Book Group Envy

I recently received proof that Carenza is a proper grown up lady. For some mums this would have happened when their daughter turned twenty-one, for others when she started work.
But for me it was when she announced that she and her girlfriends had formed a book group.

I admired their maturity and applauded their first choice - The Power by Naomi Alderman.

But then I saw a photo of them.

Why doesn't my book group look like this?

I have begun to experience Book Group Envy.
On the bright side, we have superior life experience....and weight. And volume.

Not sure whether these are the criteria by which one is supposed to judge a successful book group but they are certainly qualities which I shall henceforth be promoting.

Card seen in Oxfam.

How to get straight to the top without New Year Resolutions

Feeling slightly seedy after Christmas feasting, we are easy prey for the New Year’s Resolution.

We will make a promise to eat less/exercise more/ read improving literature/ take up fretwork.

The aim is to become better people.

The result will be that most of the forthcoming year will be clouded with a nebulous sense of failure.

So I’m asking you to think first.

There is a simpler way of doing this.

Next time you are ordering something on the Internet, or registering for an organisation, take a look at their drop-down list of titles – some of them contain the full range of options, from Ms to Viscountess.

You can select any one you like – the cursor does not contain a lie detector.

I sometimes choose Brigadier – to have attained such heights without serving a distinguished career in the army!

Then the person delivering my package will look at me with respect, for in their eyes, I am a brigadier.

The only time I regretted it was when we moved house and I lost some Tate tickets I had ordered months before.  Sue and I arrived at the ticket desk where I was confident I could explain myself:

“I bought two tickets in the name of Clare Hobba…”

“Nope – no record of a purchase in that name.”

Sue and I exchanged a worried glance – we had both travelled in specially.

I tried Nigel’s name and even my middle name, but they still did not recognise my purchase.

Finally, the woman squinted at me sternly:

“You didn’t call yourself Princess Cynthia Hobba did you?”

“Erm.  Yes.  That was very likely me.”

“What is your address?”

Dimly, I gave my current address – not the previous one from which I’d ordered the tickets.

More stern staring, even after I’d explained.

“I’m very sorry I gave a false name.  I shall never do it again.”

“Nor a false title, nor a false address…” muttered Sue in the background.

God With Us

At Christmas, we have only two firm family traditions.

On Christmas Eve we attend the beautiful sung evensong at St Albans Abbey – or The Annual Festival of Coughing, as we call it.

On Christmas morning we go to our own church, St Luke’s.

At quiet moments in the services I pray for people I know who are sad, ill or bereaved.  Then I move on to considering the year ahead and praying that God be with us.

And this year, I have already received a blessing.

Let me tell you the story:

This morning we attended our church.  SO MANY people we knew were there for Christmas.  And so were their children, grandchildren, aunts and uncles. 

We circulated around the church to exchange the handshake of peace with everybody. 

We processed up in front of everybody to receive communion.

Then back again.  

In front of everybody.

But it was not until I got home that the pants which had been caught up my trousers in the wash fell out onto the floor.

As I say – a blessing.

Not too Christmassy

We always had a Christmassy outing with the children.  We have continued, but sometimes I miss their youthful awe and excitement.

The train into London was packed with families.  Nigel, Pascoe, Carenza and I were split up down the carriage. (Perran was arriving later.)  Two toddlers, high on tic-tacs, were clambering over my knees.  

Their dad said,

“We’re going to Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park.  It’s cost us a fortune.”

In his eyes, mingled hope and defeat.  Wonderland could never match up to their anticipation. 

And probably one of the kids would be sick.

If not all of them.

Our own day centred round the very grown-up play about the IRA, The Ferryman, by Jez Butterworth.

Beforehand we visited the free exhibition of Degas drawings at the National Gallery, then grabbed an Itsu. 

Nigel was on map duty and we even had the experience of walking through a narrow ally full of sex shops and adult bookshops – not something we had previously included in our family Christmas outing.  But apparently, the most direct route between Itsu and the Gielgud Theatre.

Then the riveting, enthralling play.

After the play, we went to Freud’s for a cocktail or two and Dan joined us.  I enjoyed the banter over my virgin mojito.

On the way home on the Tube, we watched a Mummy imploring her three very young children to stop licking the train windows.  

"They may be dirty."  

She was clearly a master of understatement.

And I was glad after all to be missing out on the traditional finale to the Christmas outing - rushing home to wrestle weepy small children into bed. 

Carenza with the Kings Cross Christmas Tree

Where Lost Balloons Go

Months ago I began to photograph lost balloons.

I didn't really know why.

They don't seem very photogenic.

But each one carries a story we shall never fully know.

Once they were part of somebody's plan for jollity.
But they slipped from captivity and escaped into the wild blue yonder.
Only to discover that the waiting world was hostile.

Although maybe the balloons that I come across are a biased sample - the ones that didn't get away.
Perhaps others are bobbing happily together high in the ether.
I'd like to think so.

However, on Saturday I spotted somebody in Huntingdon town centre.  As soon as I saw him, I knew that he was the missing part of the story.

At last, right in front of my eyes was the individual who looked as if he had lost all those balloons.

A sad clown laid low by the practice of balloon art.

Whatever Happened to Nigel and Clare?

When the children left for University it was the end of twenty-one years of family life. 

We would be brave and stand back while they found their wings.

We expected to be sad, and for a time we were.

But soon we found compensations.

Just to go out on a Saturday and enjoy lunch and a walk with Gill and Graham, Nick and Jackie or Jenny and Terry.  

Without having to make a picnic for my whole voracious family.

We could even afford a pub lunch when it was just two of us.

And then the twins graduated and returned home.

We know it’s temporary, so we are enjoying their company while we have it.

But this Saturday, as we tried to lure them on a day out, Christmas party aftermath overlapped with urgent shopping and they declined blearily.

I was tempted to stay home.

Nigel said “We should still go.”

So we drove to Grafham Water where I proved myself a hopeless nerd by getting overexcited by goldeneye and goosander ducks. The words “Just look at that!” may have been over-used.

Then we explored the twinkly market town of Huntingdon, drifted into a few shops, appreciated a Mediaeval church and bridge. 

As we drove home, I said to Nigel, “That was a good day.”

Meanwhile, the twins had begun to text us. 

Looked like we’d see them tomorrow.

As if we cared!

Just Stop

A few years ago when I trained as a teacher, I had a placement in rural North Hertfordshire.  Showing me round,  the pupils focused on the most important thing of all – the procedure for snow days.  

It was only September, but they already had an eye on a day off.  And I quite liked the prospect too.

From that day to this, however, there has been no snow day in Hertfordshire.  Until today.

Even today there is not really a snow day off school as it is Sunday. 

However, there is the same delightful feeling that whatever we were going to do today, it will not be done. 

And it is not our fault.

It’s a very busy time of year, preparing cards, gifts, food and social life for Christmas.  But today it’s as if God just shook his finger at us and said “Shush now – doesn’t really matter.  Settle down.”

We put on our boots and did the things that counted - got to church, called on an elderly neighbour, filled the bird feeders.

But then everything slowed down – home made bread, the wood-burner lit, an old film on the telly.

And a nourishing day’s rest in Advent.

Happy Hair

The order in which information is delivered really matters, and this Saturday proved it.

We had just been en famille to see the Tove Janssen (Moomin) Exhibition at Dulwich Picture Gallery.

I find it particularly poignant to revisit activities which I associate with my children when they were small and innocent on a day when they are bleakly hung-over and straining not to be surly.

Afterwards, we parted on Dulwich High Street when Perran went off to get a haircut. 

“Be careful,” warned Carenza “– Could be pricey here.”

Nigel and I were on the train going home when texts started to arrive from Perran.

IT WAS SEVENTEEN POUNDS

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£70

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SORTED OUT MY EYEBROWS AND GAVE ME SOME AFTERSHAVE

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THEY JUST KEPT GIVING ME FREE BEERS AND NICE COFFEE

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ALSO HAD THE NICEST HAIRCUT

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I MISHEARD

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BUT ALSO DID EXPECT IT

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From this, we figured Perran had gone into a nice barber’s, asked the price, misheard, had a great experience but then been horrified at the true price.

We felt a little sorry for him until he came home and explained that his texts had arrived with us in the wrong order.  Looking back at his phone, there was a very different story.

He had asked the price only after the haircut.  By this time, he had received such amazing service that he feared it would be expensive.  

He DID mishear – what he heard was £70.  

What they actually charged him was £17.  

The story was one of triumph NOT disaster.

And significantly, it was also a story of beer.