Badge of Honour

Clearing out a drawer, I finally found it.

I’ve been looking for it for years and there it was, in my hand. At last.

I’d heard it could be worth a fortune.  Attractions offer free entry to somebody with A BLUE PETER BADGE.

I checked out the website. 

Yep, serious scrolling was required to view ALL of the attractions involved.

“You are gold, my little badge.”

There was a slight catch – badgeholders were only admitted free “when accompanied by a full-paying adult.

That would be okay.  Nigel just about qualifies as an adult.

But what was this?  “Badgeholders must also present a valid pass.”

That would be fine too.  In the envelope, I still had a copy of my letter signed by Peter Purviss, John Noakes and Valerie Singleton.  That must be the “pass”, mustn’t it?

I checked with a colleague who had younger children.

According to Georgina, ankle-biters may now simply write to Blue Peter and they will get a badge.

WHAT!?! 

I had spent days painting an intricately detailed imaginative recreation of a yeti in order to be a runner up in one of the Blue Peter art competitons.  Mine was a Badge of Honour.

Discovering that all you had to do now was write was nearly as bad as, back in the day, seeing Valerie hold up the winning picture and realising that the kid had copied an illustration out of The Phantom Tollbooth.  Come to think of it, that was probably the moment when a tiny seed of cynicism was planted deep within my young soul.

But there was another problem.  Georgina told me that to get a valid pass, I had to be under sixteen.

The world has changed since my heady Blue Peter days: it has become a cold and cruel place.

Revision

The offspring are safely back at University and I am back at school.  As I prepare my Year 11s and Year 13s for their exams, I think about my own children cramming.

During exam periods  I used to try to provide some small treat for our children to look forward to – chocolate biscuits when they got in.  Watching telly in front of the fire at the end of the evening. 

But now, long distance,  I can’t create a sanctuary any more. 

Even if I posted chocolate biscuits, and even if they survived the journey, the welcome would be a tad tepid. 

“Don’t you know they’re bad for you, Mum?”

At least we can use texts and WhatsApp to jolly one another along.  True, it is banter rather than a deep sharing of empathy.  But at least it’s communication.

Although, it can go wrong. 

Last night, Perran and I had each been out with friends for a curry and, I suspect, a drink, and we were comparing notes by text.  I asked him how his thali had been.

“What on earth do you mean, Mum?”

 I checked my text.  Autocorrect had changed it to “thalidomide”.  

Come to think of it, Autocorrect is clearly ignorant of curries, as over Easter I accidentally asked Nigel to order an “organ josh” for me. 

“I thought you were vegetarian, Clare!”

Even in spite of the biscuit deficiency, I hope their Mum’s silly mistakes keep the kids grinning through their revision.

Foundlings

All the children made it home for Easter. 

Exams are afoot, especially finals for Carenza, so we had a quiet time. 

Except for Saturday when we visited London.

First, Nigel, Pascoe, Perran and I visited the Foundling Museum.  Carenza would join us in the afternoon, having done some work.

At the Foundling Hospital, it was heart-breaking to see the tokens which desperate mothers had left with the illegitimate babies whom they had no means to raise – a scrap of embroidered ribbon, a tiny ring.  They hoped that their child would survive and seek them out again one day.

Handel had been a great patron of the Hospital and on the top floor were some leather arm chairs which played his music through speakers  at ear-height.

That was when I realised how much the previous term had tired me and how much I needed a rest.

I found it easy to sit down, hard to get up. I listened to the music and thought about the little foundlings.

After the sadness of the Foundling Museum, we were to meet up with Carenza  for the zingy Botticelli exhibition at the bustling V&A.

Even after only a few hours of separation, my heart gave a little jump when I saw her face through the crowd.  All five of us entered the exhibition chatting together. 

Time to count my blessings.

Sensible

I guess I kind of assumed there’d be a natural point in my life where Sensible would kick in.  Perhaps my thirtieth birthday.

My thirtieth birthday is now as far behind me as the imaginary line which Carenza sometimes tells me I’ve crossed.  And Sensible is still not fully in charge.

Last weekend, we took the family to Paris.   On Friday night we were returning from a bar.  The street was littered with rubbish and I spotted a green cardboard arrow, with something about “lampes” written on it.

Could it be?

From the debris, I pulled the perfect ironic gift for a man who recycles lightbulbs for a living.

I handed Nigel a sign entreating “Recycler ses lampes”

He was thrilled.

 “Ah,” said Pascoe, “The perfect student night out – having  a drink and returning home with a bit of street signage.  Only thing missing is a traffic cone.”

Next day, Pascoe and I got told off in the Louvre.  We had spotted a niche from which the statue had been removed.  Pascoe got into it and I photographed him, complete with label.  The custodian scolded us then turned around only to witness the large Japanese party who had been watching us scrambling into the same niche for selfies one by one.

However, last night, back in my motherland, I finally found Sensible when I was the designated driver for Perran and my old friend Jennie on a trip to the pub in Perranporth.  At the end of the evening, we had just returned to the car when they spotted a nice pint glass left on the wall.  Jennie felt Perran should have it for his student flat.

“It’s fair game if it’s not in the pub.”

As Jennie started to leap from the car, you can tell that I was under the control of Sensible, because I said,

“Be careful not to bang the car door against the wall.”

And I’m afraid that’s about as sensible as I got.  The glass went home to Bristol today.

The Selfie Project Continues

Recent attempts at self improvement have led to me attempting to master the selfie.2012 - my very first selfie.  Frankly blurred.

2012 - my second selfie - poorly lit.

2016 - at last, somebody worth taking a selfie with - the goddess Athena.

But actually, that was only a practice for the main event - another selfie with Carenza.

Ski Adventure

Never learned to ski and am now too scaredy.

Nigel, however did learn to ski, although he hasn’t had the opportunity for 30 years.

Pascoe didn’t learn to ski – his school’s ski trip was to the USA and was too expensive. (Clearly the only reason they didn’t book Mars or Venus is because there’s no snow.)

But then Pascoe moved to Edinburgh.

When there’s snow in the Cairngorms (and it’s not too fierce), intrepid skiers leap into a car and head for Glenshee.

When we visited Pascoe he was itching to go back there.  

It wasn't something we'd planned on, but when would Nigel and Pascoe ever get another chance to ski together?

Nigel hired a car.  Pascoe divided up his outdoor clothes between the two of them.  I bought them some thick gloves. 

I thought wistfully of staying in Edinburgh and going shopping, but if there were any injuries, I would be needed to drive back.

Never mind, I would take my book of Greek myths and sit sipping a hot chocolate  in the elegant ski café watching the scene.  It would be glamorous.

However, when we arrived the café was a complete zoo.  It was a brilliant mass of tired kids and patient Mums, all jostling on the hard benches while snow melted all over the floor.  People were chatty.  But the queue for tea was out the door and looping back through the blizzard. I didn’t manage much reading and even less hot chocolate.

The boys had a great day.  Nigel had easily recalled his technique.  Despite a fall or two, nobody got hurt.

And my reward? 

Up there in the Cairngorms I saw a pair of golden eagles and a small flock of snow buntings a good outcome for a bird lover.

Easter Mystery

Now that my children are 21, 21 and 24 I thought the time for Easter egg hunts had perhaps passed. 

When I picked Carenza up from Uni, she said

“I told my friends about our annual Easter egg hunt and they thought it was sweet.”

Later that afternoon, I bought around two dozen little fair-trade Easter eggs, each wrapped in gold foil.

On Easter morning I hid them round the garden.  There were so many that I ran out of hiding places.

However, due to the clocks going back, it was a scramble to get out to church, so there was no time to hunt the eggs.

Never mind, they were safely wrapped in gold foil.

They would wait.

After church, some friends came back with us for lunch. 

The egg hunt was postponed again.

Finally, about five hours after I had hidden them, Pascoe, Perran and Carenza went out to look for the eggs. 

They found only seven.

We have two theories:  one is that the vicar who lives next door vaulted the fence and stole our chocolate.  If this proves to be true, we shall certainly be converting to Methodism.

The alternative is that the magpie, lured by the winking gold foil, has taken the eggs and that somewhere they are glimmering inside its nest.

Later, we spotted a magpie seeming to have trouble taking off and flying heavily across the field. 

Looks like the vicar’s in the clear.

Impatience

To accompany the recent bleak weather, I have had a long period of head cold and at work, assessment. Thursday was to be my first day off for some time. 

The forecast was for soft sunshine.

I had arranged to get my hair cut at last, to have coffee with Graham, a walk with Rosie.

But at 7.30am, before I had even achieved my planned lie-in, the doorbell awakened me from sleep.

A paramedic had brought Nigel home after a cycling accident on his way to work.

He had banged his head and cut his face, and suffered some concussion but, thanks to the helmet, was otherwise unharmed.

I cancelled my hair appointment and coffee with Graham and spent the morning in A & E.  At least I caught up on some marking.

The doctor was reassuring, but I should keep an eye on Nigel for twenty-four hours following a head injury.

I cancelled the walk with Rosie.

Nigel wanted taking into town in order to replace his broken glasses. 

But the “quick trip to get a quote for the insurance” turned into an hour and a quarter of buying new glasses. 

I hadn’t brought my marking with me this time.

I became grumpy.

Later, when it was time for Pilates, I went anyway.

I whinged to the others about my disappointing day. 

“Oh,” said James, “Lots of people seem to have been having bike accidents recently – one of my friends smashed his pelvis.  Another shattered his knee.”

And that was when I realised it was time to make the gear-shift from “resentful” to “grateful that God was watching over us.”

Bike Helmet

Nigel and I have always been sticklers for bike helmets. 

Because how could we insist that our children wear them if we didn’t ourselves.

Sometimes, my helmet has been joggling around on the top of my up-do, but I still wore it so I could be self-righteous with the offspring.

On Thursday, when a nice paramedic delivered Nigel home, we were very glad he had been wearing one.

He has a memory blank for the actual incident, but his last recollection is of a car trying to overtake him on a mini-roundabout.

He came to with a circle of faces above him.  Always a sign that something has gone badly wrong for you.

From the bits of him that hurt, we think he skidded on the corner and hit his head on the curb.

If he hadn’t been wearing the helmet….

So, in this blog, no jokes or special thoughts.  Just one message – wear the helmet.

Guiilotined

Over the last two weeks, through coincidence, I have been formally assessed twice at work.  The first time it was myself personally, the second, as a member of my department.

The garnish on the whole nut roast (to subtly alter the icing/cake metaphor) is that over the whole two weeks I have been suffering from a nasty head cold.

Probably brought on by the stress of assessment.

It is not just our department which is being assessed and the indications are plain in the staff room.

One sign of a very new teacher is that they spend a disproportionate amount of time around the school guillotine.

For that is where one makes exciting resources –little puzzles and top trumps cards.

Now in my third year of teaching, my relationship with the cutting machine has rather cooled.

But this week it is the old lags who are clustered round the guillotine once more in some sort of nostalgie de coup, preparing fascinating lessons for the assessment.

At this point, it becomes noticeable that while we have three large hi-tech photocopiers, we have only one guillotine.

What with the stress and the jostling, it is only a matter of time before somebody loses all the fingertips on their left hand.  I bet they didn’t put that in the health and safety assessment for all these inspections.

And on the lesson assessment form, there will probably be a criticism for getting blood all over the children’s work sheets. Ho hum.

Mother’s Day with added bacteria

I thought Pascoe had forgotten Mother's Day, but it seems not.  These arrived via WhatsApp.

"I've made you a hand made card out of genetically modified bacteria but unfortunately it's illegal to send it in the post, so I thought I'd send you the pictures instead."

Left - "Happy Mother's Day" in Latin (apparently)
Right - our family

A sea anemone smiling - long story, but highly significant to me.

Star

Last year Perran was thrilled to be selected as a dancer in Bristol’s FUZE show – catwalk fashion, dance numbers and songs by local musicians, with profits to charity.  This year he was back as a dance director. 

Nigel, Carenza, Perran’s great friend Amy and I all converged on the show.   As an older person, I still get a frisson when attending anything trendy enough to warrant a wristband.  Will I be forced to cut it off when I go to school on Monday?

I was also wearing a new top to look cool - a velvet tunic with an ethnic pattern.  So far, so good.  But it also had a deep, looped fringe.  Which caught on: Ercol chairs at home, the gear stick in the car, my own coat buttons, the handle in the ladies’ toilet. 

I t seems being cool is quite hard work.  

And I needn’t have bothered. Nobody was looking at me – the models were exquisite, the dance numbers, whether sassy or moody, were ambitious and consummately performed.

I cannot say how impressed I was at Perran’s choreography and performance.  And those of his friends.

I was even more impressed that he found time before his Saturday performance to have brunch with us and follow a trail around historic Bristol.

He’s clearly got it all under control.

Floored

Our previous wooden floor -visible again as we packed up
to move house last year.

Perran - happy with carpet in his new bedroom.

It was exciting doing up our first flat thirty years ago, the very tight budget made it a real challenge. 

However, now on our sixth house, the thrill has palled. 

From the moment we bought this house, we knew we didn’t like the floor – a worn laminate with a loud pattern mimicking badly distressed wood.  It badly distressed us.

Yet I was prepared to put up with it rather than suffer more upheaval.  But it wasn’t to be.  The floor was standing in the way of progress.

“We could build in a coats cupboard under the stairs.”

“Although we’ll have to do the floor first.”

“We need to build in some shelves in the sitting room.”

“Can’t do that until we’ve done the floor.”

So  it looks like now we’re doing the floor.  

Once, we would have asked detailed questions and examined each quote minutely.  Now, as soon as we get what seems like a fair price from somebody with an honest face, we give the go-ahead. 

All the fight has gone out of us.

So we have driven out for the day, leaving  Brakow and Alexandrov laying the floor.

“Should we have specified thicker planks?”

“Not sure.  Should we have asked them what they’ll do around the fireplace?”

We have “Bought floor in haste”.

We are now “repenting at leisure.”

However, it’ll all come out in the wash.  When we moved into our last house, we were the first of our friends to put in a wooden floor.  We went to great trouble and expense and installed beautiful, high-spec solid oak boards. 

When our friends came round, one of them tutted and said, “Still bare boards?  I’d have thought you’d have got your carpets down by now.”

Too old for selfies?

First attempt, with Fiona - not good.

It is important to learn new skills,

Apparently, it keeps the brain active and slows the onset of dementia.

So I am learning to take selfies. 

My grumpy friends say that people who take selfies look ridiculous.

But I think they look jolly.

“Look at me – I’m in front of one of the seven wonders of the world, but all that really matters is getting me and my mate in the frame.  Smiiiile!”

So far, I have taken two selfies with old friends of mine and one with Perran.  I enjoyed best the ones with people my age as we none of us know how to position ourselves for the camera and a lot of cuddling up and uneasy shifting about is involved.  Then we have to remember not to peer worriedly into the lens.  “Cheese.”

Second attempt, with Jen - getting better

Whereas youngsters are merely embarrassed at my parental incompetence.

With Perran - nearly got it -nope - finger over the lens

The only limitation I can see on my valuable new skill is that I shall never be very good at it.

I have short arms and a large face.

My selfies are doomed.

Perhaps forthcoming generations will evolve with longer arms.  And at the end of those long arms they can keep their ultra-mobile thumbs whose dexterity has developed from texting.

Ash Wednesday

The bit of dirt on my forehead is the ashen cross -
hope it doesn't give me excema like it did Alice last year.

Went to the Ash Wednesday service last night.

One of my favourite services of the year.  The other is Good Friday.

Possibly I’m better at doing the gloomy contemplative bits of my faith than the jolly rejoicing.

Lent is a time when I, along with so many others, focus on my spiritual life.  The turn of the seasons reflects my spiritual progression.  We start Lent when the branches are still bare, when fresh produce is not yet being harvested in Northern Europe and the pickles and salted meat of the Autumn before are running low. 

As the early spring swells into being, spiritual strength glows like a bank of crocuses then  gets flattened by a gail of doubt.

Like a well-plotted novel, we move inexorably toward the greatest crisis – the death of the Saviour.  Also like a great novel, there is a twist – on Palm Sunday, Jesus enters Jerusalem in triumph – the children in church lay down palm leaves in the aisle and one of their number, with the obligatory tea towel on his/her head,  processes over them on a toy donkey.  We all cheer. Surely it’s all going to be alright after all.

But by Good Friday, we know it isn’t – the worst has happened. 

Then Easter Sunday and, if we are lucky, blue skies and blossom.  Only with the possibility of the worst  can the best happen.  The Resurrection and the promise of a life to come, to hold onto through the trials of this world.

More than any straightforward religious text, TS Elliot’s Ash Wednesday speaks to me

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated
And let my cry come unto Thee.

This is an extract.  For the full poem Ash Wednesday by T.S. Eliot

Grown-ups

Just got back from the twins’ 21^st. 

The party was last night and today we had lunch with them and a bunch of their dear old friends at the Jericho Cafe.

People mourn as their offspring cease to be children. 

But I feel that I now have two more grown-up friends.

Except that they are younger and trendier than my other grown-up friends.

Except of course Pascoe, who is also young and trendy.

Twenty-First

The day my younger children turned eighteen was a major milestone.

For me.

For many years, I had identified myself primarily as a mother.  Everything else I did (whether paid, voluntary, or just for the hell of it) had to “fit round”.

But when they hit eighteen, I found my wings again, took off, gained a PGCE in Classics at Cambridge and got a job in a great school teaching Latin and Classical Civilisation to amazing pupils.

And we all lived happily ever after.

Except today they are turning twenty-one.  Another major milestone.

Who knows what will happen next.

Coat Hangers

 

If there is one thing that will always remind me of my children’s student years, it is coathangers.  When we delivered Carenza to her student room recently, the first thing out of the box was a Gordian knot of cheap plastic coathangers.

For without coathangers there is muddle.

Of course, if one espouses the floordrobe method , there is no need for them.  And indeed, I cannot see any disadvantage in having the floor continually strewn with layers of partially worn clothing, now irredeemably crumpled.  It probably helps to attract friends and partners too. And is also a good place to store snack crumbs.

However, for us less enlightened beings who persist in using coathangers, we experience a tidal flow situation.  When the children return to university, suddenly there are hordes of hangers, clinging to the knobs of chests of drawers, scaling the front of wardrobes. 

The first time this happened, Nigel scooped up a bundle and delivered them to Oxfam.  But when the children returned there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.  With the coathangers gone, they would HAVE to leave their clothes in an enormous jumble on the floor.  Something they would never normally do. (!)

Now I have commandeered the Black Sock Hamper (a different story – later) and we fill it with the surplus hangers.  Over the months of term time the hangers must pine for their former owners, as they emerge looking thin and wiry, but they are soon taken away and employed. 

When the coathanger drought arrives and the hamper is empty, we will know that at last our children are home for the holidays.

Frock

You shouldn’t go shopping for a particular occasion. Unless you are, say, the bride.

New is not necessarily better.  

But an occasion is coming up. A certain pair of people are turning 21 and we shall celebrate.

For me, the same simple black velvet dress has done duty for about fifteen years. But it is sleeveless and I suspect  that is no longer a good look for me.

So I scrambled the Ford Fiesta and set off to raid the end of the sale at Monsoon. Everything I tried on looked frumpy. The designer seemed to think that if you wanted sleeves you must also wish to hide your cleavage. And probably your legs too. Bah!

There were however hods of one promising sequinned number in just my size. In the changing room I saved it until last. Then I discovered the reason so many were left. They were smaller than their declared size.  Stuck with my arms over my head I called to the assistant to cut me out. But it was the sale. There was no assistant. 

So I spent some time writhing free. Like an anaconda shedding its skin. To add insult to injury, the nylon lining had electrified my hair and it was standing  on end (see pic).

I gave up. It would have to be the old dress and a shrug.  Yummy.

Then on Saturday I was on my lunch break, nipped into M&S, and spotted  the “will anybody please take this off our hands” rail.  Gleaming at me was a black dress with a bronze sheen. It had sleeves AND a deep neckline.   It cost less than £20, but it makes me feel like a princess (albeit an elderly one, like maybe Princess Ann).

Perhaps that is why people go shopping for new outfits.  

Transport

Today the last child is being delivered back to university.

Come to that, she is the ONLY child that we actually deliver.  Carenza has more luggage than the boys as she has to clear out her belongings each holiday so that her college room can be let for conferences.

But it’s not easy for the boys either – by the time Perran got home for Christmas, the wheels had come off his enormous holdall and because his phone was broken, he couldn’t ring us from the station.  What a drag!

Plus, Perran always seems to have less stuff with him when he arrives home than he does when he leaves. The “stuff” must be accumulating in Bristol.  I haven’t yet seen Perran’s accommodation this year.  However, I have a mental picture of it as a huge repository of interesting curios – the kind of place Harry Potter might go to pick up a second-hand wand.

The kind of place which we shall have to clear out over the summer when he moves.

Poor Pascoe returned to Edinburgh a week ago at the end of a family visit to the Northumberland grandparents.  He left after the rest of us which meant he had to carry with him a very bulky sleeping bag that we had accidentally failed to shove in the car. Given how much stuff he was already carrying,  I have no idea how he managed it.

And I kind of wish he hadn’t.  

Because Nigel and I will be visiting him in February and will have to bring it back on the train.

Where is my goat?

Rather than bemoaning Christmas as a commercial feeding frenzy with a heartless vacuum at its core, many of my friends see it as an opportunity to support the organisations they care about and express their values.

As ever some of the best Christmas gifts this year came via Oxfam.  Pascoe bought me a training package for a teacher in the developing world, and John, a friend whom I help get to church, got me a goat.

Usually I would be happy to think of people in some developing country with great big smiles on their faces, lives transformed by the gift of a goat or teaching resources.

But just this year, I feel slightly peeved not to have access to the goat.  The weather has been so warm that our grass has kept on growing.  I could really do with that goat to mow the lawn.

Mystery Christmas Card

One of our Christmas cards arrived damaged.

Was that a bite out of the envelope?

Weirdly, when we opened it, it wasn't even signed.

But then I took another look at the shape of the bite mark and it all became clear.

It was obviously a Christmas card sent to Nigel by his beloved koi carp.  He had been forced to leave them behind in the pond of our previous house, but they had not forgotten him.

Of course the card wasn't signed - fish can't write!

Maybe lovely Geraldine - to whom they belong now- had helped them with the address. Thanks Geraldine.

Christmas Stockings

For years I gave the kids little novelties and scraps of this and that in their Christmas  stockings only to see them go straight out when we did the post Christmas charity shop trip. It has taken me time to learn that the enjoyment  we share over a wind-up hedgehog or (this year) a yodelling flamingo will already have peaked in the shop and will not be increased by our bringing the item home.

However, this year our Christmas stockings are showing TWO signs of my increasing maturity.

Firstly, this Santa has been planning to fill those stockings with truly useful items like socks and toothbrushes.  Hopefully nobody will be yearning after the yodelling flamingo or the windscreen wiper specs.

But the second sign of my growing “maturity” is not so good.  

Where is the bag full of everybody’s favourite toiletries?  Where have I hidden it? 

It was quite large.  It can’t just have disappeared. 

  Maybe I left it in the shop and never brought it home?

By this time next year my family may have packed me off to a residential home for Santas who can no longer remember where they parked their sleigh.

Christmas Drama

We have had a Christmas drama. I didn’t say much about it as I was ashamed of my own selfishness. 

At Christmas, the prospect of relaxing in your own sitting room is far more potent than the  idea of an exotic holiday.

But we have been having a chimney breast and wood-burning stove installed. 

Everything in our sitting  room has been covered in sheets of plastic as if we had  made the decor choice ‘murder investigation ‘.  

The Christmas tree was queueing outside the back door, the unused fairy-lights clustering  on the landing.  

I am so callous that in this era of displaced families and refugees I just really wanted my fireplace finished by the time that Pascoe, Perran and Carenza got home for Christmas.

The fireplace guy suffered various setbacks, becoming  grimmer as the weeks passed. Finally with Pascoe and Carenza already here and Perran on his way the woodburner went in last Friday. 

Okay, so the glass is broken and we can’t use it until  we get a replacement.

Okay, so there’s still a gap that needs filling down the side of the fireplace.

But the plastic has come off the furniture, the tree has gone up. We are home.

Now all that we need to do is not switch on the TV news.

Wise men follow the star...

Following last year's adventures when we were out of the house, the wise men have once again stumbled into difficulties, courtesy of Carenza.

Black Friday

I think of myself as an ex-shopper. 

I got caught up in the rampant enjoyment of shopping in the 90s especially as we lived near the new, glitzy and vast Gateshead MetroCentre.

I soon realised that the happiness gained from shopping is at best fleeting, and I stopped. 

But recently my girlfriends were reminiscing about a trip we made to the Cotwolds. 

“I liked Bourton on the Water.”

“Is that where Clare got the cake-icing nozzle?”

“No, that was Stow on the Wold.  Bourton on the Water was where she got that pottery dish.”

“I thought Stow on the Wold was where she got that metal sign to go on her house.”

“No, I can’t remember where that was.”

I listened in silence. Clearly still more of a shopper than I realised then.

And just in case I thought I was cured, along comes Black Friday.

I meant to support “Buy Nothing Friday”.  So much more in tune with my anti-shopping  ideals.

But the notion that I could be in town filling Christmas stockings at a huge discount was having its effect on me.  It was as if the shops were a giant magnet and I was wearing a brace on my teeth.

I whizzed in and bought five carefully-chosen items.  I was nearly back at the car park when I ran into Georgia who looked impressed and said

“Wow – you’ve bought loads.”

Not really, I thought.  But then, when I caught sight of myself in Wilko’s window -  I could see that the two bags I was carrying looked huge.  In fact, it was just two very bulky fleece blankets, not the dazzling stash of dozens of items that it appeared to be.

Oh well, my reputation as a big shopper continues……

Bird House

For some, coming home to a waggy dog is the perfect end to the day. For others, a cat which entwines itself.

As for me, I’m happy with my own company.

Almost.

Since the weather got colder I have had a strong urge to put out the bird feeders.

And the birds, previously aloof, have been reminding me too. 

From my desk I see our local flock of starlings eating berries from our yew; the blackbirds from the cotoneaster.

Finally at the weekend, I hung out the birdfeeders.

The first time in our new home.

It took just one day for the birds to discover them.  To robins, blue tits, great tits and coal tits, we are now the local Tescos.

It also took just one day for two squirrels to unhook the squirrel-proof feeder (name on the pack – “the Fortress”), and then carefully unscrew the lid. 

They then scooped out the peanuts with their little hands.

BUT instead of eating them, they began to bury them in various parts of the lawn.

And now I’m sitting here worrying that it is a metaphor for something.

Maybe I should get a dog.

Cold

I had plans for the weekend.

I had to cancel them.

After work next week, I was supposed to be driving to Cornwall for my mum’s birthday.

I’ve had to tell her that I’ve postponed.

By Sunday evening, I have even had to acknowledge that I am not going to manage to get up at crack of dawn and do the 45 minute rush hour drive tomorrow morning. I have rung in sick.

I have a cold.

I haven’t had a bad cold for ages.

I had begun to think I was invulnerable.  Working in a school of over 1,000 boys, I believed I had developed a cast iron immune system.

I was wrong. 

And now I am achey and shivery and sniffly.

Bah!

Bedside Cabinet

Very conscious that Carenza is now in her third and last year of university, I took the opportunity to visit her.  I had asked her if I should bring anything.  The request was for a bedside table.  I obtained one for a tenner from Emmaus.  It was heavy.

When Carenza was a tiny baby, my friend Jennie asked “Where’d you get this little fairy one?”

It felt a bit like that as I followed Carenza round college.   I could see people wondering what this dark, stumpy woman had to do with Carenza.  I grinned at them in a friendly and witless manner.  But in the end I proved my worth, managing to purchase a sandwich in Hall in spite of a melee of Diwali celebrations and Indian dancing.  Nobody else could have done it.

But we still hadn’t managed to get the bedside cabinet up to her room.

Accompanying Carenza, I discovered the story of her day.  There had been the elections for the new president of the college.  I met the soon-to-be new president.  She was lovely.  Carenza’s time as president was nearly at a close.  And running the elections had been a great deal of work.

Her friend, Chris, told her to get a rest.

I said, “Umm.  There’s this bedside cabinet…”

He got it out of the back of my car and carried it to the lift.  The lift was broken.  He carried it to the third floor.  He even offered to carry with it the bottle of spirits I was clutching (long story).  While carrying the cabinet he also attempted to hold doors for us and was flawlessly polite.

Thank you, Chris.  While there are people like you, the Spirit of Hugh Grant will never die.

Fireworks

One of my earliest non-dates with Nigel, back in the days when we were just good friends, was to attend a firework display together.  It was fun.  A year and a half later, Nigel and I started going out together around fireworks night (1983).  

We never missed a fireworks night.

Then we had babies.  

People said they would be terrified by the loud explosions and bright flashes.  

But we tried it.  

The twins in their backpacks and Pascoe caught safely by a mittened hand, they loved it, eyes open like saucers.

“Ooooh.”

“Aaaaaah.”

We used to go to the magnificent display at Saltwell Park in Gateshead, then, when we moved to the South East, to Verulamium Park. 

Then came the teen-age years.  

We had to find pyromaniac grown-up friends to go with as our children wanted to go with their mates.  Twice in the pitch black melee of thousands of people we found ourselves standing right next to an outraged Perran with his pals looking shifty.

Pascoe would still sometimes humour us and come with us, and we would hear through the (to us) impenetrable blackness, other youngsters calling “Hello Pascoe”.

Last night, he was back from Edinburgh and came with us again.  Dan travelled up from London and joined us too.

“Ooooooh.”

“Aaaaaaaah.”