried.  I asked Little Man whether he knew what Easter was.  He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Of course!’ he said, ‘It’s when Jesus rode from the dead!’

After correcting him, and explaining the symbolism involved with the cave, and the stone rolling away, and Jesus emerging newly risen, and therefore why we used Eggs to remember this occasion – he looked perturbed. ‘But Rabbits don’t lay eggs?’  As I mumbled my way out of this new dilemma, I decided to leave the concept of Lent for this year…

Like most people, I’ve been singularly useless at sticking to any Lent resolution.  I’ve tried wine (caved in on Day 2), crisps (Day 1) and chocolate (don’t eat much anyway so that was a bit of a cheat).  I’ve tried the reverse psychology of doing something I hate, like going to the gym (caved in on Day 3), dieting (oh purleeeeaaassse) and doing a daily tidy up in the house (Day 1 – which is also the time I broke the no crisps rule…).  My red headed Irish friend T gave up cakes, chocolate and biscuits for Lent.  I’ll be kind and say that she lasted a week (it was less) because she had found herself substituting them daily with a family bag of crisps. But this year I was determined to give it a go, and so I decided to give up wheat.

Why Wheat?  I’m thankfully not celiac or gluten intolerant, or any of the other conditions attached to gluten intolerance or allergy, but I do find myself slightly bloated after eating bread or anything containing a good amount of wheat. And I could do without looking bloated- I am a lady of a certain age (ok, 45) who has had three babies, a very good social life, a love of fine food, and an impending thyroid problem.  From being ‘underweight’ for my height at school, I developed a massive appetite at a very early age, which has caught up with me somewhat – I now sit comfortably in the ‘normal or OK’ range, which is fine, but means that shifting any pounds takes dedication and a long time. So wheat seemed to hit the button with me.

And I did it!  It wasn’t easy, but at the same time it wasn’t actually that hard either – because I'm not allergic to wheat, I didn’t fuss if I was served sausages, or if wheat was within the list of ingredients.  What I did do was avoid cakes, breads, pastries and so on – you get the gist.  By Day 3 I was beginning to get a bit irritable, and so I toddled off to the shops and bought myself a gluten freeloaf of bread which I kept in the freezer and toasted slices as and when I needed.  Even takeaways were no problem - our local Herbies does a gluten free pizza. My boys eat a fair amount of pasta (which I have never really liked) and I found that I had to consciously plan what I could eat instead, but apart from that, nothing much changed.  Except that I felt so much better.  Everything seemed to be moving around a previously quite sluggish system (if you see what I mean).  I didn’t have the extremes of tiredness and irritability that came after a meal.  I didn’t look any different, but I felt quite good. 

And there was a Bunny bonus - I stood on the scales on Easter Day and had lost 6 pounds. 

So this is one resolution that is here to stay.

I would love to hear your thoughts on this or any other of my posts! Please comment below!

Book Worm

I love nothing better than a good read, and have found the invention of the Kindle to be a godsend to me.  It means that in the many activities to which I ferry my kids, I can sling the Kindle into my handbag, where it rattles around happily with the plasters, sachets of Calpol, odd bits of loose change, a crumpled but clean tissue, several very sticky Chupa Chups lollies, a biro without a lid and a lipgloss.  Out of this little haven it emerges, at every possible moment – you know, the times you find that the most annoyingly competitive mummy has set up her chair next to you at cricket training, or when it is bucketing down with rain and you are in the car watching your child sloshing around unhappily at football training or when you have just half an hour of dance to wait for and so you are sitting in the corner of the room unobtrusively.  Often I wish I could take it out during the actual matches, but that simply wouldn’t be cricket (or football, or rugby… you get the gist). 

But it is amazing how much you can read, when you put your mind to it, and because I dabble in writing, it is one of the most common questions that I get asked ‘What’s a good book to read?’ ‘What’s your recommendation for a holiday/plane/recovery from operation book?’  Bearing this in mind, I have decided to write a couple of bi-monthly reviewlets (I’ve coined this phrase as I would hate for them to be seen as pukka reviews, but merely my take on the books, and not to be used against me…) These books have not been forced on me by the authors, nor have they been given to me, merely selected by me from the smorgasbord on offer at Amazon.  I find it extremely difficult to abandon a read – but on the odd occasion it has had to be done, and if it happens from henceforth, I will be honest and tell you why…

The Book Thief by Marcus Zuzak

Set in World War II Germany, it is a moving story of an orphaned German girl who goes to live with a foster family, whose grown up kids have moved out of home.  I found it initially very difficult to get in to, and this was probably because I started it at the beginning of the Easter holidays and was dipping in and out of it.  This is not a dipping in and out of book.  The storyline is fairly dark, with some hilarious childhood moments – a bit like Anne Frank meets The Railway Children.  I was probably 20 or 30 pages into it before I was totally hooked.  And you can see why it has been snapped up by Hollywood and is already into Oscars territory.  It is written in a concise and matter of fact way, but every sentence is carefully positioned and well thought out – from the pale seemingly insignificant characters like the Mayors wife to the supposed cruelty of the foster mother, the vindictiveness of the Hitler Youth and the gentle passiveness of a hideaway Jew. Events unfurl, and as a reader you are powerless to stop it, and the narrator, who is Death, jumps tantalizingly back and forward over timelines, pulling you unwillingly with him as you desperately hang on for dear life (no pun intended). The children grow, people die, villages are raised to the ground, and yet there is the human capacity for hope that makes you switch off the Kindle at the end with tears rolling cathartically down your cheeks.  Absolutely highly recommended – although possibly not for a plane read unless it’s long haul and you can blame your puffy eyes on the travelling…

The P45 Diaries by Ben Hatch 

Totally different in terms of style, but a great read nevertheless.  This is from the view of a laconic and slightly annoying 18 year old male who floats in and out of jobs, trying to find and justify his way in life.  I say slightly annoying because there is a part of me that is like his frustrated and recently widowed, heavily drinking father that wants to simply shake him and tell him to get his s*** together.  But it is only at that point that our antihero (rather like a wannabe Citizen Smith he rants against society) becomes more human, he falls in love, and we realise that actually he is still coping with his grief, and that of his family, for his deceased mother - with whom, it turns out through his diaries, he has a poignant and close relationship. There is a very real and touching affiliation with his young brother whose struggle to come to terms with the changes in his family is reflected in moments of OCD.

Rather weirdly, I’ve actually done (and walked from) some of the dead end jobs that he dips in and out of – the Ad Sales Company, the Financial Sales Company, all replete with mantras and office characters.  So true and so funny.  And a priceless bit involving a trouser press. There are elements that made me think of my own childhood, but knowing teenagers now as I do from a mum's perspective, there was a distinct lack of use of mobiles and social media, which was a little at odds with the present setting. That not withstanding, this book is riddled intelligently with elements of both old and new -Death of a Salesman, Catcher in the Rye, Bread, The Inbetweeners and Miranda.  It makes for both laughter and tears in equal force. It is a romping read and a great book for your holiday!  Highly recommended.

Next time I will be reviewing The Expats by Chris Pavone and another (suggestions welcome).

Please feel free to comment!

School Trips Away

You know when you get that piece of paper – inevitably, in my case, a couple of days late (and after another mummy has asked me all about it, prompting me to remind my child to remember to give it to me) – announcing the impending school trip?  Does anyone else feel a slight dip in enthusiasm, before glancing at the note, the deadline, the cost.  It’s definitely not that I don’t want my kids to participate in all the extra curricular (but of course enhancing to their education) activities, it’s not even particularly the cost (although nearly £2000 for a cricket tour to Barbados curbed our summer hols big time that year) – it’s the packing.

I know, ridiculous.  Especially as I am well travelled and went to boarding school from the age of 10.  I am an elite packer.  I can pack for England – in fact I could probably pack England in a rucksack and take it on as cabin baggage.  But getting all the stuff ready for an away school trip is a nightmare.  For a start, you realise that your kid has been existing on four T shirts (the others deemed unsuitable for some reason or another).  Normally this would not be a problem as the washing machine is on permanently in this house.  But when they are away for more than four nights, and they are hot and sweaty, it becomes a bit of an issue. So that’s a shopping trip.  Then there is the inevitable ‘Kit list’ that helpful teachers put together – this always includes waterproofs (I agree, the British weather is not predictable) a torch (why, I know they are staying at a cheap hotel, but surely they have lighting?) and the request for plastic bags for dirty clothes.

I have three boys, one of whom is too young to do overnighters, but the others are dab hands at it. Eldest Son, having been through the ranks of Beavers, Cubs and Scouts, is, like me, an uber packer.  After a trip his plastic bags are crammed with washing, and the torch has moved in the bag – so he obviously found a use for it. Middle Son is a disaster.  The last trip he did, he found the plastic bags (for dirty clothes) blew them up and then burst them noisily behind the teachers who wrote the kit lists. He arrived back dirty and happy, with a bag considerably lighter, having managed to lose a number of items and gained some from another child. And it didn’t matter that he only had four T shirts, because three of them appeared to come back absolutely spotless.  We won’t even go there with the pants and socks…

The other thing of course is that your child grows – often without your realizing, and all the stuff that you packed away from the last trip, or the last child, suddenly doesn’t fit.  And so we have gained several pairs of waterproof trousers (all unworn), the ‘spare pair of old trainers’ isn’t, and the wash bag suddenly becomes heavier, because your child has discovered ‘products’ like hair gel and cologne.  

Eldest Son and I worked through the list yesterday for his impending few days away on rowing camp.  This list required four sets of clothes to row in, because they would get wet (or hopefully not…). We duly located four pairs of jogging bottoms – some smaller than the others, four hoodies, and so on. We bagged them up into individual days – stopping short of labelling them Day 1, Day 2 – he is 14 after all… I talked him again through his enormous holdall –telling him to put the rest of his wash stuff Here before he left in the morning, that his socks were in this bit and so on.

He rolled his eyes.

‘I know what I’m doing Mum’ he said, slightly belligerently as I put the list in the bag for him to check he had everything on the way back.  (None of the kids ever use this itinerary, or check list, but it makes me feel efficient).

And so it was, at 5.30 this morning I waved him off as he left to catch the coach to his destination.

He’ll have a fantastic time.

(Without the soap, hairbrush, and deodorant, that are sitting unchecked on his bed).

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My weekend

As Oscar Wilde said ‘Life imitates art’.  Mr Wilde was obviously not born in the days when flat pack furniture abounded.  We have spent most of the weekend standing poring over drawings that do not resemble the finished product, or indeed look like the piece we saw in the show room.  The fact that we were looking at one set of fitting instructions for the wrong bit of furniture withstanding, flat pack furniture is the stuff of comedy.  Where else would you get your husband, all tooled up, drill in hand, sans safety goggles, only to discover that he just needs the allan key provided?  Where else would you get cheap in-family entertainment as the kids hold cabinets in precarious positions of general unmadeness whilst their hapless parents search around for a missing bolt, only to find that the cat is using it as a puck across the new shiny wooden floor?  And where else can you stand back with satisfaction as you look at the slightly wonky end result and say with pride ‘I made that’?

The other thing that kept the kids entertained this weekend was the sunshine, and the app VideoStar.  For those of you who hate technology, or for those of you who have teeny weeny kids who are still entertained by large plastic objects, or childrens’ presenters dressed in primary colours, I apologise now. For all the other muppets out there whose kids drag them in and out on the tide of electronica, listen up.  The app seems to be simple, downloadable on most things beginning with an ‘i’ (altho, alas, not an iRon) and allows the kids to make short snappy videos cut to music with lots of effects thrown in.  It teaches them how to edit, time and direct.  Little Man and his friend E, a girl, spent hours in the garden cartwheeling, making up routines on the trampoline and mimed singing in an attempt to create a fantastic pop video.  (All I can say is that they did some pretty good stuff, but Simon Cowell does not need to hang up his grey jumper just yet…)

Mind you, it was interesting to see– there was no shyness in front of camera for a start.  They have grown up with cameras, and everything is noted and recorded for posterity on some sort of digital media.  Where we had to wait two weeks for Truprint to send back our snaps only to see that your hand had obliterated most of the shots, they can now instantly delete and retake.  Where we had to rely on our memories of the holidays, they create their memories there and then, with tag lines, captions and hundreds of ‘likes’.

We were delighted to hear that this confidence shone through in Little Man’s efforts at an audition that he did a couple of weeks ago for a local drama group that he attends, and that he had landed the role of Oliver in the musical of that name.  Of course, the hard work hasn’t really started in earnest as it is still Easter break, but already he has been given some of the songs to learn, and soon he will have a script.  We have all regaled him with the well known things about the storyline and the songs, and I have no doubt that he will enjoy it all the way.  And so it was that amongst the flat packs, the VideoStar apps and the running round in the sunshine, occasionally I would hear strains of ‘Where is Love’ from the musical as he warbled around the garden setting up new shots.

The kids were huddled together, having eaten some snacks that I gave them earlier.  They sent Little Man over.

 ‘Please mum, can we have some more?’ he asked.

Maybe life does imitate art after all Mr Wilde…

Life's a Beach

We’re off to the beach today!

A chance to dig in the sand and play

We’ve sandals, towels and lots of fleeces

Mum’s packed a bag of bits and pieces

The dog’s excited, and so are we

Wind in our faces, running free

Jumping waves, trying not to get wet

Getting drenched, just for a bet

Fish and chips, shiny chins

Ice cream melting into grins

Play and fetch, bat and ball

Running in circles til we fall

Mummies chattering as we hide

In the dunes far and wide

Roly polies down the hill

No chances here of keeping still

Boys will be boys, not little men

Children playing once again
Rounders, dog chasing the ball
Mummies red faced, panting all

Sand on shoes, and sand on faces

(Sand in all the other places...)

Tired doggie, all puffed out

Tired boys, all whispered shouts

Sleeping lions, in the car

Back home to bed, not so far.

Waves we leave at our goodbye

Still crashing in a lullaby
Sleeping over with our friends
Just how a good day always ends

Mind and body still a sway

We went to the beach today!

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Wet Sunday

There’s something about quizzes.  I’m not talking the pub game type where you join up in teams and shout out the answers huddled together over the pork scratchings and in which the MC for the night (usually a regular who is normally to be seen sobbing into a pint in the corner) is puffed up with self importance at his 15 minutes of fame and marches around disqualifying the half pissed punters who heckle him. 

No, I’m talking about the little quizzes on social media.  The ones that ask you to answer a few questions and then somehow they define your personality.  There are literally hundreds.  They are also a way of gathering data on you, your likes and dislikes, your name, your friends names.  But we all know this, and buy into this, and it becomes a bit of a laugh – why on earth did I turn out to be Sandy in Grease?  Despite living in London and down south for many years, I am apparently a Northerner, and in another quiz my ideal town to live in is Cheltenham… And my colour is Pink (Motto is go go go! But you also know how to relax and recharge your batteries for the next big thing. You like to work hard, play hard and nap hard). And so you see, it goes on.  

It’s been a funny, busy old week – sleepovers x 2, day out at Legoland Windsor, a cinema trip, a photo shoot, a trip to London, a night out at Harry Hills I Can’t Sing- X factor musical and G going in to hospital for an operation to remove his gall bladder.  Some days we don’t know whether we are up or down.  And so it is with a sense of relief that we come to Sunday, and it’s raining.  I have a half drowned Eldest Son, who valiantly continued with his Sunday paper round so that the good people of Mytchett have something to hide behind at the breakfast table, a Middle Son who is somewhere in Middle Earth over at a friend’s house, Little Man is bright and breezy and inventing something on the computer, and G is safely ensconced in bed.  It is 08.15.  Gone are the days of lie ins, lazy Sunday lunches at the pub, crashing out on the sofa in front of an ancient film.

I was browsing through Facebook and found  Whats the Theme Tune of Your Life ?This little gem gave you the No 1 Hits when you turned a specific age.  I scrolled idly through the ages, starting at the oldest option – age 21. It was Kylie Minogue, Tears on My Pillow.  Very apt, I had just broken up with my First Real Love.  You may remember those days, and how traumatic they were. You have no idea if you will ever love again, until you do, and realise that actually, your first real love was probably lust, and that it becomes a first real love only in your mind, and only because it ended. On to 18 – Jackie Wilson, Reet Petite, yup, having fun at the Student Union bar at University, and dancing to live bands such as Katrina and the Waves and Transvision Vamp.  Over to 16, Foreigner, I Want To Know What Love is – hmm, probably quite accurate.  This was the age when I felt really uncomfortable in my acne ridden skin.  Back through the ages to 14, the same age as my son is now, it was Phil Collins You Can’t Hurry Love – advice I will be giving him in bucketfuls.  Down to age 12, (age of next son) and John Lennon with Imagine – ah yes, like him I had lots of money making ideas (mainly involving lemonade stalls)much to the annoyance of everyone around me – a very imaginative and creative age.

 My musings were disturbed by my mobile buzzing.  A text, with one word.

<Tea?>

My husband would love to have a little bell by his bedside with which to summon me, but times have moved on...

Before rushing to put the kettle on, I clicked on the last option – 0, the day I was born.

Marmalade, Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da. What?!!!

Says it all really.

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Kids: Characters and Caricatures

It’s been a full on, funny old week so far.  Two out of the three boys started their Easter holidays, with the last one breaking up at close of play on Tuesday.  This is a lot earlier than the rest of the schools in the area, and so it made sense to take advantage of the theme parks and avoid the overcrowding that so often happens during the school holidays.

And so it was that we decided on Legoland Windsor.  This is well known to us, being practically on our doorstep, and has served us well over the years from toddlerhood to pre-teens.  Not only is it the place where the boys learned to face their fears on the Dragon ride in the Knights Kingdom and laughed at the pictures of Grandma in the log flume at Pirate Falls, but it is also small enough in which the older ones can roam independently, safe in the knowledge that they are tall enough for the rides and reveling in their freedom – all character building stuff. So it was that we waited in the house, my  12 year old excited to see two companions for a day out of fun and a sleepover.  One of his friends was well known to us, having been a lively part of our lives for a while, but the other child was an unknown – he had been in the class for a number of years, but in the weird way of children, had recently been discovered by my son as  a ‘new friend’.  His mother arrived to drop him off and warned me that he wasn’t unsociable, just ‘a bit shy’ in new company.  As soon as she left, I could hear her shy and retiring son bellowing through the walls of the playroom as they indulged in a last minute game of Xbox, so I knew it would be all right.

As the three elder boys charged off into the primary coloured world of our destination, I had a very excited 9 year old on my hands who took control and insisted on visiting every ride, regardless of whether or not his mother was as enthusiastic. So we got soaked, we went up and we went down, leaving our stomachs in mid air and the contents thankfully still inside.  We avoided the throngs of school trips by going where they didn’t, and all in all had a great time. The three elder boys met us for lunch and then scarpered, and we wandered amiably around Miniland and the Star Wars exhibition (which was Little Man’s favourite).  And Little Man sat patiently whilst an artist drew his caricature.  I always think a caricature is interesting – no matter what image you present to the world, the caricaturist picks up mercilessly on your flaws, and exaggerates prominent features from which you can’t hide.  You are forced to not take yourself so seriously.

This brings me in a roundabout way to two blogs that resonated with me this week.  One was http://www.mama-andmore.com/2014/03/bossy-where-do-you-stand.html  and the other was http://reprobatemum.com/2014/03/03/social-media-im-not-waving-im-drowning/  

The first posting was about a mother, who on being told that her 5 year old daughter was bossy, gently and tactfully confronted the stereotyping that took place within the school, and thus by society at large.  Why would a girl be called bossy, in a situation where a boy would be called a leader?  Does that word have negative connotations?  Would it not be better to use that ‘bossiness’ and channel it positively to ensure that girls become good leaders rather than class bullies?  Would that bossiness then become an awareness of others, and a willingness to listen to others without losing focus? The second post was written by a successful business leader who was drowning in self doubt brought on by social media – her carefully selected Facebook images not matching real life, the superficiality of the medium, and the gulf between the digital identity and reality.   Both blogs are well worth a read, and reflects on the way that we not only characterize ourselves and our kids, but that in some ways, we become our own caricatures.

Legoland was a great success, the older boys still had enough energy for their sleepover, and Little Man had his drawing and a stuffed dragon toy that he had won on one of the stalls.  The ‘new friend’ was collected by his mother the next day and I assured her that he had been a star.  She admitted that she had had ‘The Chat’ (you know, the one where you tell your son to behave, say Please and Thank You and on no account to reveal that you love your mothers’ arms because they are really flappy and you wonder if she will take off one day), and that he had told her not to worry.

This morning, Little Man was the first to reach the station platform on the start of a journey to London after a particularly slow ticket office experience. The train was just about to leave.  He waved his arms at the guard who was just about to signal the all clear. As we veered into view, Little Man was explaining to the guard that his mummy had a sore ankle and couldn’t run as fast as he could.  The guard let us on the train.

 Bossy…Leader – you decide, but one thing is for sure, our kids are definite characters.

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