Hospitality

Hari leads the dance

Hospitality was of huge importance to the Ancient Greeks: Homer’s Odyssey tells us so.  I have spent the last year teaching pupils about xenia (hospitality), but last night I experienced it for myself. 

We are staying in the Cretan mountain village of Amari, and a man from the village returned with his Argentinian wife to have their beautiful new son baptised.  Our landlord, Manolis, assured us we would be welcome.  We went along to the church, saw little Gerry dunked in the font, then raised before the crowd three times.  Afterwards, we sidled shyly into the village square where tables and chairs were laid out for the celebration and were about to sidle out again when a woman glamorous in a white jumpsuit addressed us:  

“Hello – I’m the kid’s aunt – come and sit here.”

Her name turned out to be Hari, and she had organised the whole event, more than usually challenging in a time of such economic uncertainty.  She made sure we were offered fabulous Cretan roast lamb and cheese and honey cakes.  Not to mention limitless wine and raki.  But most of all, conversation.  

Intermixed with the local people is a cosmopolitan array of internationals, some lotus eaters, others running businesses.  Everybody had an opinion on Greece's financial troubles.  

But it was not the night to discuss such grim matters. 

Pascoe joins in.

As the traditional music got louder, the whole community got up and danced as they had danced through the wars and invasions of century upon century.

Pigeon Stretch

A complete stranger who is unnaturally bendy.

Today was my last day at school.  I didn’t even return to my desk but walked straight out of my last lesson over to my car and home. 

Soon the holidays will start.  Sun and sand whisper to me.

There was just one thing left to do.  I cycled over to my Pilates class.

Alice is a great teacher and she inspires confidence in me.  Confidence which is sometimes misplaced.

The roll-downs, cat stretches, c curves and leg folds were all fine.  Then Alice said temptingly,

“And this is my favourite stretch at the moment….”

We were all ears. 

“It’s called the pigeon stretch.  If you slide your foot forward and then bend your knee and then slide your other knee backwards…then see if you can bend your head to the ground…”

As we struggled to un-crochet our over-stretched bodies, I felt sort of limp and spongy.

“I’ve never seen a pigeon do anything like that, Alice.”

“You’re not the first of my clients to remark on that, Clare.”

Next, we were to do quite a basic stretch but I declared that I couldn’t.

“That’s funny,” said Alice, “Because you managed that pigeon stretch just now.”

But a couple of hours later as I sit at home I have to confess that I have done myself a mischief.  When the rest of the family go on their summer hols they will have to carry me in a hold-all like an enormous rag doll.

Is it possible that Alice had misheard?  Had somebody else been complaining about “That pigging stretch!”

Red Letter Day

In the distance are little starbursts of fireworks and I am walking towards them.  I can hear snatches of Beethoven’s Pastoral getting louder.  Wafting towards me are the delicious scents of Summer barbecues next to the sea. 

The event that I am heading towards is the end of term; behind me is my first year of teaching in a secondary school.

It got more manageable, I got better at it.  I enjoyed it.  I can’t believe how much I’ve learnt in a year.

However, because I have been part-time, I have another year to go as an NQT.

The difference is that next year I shall not be moving house and I have a bank of work that I’ve already prepared.

Yes, definitely Beethoven’s Pastoral.

Unwise Purchase

Last time we moved, we rushed at our new house like a bull at a gate.  We took rapid decisions about expensive items.  Tilers, plumbers and builders flashed through.

Then we repented at leisure.

We even had to move a whole wall.

This time, I’m not rushing. 

Even modest decisions like which lamp to put outside the front door can be slept upon.

Nigel attempts to drag me to DIY shops but I abort the mission.

Until Saturday, when I saw something which I wanted for the garden.  At Chidwickbury Arts Fair, I discovered some gigantic copper flowers made by Christian Funnel.  They were witty, well-made and affordable, so I pulled out my credit card.

Luckily, Carenza and Will were on hand to carry them for me.  As we wended our way down the path to the car park, the people we passed gave us special smiles.  

Or smirks.

“Oh dear,” said Will, “It’s like those people you see on the televisation of the Chelsea Flower Show.  They went looking for a purple clematis, got stuck on the Pimms and ended up staggering home with an unwise purchase.”

Silly him – who wouldn’t want a giant copper flower or two?

He’ll be laughing on the other side of his face when they protect us from the imminent triffid invasion.

Homing Pigeons

We have moved house. 

In the Autumn we shall put out bird feeders and hope that blue tits and green finches find their way here.

Next summer we shall ensure that the garden brims with flowers and we will await the butterflies.

But for now, we have tried to make the kitchen comfortable and have laid in a stock of Doritos and Pringles.  

We wait with bated breath.  

Will they come?

“I think I hear a noise in the kitchen.  Could that be them?”

We creep down the corridor and peep round the door.

It has happened:  Perran, Carenza and their friends have returned home from university.  

Perran,Carenza and Sarah

Taking a punt

The twins are now past the halfway mark in their degrees. 

But wait a minute, hadn’t Nigel and I intended to relive our own youth through them?

The child-rearing textbooks say that a parent should never do that.

But we’re not listening – university is now an expensive business and we had planned to get our money’s worth. 

We had very much enjoyed Pascoe’s graduation ceremony and Perran’s Fuze show, but felt we still needed to extract an “experience” from Carenza.

In spite of many hints, she has failed to invite us to one of her college’s fancy-dress bops – can’t think why. 

We have enquired about croquet, but apparently the lawn is just beneath the windows of poor souls taking exams and there might be ill feeling.

Us? Noisy?

However, after a few pics appeared on facebook, we realised that there might be …aquatic possibilities. 

Amenably, Carenza booked a punt and we drove over.  Sadly, all the punts in Oxford are missing  one of their decks and people stand in the wrong end in order to propel them, but apart from that, we had a lovely time. 

We didn’t lose the pole, everybody ducked when we got enmeshed in a willow and the flock of geese didn’t spot our sarnies.

Too soon, it was over.  We had to relay the punt key back to another girl from Carenza’s college.  Oddly, she didn’t have her Mum and Dad with her – just a big bunch of friends. 

She didn’t know what she was missing.

Pimp my trolley

My parents have had a shopping trolley for decades.   Some of my local friends have a shopping trolley – but then they are over seventy. 

And now, I am buying one.

It is my way of getting the shopping home without either using my car or wrecking my back. 

It is entirely sensible, but it does make me feel….old.

I’m sure I recall seeing rather nifty ones with fun patterns at our local market.  A funky trolley wouldn’t make me look so dated.

But there weren’t any when I went to make my purchase.  Instead, I got a navy blue one with white polka dots, such as Cath Kidston might design after she had just received bad news, or if she was feeling mildly depressed.

I found some fairy lights which hadn’t been pinned up yet in Carenza’s room.

That was the solution – I would pimp my trolley.

“Look Perran – my trolley doesn’t make me look like an old lady any more.”

“No Mum, but it does make you look a bit… eccentric.”

Bee-line

In the house we have just left, we built an extension which contained our bedroom.  It was spacious, got the morning light, everything we wanted,

EXCEPT

we seemed to have built it on an ancestral bumble bee route.  For many generations, huge, woolly bees had flown along that bit of clear sky and now that there was a bedroom in the way, they didn’t seem to be able to stop. 

So every morning in Summer, we would awake thinking to ourselves, “That alarm clock sounds very low –pitched today, in fact, a bit like somebody humming.  No.  More like buzzing.  That’s it, buzzing.”

At that point, reality would kick in and I would wheedle Nigel – “Would you mind letting the bee out, love.”

Well, he did sleep on the bee side of the bed.  It was a bit like letting the cat out only with the spice of added danger thrown in, especially as we were both half dressed and half asleep.

But in our new house, I was kinda missing the bee ritual.

Until the last day or two when the cotoneaster tree at the front has burst into bloom.  It is now covered in a mass of busy bumble bees.  Nigel and I watch them happily. Especially as they are of a much smaller species than our former morning visitors.

However, we may have bigger problems than bees here – as we watched, an enormous hornet descended, grabbed a bee and made off to its nest.

Which I hope is a very long way away.

Big Changes

Perran visited earlier to sort out his new room.

There have been big changes round here.

Nigel and I have moved on.

When we moved into our new empty-nest pad a few weeks ago, I found myself putting the plastic cups and plates at the back of a cupboard – we no longer host teen parties at the drop of a hat. 

We no longer have to hoard bedding for unexpected guests (although clearly, if we were hoarding bedding, they weren’t totally unexpected).

We don’t keep a stash of baked goods for when the kids return ravenous from school.

I now do two washes a week – one whites, one coloureds.  Instead of two a day.

But all that is about to change – Perran returns at any time (not sure exactly when – some things haven’t changed) and in a week or two he will be joined by Carenza. 

I have prepared for his return by moving all the cardboard packing boxes out of his room and into Carenza’s.  In the fullness of time, I shall celebrate Carenza’s homecoming by moving all the boxes  out of her room into Pascoe’s.

What more can they ask?

Doves

When Nigel and I were courting, I had a room up in the attic of Girton College.  From my window we could look out on the red-tiled roof and see a little bell tower. 

I do not know what the bell was for – I never heard it rung.  But I remember that on the tower strutted and preened a pair of white doves. 

We delighted in their affectionate billing and cooing over the months I inhabited the room.

The birds seemed like mascots for our own courtship.

When we married, the invitations bore doves and it was a dove that I embroidered on my wedding dress.

That was thirty years ago.

But recently, we moved into our new house. 

On the first day here, I spotted a white dove on the roof opposite. 

By the next day there were two.

Now, they parade up and down the ridge of the house several times a day; they bond by touching their bills together.

One is supposed to celebrate the thirtieth wedding anniversary with pearls, but we are celebrating it with pearl-white doves instead.

Up-size!

Nigel empathising with kettle

Over the last two years, we have downsized so much – our family shrank from five to two as the children departed to uni.

Following that, we downsized the house and are now in smaller premises.

I personally downsized the car during a moment of inattention.

But finally, excitingly, we have discovered an item which we plan to upsize.

Our ancient camping kettle which has served us for thirty years has finally sprung a leak. 

No more will its cheery whistle wake up strangers in nearby tents. 

Or for that matter, far-off tents.

No more will it unexpectedly release itself from its handle, splashing boiling water everywhere.

It has gone to the great campsite in the sky, and is whistling merrily in the heavens.  (I have no truck with the many people who believe that camping is the work of the Devil.)

But once a decent interval has passed, we plan to buy a BIGGER kettle.

Camping is a sociable pastime and too often our dear old kettle embarrassed us – after we had poured ourselves cups of tea, we could entertain only a friend who was not really thirsty, or perhaps very small. 

We would really have liked to boil the kettle surreptitiously so as not to disappoint others, but with a whistle like that…..

So now, we are about to purchase a 2-litre whopper.  Up-size!

Truant

What we should have been doing, just a week after moving house:

We should have been working hard to heave our possessions out of boxes and shove them into cupboards.

We should have been rearranging the bookshelves and kitchen cupboards so that the stuff we need is at the front. (Question to self: if there is stuff we don’t need, why have we still got it?)

We should have been going out and getting one of those wire caddy things to hold your shampoo in the shower.

What we wanted to do:

Flickering in front of our eyes for some months, there had been emails whispering about a camping trip with people who have been our friends for thirty or more years, since university.

The more it seemed that our house-move would make it impossible, the more I wanted to go.  And actually, after the traumas of moving house, and struggling through the last few days at school, the prospect of a little too much red wine in front of a camp fire, surrounded by tolerant friends became irresistible. 

What we actually did:

We acknowledged that even if we worked non-stop all weekend, our house would still not be straight.

Once we had admitted that, it was easy to decide to  go.

And funnily enough, in spite of all the turmoil of moving house, the camping things were easily to hand.

Almost as if I had long-ago decided we would go.

Moving Story

So we are in our new house, and after the long and drawn out parting from our old one, it is amazing how quickly this feels like home.

The main challenge has been to lay hands on all the necessities of life.

I’m sure we brought them with us, so where are they now?

I have mentally been compiling a list of the top items which I was glad to set eyes on again as they emerged from cardboard boxes and bubble wrap. Here they are:

the kettle (apparently the foreman of the removal men deliberately hid it so his guys wouldn’t get too distracted by constant rounds of tea and biscuits)

the iron – one hates to present a crumpled façade

that funny little bit of wood with two wheels on it – we nearly threw it out, but now know what it came off

the key to the medicine cabinet – paracetamol is a must for any house move

the remote control for my mechanised tarantula – not an emergency, but lost it months ago and have been missing it

a glass vase – I had thought this was a non-essential item but it seems that kind friends bring flowers on these occasions

But most of all, the prawn sandwich which we bought a week earlier to eat on removal day.  It promptly vanished and I couldn’t really rest easy knowing it was out there somewhere, like a smelly time bomb.  It was in the bucket of cleaning things.  Of course.

Last Ritual

“Do you think she’s the kind of person who’ll leave her kitchen cupboards dirty?”

That’s the dreaded house-moving question.

Where I live, everybody knows one another.

If I am the kind of person who leaves her kitchen cupboards dirty, then everybody is about to find out.

Tomorrow.  When we move house.

Thus cornered, I trudged in from work and donned rubber gloves.  To be fair, Nigel had already wiped and hoovered everything upstairs.

But I’m glad he left me the kitchen cupboards.

It is the last caring thing that one does for one’s old home, a ritual of farewell.

It is a gesture of hope and welcome for the incoming family.

Eventually we finished our cleaning and then we went out into the garden and listened to the birdsong as the light faded behind the hornbeam.

Tomorrow evening, we’ll be in our new place, discovering whether “she’s the kind of person who….”

Mediterranean Crumpets

We sold our big family home seven months ago and soon after, we had our offer accepted on a smaller house in the same town.  So far so good.  But then nothing happened. 

The nothing that happened often felt like something.  In fits and starts, our vendors seemed to be about to buy another house, then didn’t.  Thought they might not move at all, but then persisted with the deal. 

But finally, here we are within two days of our move on Thursday.

But there has been a silver lining – I have learnt new skills.

Three or four times now, we have run down our fridge and larder thinking the move was imminent.

So I have invented  cuisine de déménagement.  I think there could be a book in it.  For people undergoing a prolonged removal period like ourselves, possibly even a TV series.

A particular hit was Mediterranean crumpets – feta cheese and cherry tomatoes on a hot crumpet smeared with basil pesto.

Tonight, we shall have red cabbage omelette.

Tomorrow, ris au sauce tomate  avec peut-être

 un saucisse vegetarien.

Mouth watering?

Buy the book.

Vote early and vote often

The election of 2015 will forever be associated in my mind with preparing to move house.

I’ve just got other things on my mind, Messrs Miliband and Cameron, and it’s all a bit confusing this time around. 

Except clearly that UKIP can go back to where they came from: coming over here, trying to steal our votes.

However, our foremothers chained themselves to railings for my right to vote.

So we trekked to the polling booth to make votes perhaps more tactical than heartfelt.

But it is a demonstration of my state of confusion that I was nearly prevented from voting by being unable to operate the double doors (clearly not a “swing” voter then).

And once inside I spotted a booth which was much lower and broader than the others.

“Sweet,” I said to Nigel, “For children to vote.”

“No, love. 

People in wheelchairs.

Children don’t actually have the vote.”

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Click here for enactment!

Vintage Dress

In an ancient paper bag I discovered a project which I had both begun and abandoned when a teenager.  

I had bought at a jumble sale a 1950s “New Look” cocktail dress.  I had dismantled it, in order to make a skirt?, a waistcoat?  I can’t even remember now.  And then I had run out of steam. 

 Why hadn’t I thrown the whole thing out? 

Through how many decades, how many house moves should one keep a shredded jumble sale dress?

But as I opened the pack again, I could see why I had held onto it – it was a gorgeous satin brocade of pink cherry blossom and green leaves  on an oyster background. The style recalled those long ago glamorous days in Cambridge in The Theory of Everything.

Could it be restored?

Before I wasted my time, I cajoled Carenza into it to see if it would fit.  Bristling with pins, she looked like a glamorous hedgehog.

After a long evening of work, the dress was once more fabulous. 

“Now all you need is a garden party!”

“My college does have a garden party but it involves a bouncy castle and sumo wrestling.”

o tempora, o mores!

But then she looked through her emails.

“Ah – I’ve been invited to this year’s encaenia - the honorary degrees ceremony and there’s a garden party afterwards.”

It really is The Theory of Everything.  The collision in time and space of a young woman, an event, and a dress.

But what about the kimono?

At last we have exchanged contracts on our house.  In a fortnight we shall downsize.  During the very long drag while we waited for our vendors to find a house they liked, we had several turn-outs.  But they were half-hearted -  there is much you cannot do until the last minute. 

Due to our on-off relationship with moving, I had even started a sewing project.  During a previous turn-out, I had discovered two pieces of Indonesian fabric brought back as souvenirs by different family members in different eras, but sharing a certain moss green colour.  I had begun to form them into a lined kimono jacket for Perran.

But now we really are about to move house and a new resolve has gripped me.  I spent today turfing out books, DVDs, even a plastic flamingo. 

When I entered the bedroom where I had been making the jacket. I picked up a plastic bag and began rapidly to fold the pattern pieces back into it.

“This is no time to make a kimono!” I announced.

“You know,” said Nigel, "I think that could become a family saying."

Downsize de-clutter

Downsize de-clutter

As we wait patiently(!)  to exchange contracts with our vendor, we are busy shedding things we don’t want to take with us.

I was about to leave for a weekend walking with my chums when I saw Nigel eyeing a tangle of coathangers on the landing.

His previous coathanger cast aways have resulted in wardrobe mayhem when offspring returned home with their garments, so this time, I thought I’d check on Whatsapp.

Me: We are plotting to have a cull of coathangers.  If you need any spares left in your wardrobes for when you are home, please say how many and what type. x

Carenza: Iwill count my coathangers and let you know in due course.

But I will say this: my coathangers are very dear to me so please choose carefully the ones you cast away.

Perran:Could I have around 15 spares please.  No shit ones if possible.  Thanks.

(Actually, Perran, when I asked what type, I meant “trouser” or “jacket”)

Pascoe:  About three spares would do me.

Me: Wow – coathangers get a quick response.

Then it all got a bit silly.

Perran: The anger

Pascoe: The Fear

Me: The Problem

Perran: The Solution

Nigel: Let the Cull Commence.

Pascoe: That’s the last face those coathangers will ever see.

What will happen when we try to throw out something that actually MATTERS?

Downsize Delay

One more Easter in the family house.

Back in September I announced that we were about to downsize.  Our children have largely left, and we are paying a mortgage on rooms for spiders to live in.

We put our house on the market.  It sold quickly.  Three weeks later, we made a successful offer on a house with which we were absurdly pleased. 

Downsizing had been the right thing to do.  Perhaps we would be moved by Christmas.

By Christmas there had been one false start on the part of our vendors, but no actual progress.  We enjoyed one more Yule in the family house, candles, real fires, mulled wine.  The children returned to university.

“Say goodbye to your bedrooms.  When you come home at Easter, we will be in our new house.”

But then we had one more Easter in our family house.  Hanging round in the warm kitchen, some cooking, others browsing the internet at the farmhouse table.  Looking out at a garden blazing with daffodils and blossom.

Then we had booked the removal company for next week, and have now unbooked them again.

Our vendor shillies and shallies. 

Part of me is losing patience, but part of me can completely understand. 

You see, they are downsizing too.  They too have had one more Christmas, one more Easter.  It is hard to leave. 

Wild Woman

One of the drawbacks of being my age is thermostat problems.
I overheat.  

“Is there anything you can do about it?” asked Nigel as yet again I threw the bedclothes off.

(Tetchily) “Well there’s HRT, but I’m not resorting to that yet.”

“Nothing else?”

(Grumpily) “Soya milk can be natural HRT but it gives me wind.  Oh, and there are herbs that are supposed to help – sage and the like.  One person I knew drank a special menopause tea.  If you wanted to be a loving and helpful husband you could investigate that…”

A few days later, a package postmarked Glastonbury arrived.

The contents looked like pot–pourri.  But the label read “Wise Woman Tea”.  What a tactful name.

When we applied hot water, it seemed to contain a great deal of clover – “Are you calling me a cow?”  It tasted wholesome and herby.  But after a few sips I said,

“It’s no good – I still hate men.”

Later that day, Carenza called, “Mum, do you want some of that Angry Woman Tea?”

At bedtime, Perran said, “There you are – I’ve made you a cup of Mad Woman Tea.”

Finally  we have agreed on a mutually acceptable name for the beverage – it has become my Wild Woman Tea.

Defining Beauty

Photo by Nigel

At my age, gifts are not always welcome:

“Where am I going to put that?”

“I already have one in the cupboard under the stairs.”

“It doesn’t match my waffle iron.”

But a couple of weeks ago, I received a very different gift from Carol.  On hearing we were taking the family for a short break to Athens:

“There is something you must do…”

She recommended an excursion.  I just nodded politely – we were in Athens only three days – did I really want to spend a third of it somewhere else?  But the next day, I received an email from her, giving precise travel details. 

This was a gift horse and I decided not look it in the mouth.  We would follow instructions.

Consequently, on only our second day, we took a metro to the port at Piraeus, ferry to Aegina, negotiated a ticket for the infrequent and decidedly vintage bus, drove up into the hills.

An abiding memory of smooth pruned pistachio trees rising out of a sunshine host of marigolds.

Further, past terraced ranks of silvery olives and ancient Greek whitewashed churches.

Until finally we arrived at a grove scented with pines and carpeted with the asphodel that grows in Elysium itself.

We found ourselves alone there in the presence of the ancient and perfectly proportioned Temple of Aphaea, carved out of creamy limestone.

Thank you, Carol.

Follow me @ClareFHobba

Cheeky Parcel

A certain feature of student life has been missing from our lives. 

When my father was at university, he could not afford to have his shirts laundered, so would post them to his mother in far-away Cornwall.  After all, she had nothing to do except run a farm. 

When I was at uni, college supplied beat-up twin tubs for laundry.  However, there were no university libraries in Cornwall, so for vacation reading, I used to bundle up a stack of books and post them home.

In previous generations things cost a lot of money while postage was cheap, so if I had left behind a hairbrush or a pair of slippers, Mum would post it on.  Now the equation is different. 

However, this Easter, after our family trip to Athens, Pascoe flew straight back to Edinburgh.  So we still had at home his beloved unicycle, Goldberry, and his fire-juggling equipment (he had visited the National Juggling Conference earlier).  "Obviously", he needed these things in Edinburgh.

The hour had arrived – a student parcel was called for.

I loathe spending time making a parcel secure with yards of sticky tape, and then queuing at the post office, so the task fell to Nigel. 

As you can see, when Pascoe receives the parcel, it will look positively pleased to see him.

Follow me on Twitter @ClareFHobba

Superstitious

“Are you going away at Easter?” asked a fellow classics teacher.

“Athens.”

“Lovely”

But then I blurted, “I’ve never been before.”

He raised a restrained eyebrow: my statement was the equivalent of an English teacher admitting ignorance of Macbeth.

“It’s because I got a bit…superstitious…about Greece.”

The other eyebrow lifted.

“We went to Rhodes when Pascoe was a baby.  He got gastroenteritis.  We ended up in a Greek island hospital. Terrifying…..Fifteen years later, we were about to set off for Crete when Pascoe got a ruptured appendix, peritonitis, and nearly died.  If we’d actually been on Crete, who knows if he’d have survived.”

My colleague had clearly changed his views by now,

“And you’re going again?!?”

“Yep.” 

Somehow therefore, it was no surprise when Pascoe, Carenza and myself were felled by a mystery, flu-like virus two days before departure.  At least Perran was okay, until, that is,

“Perran, where’s your passport?”

“Bristol.”

Nigel took a five hour mercy dash down the M4.

Our time in Athens was great, but on our return, there had been a mix-up and our car was trapped deep within the ranks of cars in a storage pound, necessitating not only an extra member of staff but also an expert in logic to get it out, while we waited for hours in the unwelcoming foyer of Stansted.

Meanwhile, Pascoe has seized the chance of a couple of extra days in Athens and has stayed on alone. 

I am trying not to fret.

Easter not as planned

From pancake Tuesday to Easter is Lent.  Traditionally, Christians give up some pleasure over that period.  I relinquished alcohol but wasn’t sure I’d last out, so didn’t broadcast.  Somehow, friends and relatives seemed immediately to sense my decision and began to buy me drinks.  

So for me, Lent began three days late. 

  

After that I did pretty well and even enjoyed my sobriety.  But I DID slip up several times. 

However, each time, I forgave myself and gave up again.

Easter was fast approaching.  I like to be at home for Easter to take communion in my home church and exchange the sign of peace (a handclasp or embrace) with old friends.  Plus, for later there was a bottle of prosecco chilling in the fridge. 

Easter Sunday dawned bright and the white blossom of our mirabelle tree gleamed against the sky.  But I couldn’t get out of bed, and neither could Carenza or Pascoe. 

We had flu.  Not just a nasty cold.  As soon as I heard Nigel and Perran leave for church, I rolled over and went back to sleep.  If you need a measure of how ill I felt, it didn’t even occur to me to regret the prosecco.

BUT, tomorrow is another day.

Follow me on Twitter @ClareFHobba

Art Without Kids

Life’s been pretty busy.  A PGCE followed by  NQT teaching has taken up a lot of time, but in the last month or so, I’ve been getting some of my life back.  And yesterday, I got Art Exhibitions back. 

Carenza, knowing how much I admire John Singer Sargent, had spotted an exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, so we decided to go.  As we set off, I found myself checking twice that I’d locked the front door - always a symptom that I’m feeling slightly guilty about taking a day out, doing something pleasurable. 

I LOVED the Singer Sargents.  The revelation was not how great his painting was – I already knew that - but just how many important cultural figures he knew socially.  And the fact that he was also an accomplished musician.

“How on earth did he manage it all?” asked Carenza.

I checked the labels for scant biographical information:

“No wife or kids.”

After Singer Sargent, Carenza led me to the white-painted halls of the Saatchi Gallery where we basked in the colour and pattern of the paintings, and were particularly fascinated by a room of tree art.  

Root and branch together.

I am glad both that Singer Sargent had no children to distract him and also that I do have them.

Murmuration

In December, Nigel and I travelled to Brighton to see the murmurations – the patterns formed in the sky by flocks of starlings as they ready themselves to roost on the pier.  The sunset was spectacular and the flock swirled, twisted and glinted in tight formation. 

Then, all of a sudden, as if at some invisible signal, the starlings poured into the space beneath the pier and stayed there.  I had not expected this and it made an impression on me.

This Friday, I was reminded of that moment when all my “starlings” converged on their home perch.  My own evening was supposed to be dinner with some women friends, but before it began, Carenza and I had already been to the station to pick up Will.  

During my dinner, Perran arrived at the station from Bristol Uni, and I texted him to get a taxi home.

After dinner, I drove again to the station to pick up Nigel (a business dinner in London), 

then twenty minutes later, back to the station to collect Pascoe, home from Edinburgh Uni.

But by the time the last family members had returned safely to their perch, the youngest had gone out again for drinks with other friends, also freshly returned home.

Not quite like starlings then.

Pascoe making his way across St Pancras.

How to Deal with a Canvassing Politician

Out hiking with my friends this morning , I was watching a lapwing through my binoculars when my phone dinged.


It was the family Whatsapp group.


Carenza, who is registered to vote and has particular political views had just encountered the local Tory MP with whom she has no truck.

“Ohhh guys I just had theeee cringiest moment ever: Anne Main knocked at the door canvassing and I couldn't be bothered to talk to her, so I pretended I was too young to vote (I said I was 17 really unconvincingly).
Then I remembered it was a school day so pretended I was off sick and no one else was home then she looked a bit concerned and asked what school I went to and I told her and she said that she was there yesterday doing a husts thing and asked why I hadn't been there so I coughed and pretended I'd been off all week SO EMBARRASSING OMG she KNEW I was lying.”

I was still pondering the first message when another came in:

“She kneeeeew.”


I turned to Dee, “Do they still have truancy officers?”


But Whatsapp dinged again immediately, and it said,


“But it’s okay – I’m sure Anne Main’s too busy canvassing to call Social Services.”


Carenza is clearly better at dealing with her mother than with Tory politicians.

Breaking Bad II

A few days ago, I blogged about how my old friend Rosie put the wind up Nigel and I by quietly letting herself into our house at 11pm when we weren’t expecting her.

She came round early on Friday morning so we could watch the eclipse together and we laughed about the incident.

Ha, ha, ha.

It was just the two of us as Nigel had been away at a work do the previous night and was catching the train straight from work to his parents’ in Northumberland that evening.

In the face of cloud cover, we gave up on the eclipse, stowed our colander in the kitchen cupboard; and had resorted to the telly and unrivalled views of Brian Cox.

“The picture’s gone a bit dark – I can’t see Brian properly.”

“Why has it gone dark?”

Then -

“Wait a minute, what was that?”

We had heard a sound from the front door. 

If only we still had that metal colander.

WHAT WE SHOULD HAVE DONE:

Make lots of noise to scare the intruder away.  Never corner them.

WHAT WE DID:

We BOTH got up and went out into the hall….

to find Nigel.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hello to you too.   I’m going to work from home today – thought I might need to take the car to Mum and Dad’s later, instead of training it.”

Phew.  For a moment there, I thought I was going to have a Total Eclipse of the Heart.

Eclipse

Pascoe captures the start of the eclipse

I  thought I didn’t really care about the eclipse that much.  I had vaguely noted that I could improvise a pinhole camera with a colander if I needed to.  (Although wouldn’t a colander be better suited to a sci-fi fantasy novel, where a planet might have many suns?)

Then the hype started and I wished I’d sent off for special specs (or at least, knew where I’d put the ones from last time).  But I went to the cupboard and checked.  My colander might be missing a handle, but it was still full of holes.  Everything would be okay after all. 

As a snapshot of my family: I invited Rosie over, but it was overcast, so we ended up ditching the colander and watching it on the telly.  Carenza and Nigel were both stuck on trains, also with nothing but white cloud overhead.   

Perran had not responded well to my advice to be careful what he did or he could go blind (which sounds like the kind of conversation fathers used to have with their sons a couple of generations ago).  Following the eclipse, he texted  “Don’t use a stoooopid colander, three pairs of sunglasses does the trick.” 

The triphids are waiting, Perran.

Pascoe, however, was not only the true scientist, but also the best placed of us, in Edinburgh and sent us these great photos.

Budget

You could tell the life-stage that Nigel and I are at from the parts of the budget that made us prick up our ears.

There will be a lower cap on pension relief allowance. 

Pensions – when did we start being interested in pensions?  Yet suddenly we are.  Until the children left we felt we were living in the epicentre of our own lives, but now one of the big conversation topics  among our fellow empty nesters is “How long before I can retire?”

There is to be a new ISA designed to help first-time home buyers.

In the next few years, our children will start work, and may be joining the battle to get onto the property ladder.   

Suddenly our focus has changed toward making savings – both for our own decrepitude and also to compensate our children for the fact that they will have to earn their living and raise families in a world much less economically hospitable than we did.

Meanwhile, I’m wondering what part of the budget made my children prick up their ears and very much hoping it wasn’t that bit about a penny off a pint of beer.

Unexpected Mother’s day Gift

My mother and my daughter

I was making conversation with some small boys in between lessons.

“So,” I asked wistfully, “What are you guys planning for Mother’s Day?”

“Do you think I should get her a present?”

“I’m sure your Mum isn’t expecting you to spend lots on her.  But she’d probably appreciate a home-made card.”

Of course, I was talking about myself.  So to whoever that Mum is who now doesn’t get an expensive present, Sorry.

For me, I had thought Mother’s day was a thing of the past.  It is cruel of the gods to place Mothering Sunday in the middle of university term time. 

Except of course, that some universities have ridiculously short terms. 

Last year, wonderfully, Carenza was home in time.  This year, however, she planned to stay on to do some work, which is exactly what I used to do.  So I had gathered my expectations up and locked them away in a bottom drawer.

But then, we got the text:

“Can you collect me on Saturday?  Want to come home for a break.”

Was that Handel’s Halleluiah Chorus I could hear playing?

I turned back to the boys:

“Breakfast in bed is good too.”

“I dropped mine half way up the stairs last year.”

“I didn’t even get out of the kitchen with mine.”

Again, Sorry.

Breaking Bad

For the first time, we’re doing the box-set thing and working our way through the great Breaking Bad. It is, after all, addictive.

It was eleven o’ clock on a Friday night and we had just watched a scene where Pinkman breaks into the creepy house of a junky couple, ending with a woman crushing her partner’s head under an ATM.

“Gross”

“Mmm”

Then: “What was that?”

We have two front doors, an inner and an outer, and I thought I had just heard a noise at the outer door.

We turned the TV down.

Then we heard the inner door open and shut.

WHAT WE SHOULD HAVE DONE:

When suspecting a break in, make a lot of noise to signal to the intruder that the house is occupied.  Do not corner the intruder.

WHAT WE DID:

Nigel, unarmed, went straight out into the hallway to investigate. 

He immediately relayed the identity of the burglar.  Apparently, it was somebody called,

“SHIIITTTT!!!!”

Luckily, there was simultaneously another voice going,

“SORRY, SORRY, SORRY!!!”

And I recognised the voice, the voice that was saying “I left a message on Clare’s mobile, and another on your answering machine….”

It was one of my oldest friends, Rosie, who mostly lives in New Zealand.  She is over in the UK helping out a sick relative, and a couple of weeks earlier I had given her the house key in case she ever needed a bolt-hole.  And then I’d forgotten all about it.

It’s just as well we didn’t have an ATM handy.

Death and the Vole

Doomed Vole

Yesterday, Cath, Cecily and I were missing Dee, so took yet another break from our rubbish attempt at the Ridgeway and went for a local walk. 

The light had a soft, hopeful gleam to it.  Somewhere George Harrison was singing “Here comes the sun.”  Cecily shed one of her numerous pullovers. 

Spring had finally arrived.   

In the woods were drifts of snowdrops. 

And rustling around at the base of a tree, a little vole.  We watched it bumbling about. 

“I wish the children could see this.”

In reality, none of our children are any longer at the vole-admiring stage.  Probably in fact, still sleeping off the night before in their respective digs.

“I miss them.”

“We all do.”

But then we noticed that the vole was limping and blundering about as if dazed.

“Oh dear.  I don’t think he’s a well vole.”

“Nope”

We left it in peace (or more probably to some nearby predator), and walked on to the pub.

“Mind you,” said Cath, “If the children had been with us, we wouldn’t have been allowed to leave a sick vole to die of natural causes.”

“No, agreed Cecily, we’d have had to take it home somehow….”

“….and watch it die slowly in the kitchen.”

“You know, I’m not sure I miss the kids so much after all,”  I said sipping my lime and soda and leaning back on the sunlit bench.

Like a Tortoise Mating with a Drinks Can

As we watch our darlings depart for university with their whole lives before them, many of us mothers are now starting to tango with the menopause.   I thought I should find out more and last summer I attended a seminar.  It was a hot August day and the room was crowded.  Pretty soon, there were a lot of very flushed middle-aged women fanning themselves.  The venue manager grabbed her mike and announced, “The heating is stuck ‘on’ and we can’t unlock the windows, but don’t worry – IT’S NOT YOU!”

One friend who told me how, as she queued to pay for cough mixture while the local pharmacist had a lengthy discussion with a rather deaf old lady, her eye was caught by a novel menopause treatment – magnets. 

Yep.  Magnets for your pants – “Attach them to the fabric to alleviate menopause symptoms.” 

Being game and perhaps just a little bit desperate, my friend bought these and duly positioned them.  She felt a lot better and all went well until her supermarket shopping trip, when she experienced a tugging sensation and discovered that her lingerie was being inexorably attracted to her metal shopping trolley.  Apparently it looked a bit like that YouTube clip of the tortoise trying to mate with the drinks can.

It’ll be some time before she can return to Sainsbury’s.

Quiz Night

This particular annual quiz between local churches has been a fixture in our diary for over a decade.  Church people are usually such nice people, except on quiz night, when they’re not.  

The event has a competitive edge so sharp it could slice steak.

The first time we went to this particular quiz, we had no idea.  We ambled in 2 minutes after the 7.30 start time to find that the questions had begun and that the rest of the team had already completed the table rounds.  I then disgraced myself by drinking two glasses of wine in quick succession which made my general knowledge go all blurry and limp.

Although this happened a long time ago, I have not been selected for our church’s A team since and I have dragged Nigel down with me.

However, I always hope one day to redeem myself, and had even trained this year by watching Pointless while visiting my parents at half term. (It actually turned out to be Two Tribes, but we just thought it was the same programme with slightly different rules.)

Last night, we were one man down as Nigel had a fever and things didn’t look good.  But we came a very respectable second and (most importantly) were a whole two points ahead of our church’s A team.