Saturday 29 July 2017

This is the life

I owed Perran a post exams trip. He chose Sofia. We broke our flying ban and went.
My objective was to live the high life. I wanted to come back with glamorous photos that looked as if I were saying "This is the life".
Only problem was that I was already completely wrecked from attempting to combine end of term lessons and admin with the London Summer School in Classics.
I managed the Roman archaeology and ancient churches, a slight sheen on my clammy forehead. I managed sitting in the many little parks staring blankly into space. I dragged myself around the controversial Soviet memorial. I enjoyed early evening cocktails, delicious Bulgarian dinners.
But then, when it was time to show what a cool and trendy Mum I was and to prove that I was not over the hill, I limped straight past all the bars desperate for my comfy hotel bed.
I was letting Perran down.
Until the third and final night. By eschewing the famous Bulgarian red wine and by simply inserting matchsticks to prop up my drooping eyelids I was finally able to stay awake through one cocktail at the Absolut Beach Bar.
Fairy lights and iridescent hearts twinkled in the lime trees. And a great live DJ mixed sounds. Perran looked at home. And for three quarters of an hour I felt like a grown up.
This is the life.

Monday 24 July 2017

Beetroot crisps and kettle descaler

Didn’t get a coffee at church as I was on prayer duty after the service.  Arrived home gasping.  Delighted to find the kettle already half full of water, I flicked the switch, made two coffees.  The milk sank straight to the bottom.  That was odd – it couldn’t be sour as I’d only bought it yesterday.  Desperate for coffee, I took a gulp. 
Uuuuugh.
Should have spat it out, not swallowed it.
Vaguely, I remembered Nigel saying something about descaling the kettle.  After the last time I drank descaler, we had an agreement that Nigel would label the kettle.  Clearly he had reneged.
I drank lots of water.  Then a bicarb solution on the grounds that it was alkaline. 
More uuuuugh.
I rang 111 hoping for some sensible first aid advice. 
Apparently now was a good time to play twenty questions.  Was I breathing fast, bleeding from anywhere, in pain?  Somebody would ring me back.  Eventually.  I was busy throwing up when they finally did.
Cindy from 111 had a very comforting voice, but my confidence was short-lived - I had to spell the name of the descaler twice while she looked it up on her poisons database.  She put me on hold for a very long time and afterwards began calling the Kilrock descaler “Kilroy”.
Then she began the same game of twenty questions again.  Half an hour had passed and I had still received no sensible advice. 
“Tell you what,” I said, “Let’s say goodbye.  I’ll ring you back if I feel worse.”
In fact she rang me back. “When I looked Kilroy up on my database, it said you should go to A & E.”
Nigel calculated by how much he had diluted the acid and we thought we could probably take a risk.
So we went for the Sunday walk we had planned.  About a mile from the car, my gut was churning  and I had to race off into the undergrowth.  One of the twenty questions had been about whether I was passing any blood.  Now I looked down aghast.
Everything was red.
As I picked my way back to the path, I was wondering how I would tell Nigel I was dying.
Then I remembered – I’d eaten beetroot crisps the night before.

Tempted to fake that I was dying anyway – that’ll teach him to descale his wife.

Saturday 22 July 2017

Graduation

11.20 am
As I write this, we are sitting in nose-to-tail traffic on the M4.  Perran is to be in his seat in the Wills Building by 12.45 at the latest.  Before then, he must have picked up his gown and graduation tickets from the Richmond Building.  But our ETA is currently 1:40.  We have already abandoned hope of the photo session we’d booked.  And even when we get there, parking will be tough – we thought we’d left plenty of time, but apparently not.
There has been a crash ahead.  As callous human animals, we are measuring only the inconvenience to our own lives.  I force myself to say a prayer for those whose world has just been turned upside down by the road accident.
But then it’s back to us again.
This was supposed to be a carefree day, all dressed up in our best clothes, tipsy on sunshine, prosecco and happiness. 
And now Perran might miss his own graduation ceremony.

8.30 pm
On our way home now.  It has been a splendid occasion.
This morning, the traffic had started moving and our ETA dropped rapidly, like a tide of disaster ebbing. 
We rubbernecked at the wrecked Landrover.  The headroom was largely intact so we hope the passengers and driver survived.
In Bristol, the graduation ceremony was brisk yet meaningful, cleanly choreographed and garnished with homilies of good advice. Afterwards there was the pleasure of meeting the parents of Perran’s friends.
It rained heavily, which shouldn’t be allowed at graduation ceremonies, but we were just pleased to be there.  Even the rain made us happy.

And now it’s time to say a little prayer that we get home safely.

Sunday 16 July 2017

Last Bash

After exams finished Perran stayed in Bristol until the rent ran out.
We didn’t mind.  Those last days as a student are so precious.
Then home for a short space. Then off to Spain with thirteen friends for a week. And then we were expecting him home sometime Tuesday. 
The exact timing seemed vague.
I came home from one job and had a cup of tea.  He wasn’t home. I went out to another job; came home and began preparing dinner. Should I make some for Perran? Perhaps if I cooked something with the tomato sauce from the fridge… In fact I couldn't find the sauce. On the shelf where I had expected it to be was a can of beans I didn't remember opening. 
Nigel came in.
“Heard anything from Perran?” 
“Nope.  And I’m not sure if he’s even got his keys.  Perhaps we should just install an enormous cat flap in the back door.”
“I’m sure he'll turn up. I'm just off to change out of my work clothes.”
Then from upstairs he called sotto voce "Clare, Clare. " 
Mirroring his quietness, I tiptoed upstairs. 
There asleep, face down on his bed and fully clothed was our son.

Bless him.


Sunday 9 July 2017

Back-packer

I was teaching Latin in school, when I put up a slide of the answers.
My pupils stared in silence.
One or two of them cast a glance in my direction.  The rest just went on staring. 
I inspected the screen – it was obvious in a flash that every single “model answer” was wrong.
Should I tell them why?
In fact, all I said was: “I’m terribly sorry – those are all wrong.  Let’s do it on the whiteboard instead.”

So what was wrong?  

Carenza was back-packing on her own in the Far East for 3 months.  And she hadn’t WhatsApped us for three days.
I had begun to wonder about tracking her down – how did they go about it in international thrillers? 
Of course she was soon back in touch – she had just away from the Internet, or out of signal , or maybe just having a really, really great time.
After that it was weeks until the next real scare – just about to run an adult class, I checked my phone to see if any students would be absent.  From another girl’s phone she had emailed “Hello – it’s Carenza here.  I have left my phone in the hostel in Mandalay.   I am trekking across country to Lake Inle and the phone will catch up with me when I get there in three days.
And miraculously, it did.

But just for the last two days I have not been worried at all as she has been safe with our friends in Singapore.  Carenza has enjoyed wonderful hospitality, and I have had a small oasis in my maternal fretting.  Thanks Mark, Adri, Kit, Dan, Thea & Ben.

Photo by Adri