Half Term

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It’s half way through my first PGCE term and we get a week’s holiday, er, I mean, Reading Week. 

To celebrate, I decided to contract a messy cold.  It makes me feel like a real teacher as I understand it’s a bit of a tradition in the profession to stagger up to the holiday in reasonable health, then, just as you relax, so does your immune system. 

I was supposed to be visiting my parents this week, but it turns out they also have a cold so don’t want a visitor.  Although I’m sorry they’re unwell, maybe it was for the best as I was due to set off on my five hour drive first thing on Monday, just when the gale was raging. 

Instead, Monday was like having a snow day but without the inconvenient white stuff.  Nigel couldn’t get to work due lack of trains, so we had a cup of tea in bed, watched the trees thrashing in the wind and played “guess the name of the large object we can hear blowing about on the patio”.

When the storm abated, Nigel went out to check the damage.  He returned saying,

“Clare – it’s utter devastation out there.”

“Oh?”

“Two of my kale plants are now leaning at a slight angle.”

Skype

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Through my childhood, sci-fi TV series had characters using video phones, but now, for several years video calls have actually been within reach of many of us.  We are living in the future.  So why does it still feel a bit crap? 

I guess, in Star Trek , the dramatist would love the shot of somebody reporting a disaster by video link.  The character’s anguished face made the news about Klingons more dire. 

BUT the handsome chaps on the video screen reporting to their crew were actors, so they were experts at looking engaged and interested.  You never saw them glancing at the time or furtively doing a little word-processing. Unlike the rest of us defective human beings.

I find a conventional audio phone suits my fidgety nature much better.  I am able to indulge in one-handed housework, but try to avoid doing jobs that involve standing on wobbly chairs as I would hate my parents or children to hear my final expletives as I tumble to my death.  It could scar them emotionally. 

But it’s Skype for us at the moment.  Nigel, Pascoe and I line up on the sofa and call Perran or Carenza.  Perhaps if we were better organised we could use two laptops, Skype them both simultaneously and have a conference. 

But even then there would still be the slightly crap anti-climax where we wondered what to talk about, did a little word-processing, checked our watches and picked our noses.

All dressed up

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The Picasso version of matriculation

Carenza had her matriculation ceremony!

Shouldn’t I have been there?  After all, it was an official rite of passage in my daughter’s young life.  Apparently not.  The word is that she is an adult now.  Parents will be allowed back in a few years’ time for the graduation ceremony, once there is a decent level of separation and they can be trusted not to lick their hankies in order to clean their offspring’s face.

Carenza was obviously able to picture me at home wearing my twin-set and pearls; my court shoes and matching handbag and hat gleaming as I stood by the front door waiting eagerly for my invitation to plop onto the door mat, so she sent us some pictures as compensation.

Perran also appeared all dressed up in the Bristol student newspaper, but didn’t send us the photos.  But I found them anyway!  Ha ha! (Manic laugh.)

http://bristol.tab.co.uk/2013/09/29/fresher-style/

Hanging on the Telephone

Hanging on the Telephone

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When I was an undergraduate, my room was next to a landing at the head of a staircase.  On the landing was a rare public payphone.   

The first two times it rang, I answered it and dutifully toddled off to find the person for whom the bell tolled.  The first time, I wasn’t sure who the student in question was and had to make enquiries; the second time, I knew exactly who they were but they seemed to have given their mother the number of the phone furthest from their room, perhaps in the hope that she would give up ringing them.  I walked miles and then they were out.

The third time, and every time thereafter, I ignored the phone as I judged time-consuming phone-answering duties to be incompatible with the serious business of studying for a degree.  Who knows what love affairs ended, what mothers wiped away a lonely tear, as a result of my phone-refusal.

And how glad I am that my own communication with my offspring is not dependent on some hard-hearted undergraduate who is able callously to filter out telephone bells. 

The twins may have Skype switched off and their mobiles set to silent, but sooner or later, a text from me will get through.  And the two keystrokes that it takes for them to draw a smiley will reassure me that all is wellJ

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Nice Peas

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Sometimes you hear successful figures of today on Desert Island Discs saying

“Yah, in our house, there was always a debate going on, always lively argument round the dinner table.”

This makes me feel inadequate as the main subject of dinner debate chez nous is whether it’s okay to put extra salt on food or not.  However, we do always switch the radio off, thank God for the food, and then the silence is somehow filled with chat, even though I could rarely recount to you what we’d talked about. 

Probably trivial gossip.

The great thing is that Perran, Carenza and Pascoe lead much more interesting lives than our middle-aged bunch. 

“So he dumped her by text?  That’s horrendous.”

“Yeah, and then she put a picture of him picking his nose on Facebook.”

Does anybody remember the Spitting Image portrayal of John and Norma Major as a dull, grey couple eating a monotonous meal?  I picture Nigel and I like this after Pascoe has left for Edinburgh:

“Nice peas, Clare.”

“Yes, Nigel, they’re very green.”

And across the town, our various empty-nest friends will be the same. 

So I guess we’ll be inviting them round more often.  Only trouble is, unlike the offspring, we won’t be able to lock them in the kitchen and force them to do the washing up afterwards.

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Pan Fire

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I thought I was doing really well – I have made it to every session of my PGCE course so far, despite a mammoth commute, have handed in my first two assignments on time, have kitted up and seen off two children for university.  The house is a bit of a tip, but heigh-ho. 

In living at home with Nigel, I knew I was going to lose out on university life, but weighed against that are the advantages of retaining family life and links with old friends.

I was doing just this at the church Harvest Supper on Saturday, when in the middle of a speech about African AIDs orphans, I had a mental picture of…SMOKE!

 I realised with a shock that I had left a pan on at home.   I raced back.

I opened the front door on a pall of acrid grey smoke.  I thank God that it wasn’t worse – the house wasn’t actually on fire.

I guess a burning pan is the traditional way for a woman’s unconscious to tell her that she has too much on her plate.  I think I’ve just been told.

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So What Happened to The Tribbles?

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Just before Carenza left for uni, she made a plethora of pom-poms.  Obviously we feared they would take over the house in the way that Tribbles once invaded the Starship Enterprise, but luckily we were wrong.

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED TO THE POM-POMS

Carenza made them into a rug.

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED TO THE TRIBBLES

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Bum Dial

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Bum Dial

When friends ask “Has Perran been in touch at all?”

We say “Not much,” then, defensively, “But that’s a good sign – he’d only be ringing us if he was miserable.”

There’s been the odd text, skype, phone call, enough so we know he’s still alive. 

Yet we are content.  The reason?

On Perran’s second day at uni, we were in the kitchen at home each wondering silently how he was getting on.  Then Nigel’s phone rang: it was a call from Perran’s mobile.  Nigel listened for a while, then turned the sound up and beckoned me to come over.  We could hear several voices, amongst them, Perran’s - a group of girls and boys, laughter. 

The conversation was indistinct, but it sounded friendly and happy.  We imagined them in the kitchen of their shared flat.  Clearly Perran’s phone had called us by accident from his pocket.  We smiled at each other and quietly switched the call off.

No deliberate call could have been quite as reassuring as that bum dial.  However much somebody declares “I’m alright!” over-anxious parents can never be sure. 

But hearing that, we could be sure.

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Gone

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Gone.
I had to go to PGCE lectures yesterday, which meant that it was Nigel and Pascoe who drove Carenza and all her goods and chattles to Oxford.   I wasn’t there to help her settle in, hang up her clothes, shove stuff under her bed.  And now I have no mental picture of her in her room . 

However, being the parent who does the drop off is not an easy option either.  Almost before you have heaved the last box up the stairs, other freshers are hanging round ready to chat, and you soon feel in the way.  Quickly you deposit that final fatal crate and depart, still doubled-up, to phone your chiropractor for an appointment.

Last night, as I rubbed ointment into Nigel’s lower back, I was, on balance, pleased not to have been the one to deliver Carenza to Oxford. 

Anyway, there’s something about the webcam that always makes a college room look so much larger when you see it on Skype than in real life, so as long as I don’t visit her, as far as I’m concerned, Carenza will be living in a palace.

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Birthday

“It’s such a perfect day.  I’m glad I spent it with you…”

The mellow sun is low in the sky and Nigel is driving Pascoe, Carenza and myself home from seeing Perran in Bristol while Lou Reed is serenading us from the CD player. 

For my birthday, I like to get the family together, but had thought that it would not be possible this year since everybody is destined to be studying far from home.  But to my delight, we managed it.

Pascoe’s departure for Edinburgh has been delayed until January, Carenza doesn’t set off for Oxford until tomorrow.  So all we had to do was drive all the way to Bristol to be with Perran.  Oh, and celebrate my birthday three days early.

Perran was lucky that one of his flatmates also had parents visiting, so tidying the flat had probably been a joint effort.  It looked very civilised.   However, eagle-eyed Carenza triumphantly pointed out a takeaway pizza box on a shelf in the kitchen.

“That,” said Perran with dignity, “Is the cardboard recycling.”

My best birthday present this year was to see that after only two weeks, Perran is settled and thriving at Bristol.

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“The trouble with tribbles”

Carenza is still at home.  She missed Perran desperately when he left, and now Sasoon has gone too. She is enjoying a few get-togethers with old friends, but finally she is ready to be on her way. 

She has chosen an interesting way of expressing her feelings.  She began by making a few pom-poms.   Then she created a pom-pom garden and now she has moved on to a pom-pom empire.  She had better leave soon or we shall be over-run by pom-poms.  

As Nigel drives her to university on Monday, pom-poms will hop and bounce along, squeaking and following the car down the road like the Pied Piper of Hamlyn. 

On second thoughts, perhaps I shall try to persuade the pom-poms to stay with me.  They can snuggle up to me on the sofa when I watch telly at night.  They will be company for me.

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Jack's Song About Leaving Home

The feeling in the air is that it's time to leave home.  Despite a few nerves, and parents who will miss them, Perran and Carenza's friends are ready to move on, some of them to new places, others simply to new challenges.  Jack Wheater (on the right of the picture) expresses the feeling of his generation - to hear his poignant song, click on the link below.

Jack's Song About Leaving Home

Disappointments and Solutions

Since I’ve been blogging about the University application process, I guess my assumption has been that universities make themselves as attractive to candidates as possible and vice versa, followed by a dialogue of applications rejections and acceptances, at the end of which a (hopefully) happy marriage occurs.

However, recently a couple of Perran and Carenza’s contemporaries have met with different outcomes and I thought it was worth airing their stories as it is something that this year’s applicants might like to be aware of.

One had been accepted  for a very particular art course with exactly the right slant for her and was looking forward to starting, only to discover that the course had been cancelled due to a shortage of suitable applicants.   I guess the lesson is to be aware that this could happen in the case of a small “niche” course and ask plenty of questions when applying.

The other had won the place she wanted on the course she wanted, but due to some sort of mix-up, failed to secure accommodation. 

Accommodation is a more common problem, but often, if the undergraduate can make temporary arrangements, empty rooms appear soon after the start of term due to others dropping out.  However, it takes quite a nerve to do this, especially if the individual was already apprehensive about leaving home.  Another potential solution I have heard of is to defer until next year when, because the applicant already has a definite place, it may make it possible to apply early for accommodation.

The good news is that both of these resourceful young women have found other courses to attend and I wish them all the best.

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Exhausted Wallet

Before I started my own PGCE course I was preoccupied with fitting Perran and Carenza out for university life.  I was trying to ensure that they had no need to fret about equipment/toiletries/stationery as they struggled with living independently in a strange city, making new friends and launching on their studies.

In fairness we probably got 90% of our crap together.

Since, however, I started my own process of being beat over the head with course information, college information, placement bumph and assignment rubrics, I have rather taken my eye off the ball. 

That was why, on Saturday, Perran, Nigel and I found ourselves in the Bristol branch of Wilkinsons dragging a trolley heaped high with all the things that we had thought would be in Perran’s room already – lamp, chest of drawers, bin; and a few things that we had left  at home – cushions, sheets, air freshener.

We were not alone.  There were hordes of young people in there, each trailing a trolley of bargain household items, each tailed by one or more harrassed parent. 

“Do you think these are all freshers?” I asked Nigel as we stood in the queue to pay.

Meanwhile the father ahead of us got to the front of the queue.  Nigel peered as he took out his money.

“Thin, well-worn wallet,” he remarked, “Definitely the parent of a fresher.”

When Twins Say Goodbye

I have been apart from Perran and Carenza quite often over recent years, although never for more than a week at a time.

They however, have been parted from each other far less often.  They have often been on the same  school trips and holidays.  Over the years, their once-separate friendship groups have converged and the twins have seen something of each other each day both in school and out.

They make each other laugh and are usually completely on each other’s side.

When they were about four, I was working in the kitchen one day when they marched in purposefully together.

With a grave face, Carenza asked me: ”Mummy, what do you call somebody who isn’t a twin?”

The answer was, “A singleton.”

From now until Christmas, they will both be singletons.  I just hope it doesn’t hurt too much.

Whirlwind

So I had heard that a full-time PGCE course would be tough and immersive, especially as I drive for over an hour to get there every morning.

“Good,” I thought:  not only will I be training for the next stage of my working life, but it will take my mind off the departure of my children for university.

My mind is spinning with ID cards, permits, passwords, wifi keys, library systems, files brimming with pro formas and websites swimming in information.  I have met so many new people, heard so many lectures.  I feel I have lived an entire lifetime and it is only Thursday.

So has it stopped me from moping over my babies as they depart?

Nope – Perran leaves on Saturday, and although I often forget for a whole hour at a time I’m still inclined to be a bit weepy. 

But right this moment, I’d better blow my nose as I have about a thousand pages of notes to stuff into my various folders.

Fresher Fun

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Fresher Fun

Every day, on web sites and in emails, more information is arriving about Freshers’ Week.

“Look at this” says Perran gleefully, “A choice of three club nights every night.”

Carenza consults her documents:

“Hmmm – Library Induction.”

My PGCE Freshers’ Week has already started – I consult my leaflet for today’s event:

“IT Suite - surgery for EduRoam.”

Clearly Carenza and I have been sent the wrong documents.

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New Diary

A month ago, Carenza bought me a massive new diary.It makes an ominous thump sound as it hits my desk.  I guess she’s marking the fact that I’m going to be much busier now.  Today is the day that I go along to Homerton College to register and I just don’t know where all the time went.

My desk was supposed to be clear, my filing system as free and airy as if it had just received colonic irrigation.  However, books and papers are still stacked up everywhere.  (I am trying desperately not to resort to the constipation metaphor, but I think it’s in all our minds now.)  In spite of the gigantic size of the diary, I even managed to lose that for a couple of weeks.

About three years ago, Gill and I were removing all the donated (!) junk modelling materials (AKA grade one fire hazard) from beneath the stairs in church, but as we reached the bottom of the pile, Gill pulled her hand out hurriedly – she had grasped a baby hedgehog settling in to hibernate.

I reckon that if I cleared my desk properly, I might very well find a badger, or maybe even a wild boar under that lot.

And the hedgehog?  Carenza and I reared it through the winter and released it in the local woods in Spring.

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The Last…

I know by now, that as a family grows and evolves, most “last”s pass by unremarked.  It is only a couple of years afterwards that you realise that a particular day in July was not just the last time you took the kids to the swimming pool, but probably the last time you will ever take them.

And so it was last Sunday.  After church, we had a family walk on the rolling chalk-land around Ivinghoe Beacon, a place that we’ve always enjoyed, then picked umpteen pounds of elderberries for wine, then home for tea and cake, followed rather too closely by a decent dinner.  I lit some tea-lights, which means it was special.  A good day.

Also, as it turns out, the last sunday that we will all be together for some months.  This week Pascoe took up an invitation to travel in Eire and by the time he returns, Perran will have been launched on an unsuspecting Bristol – he only this week received his accommodation and arrival details.

I’m glad we didn’t realise at the time that it was our last Sunday as a family – it was better not knowing!

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THE LIFE-CYCLE OF A CAMEL

Spent the last two days happily observing really excellent teachers at our local primary school and looking forward to another three to go. 

I can see now why so many writers have a background as a teacher.  As you listen to young children’s ideas, you can at any moment take a sidestep into a parallel universe, one that you could never have dreamt up for yourself. 

Who knew that a camel develops a hump only when it is pregnant, and that it then gives birth to a little camel which may one day in its turn become a teenage camel, then an adult, and then develop its own hump.  Or even, proudly, two!

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Back to School

Summer fun now officially over
 

As all the children lie sleeping, I have got up and got dressed, assembled my packed lunch, packed my satchel. 

Unlike all the others, I’m back to school.

I am attending our local junior school as part of my PGCE, for which lectures etc start in earnest next week.

It feels like stepping back in time, especially as it was at these very tiny tables and desks where I once sat down to help in my children’s classrooms, feeling like the proverbial elephant riding a moped.

I am very familiar with the insides of the tardis-like PTA cupboard.

But this time, I have a grown-up professional reason for being there – I am to observe teaching and regimes and policies within the school in order to learn to become a teacher.

I have a proper notebook for the task.

As I pop it in my bag, I realise – even my exercise book is one of Perran’s old school ones.

 

I hope to report back later on how my first day went.

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Windows 8

We have used thrift and recycling to avoid much of the expense of equipping our children for university.  Partly because we knew we would have to fork out for laptops – expensive.  Desirable, up-to-date,  lightweight models with plenty of poke seem all to sport the controversial Windows 8 operating system.  If one follows the PC (rather than Apple) route, and doesn’t fancy grappling with more niche systems like Ubunto, Windows 8 is now unavoidable.   I too have bought a new laptop for my course and, last night, asked Pascoe to hold my hand while I tried to get to grips with Windows 8.

The Frequently Asked Questions page, when I found it, summed up my own feelings completely:

FAQ: Where did the desktop gadgets go?

FAQ: Where is Control Panel?

FAQ: Where is Device Manager?

FAQ: Where is Task Manager?

FAQ: Where is Windows Movie Maker?

Where indeed?

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Have you got your PE Kit?

For the last week I’ve been noticing the roads getting unusually busy around 9am and 4pm and was puzzled as to why this might be.

I was also mystified as to the lack of children in the local park and shopping centre.

Then, yesterday I was out with an old friend (you know who you are) and I discovered the reason.  It was her day off, and my last before I start my PGCE.  We were taking a stroll on the South Bank  when suddenly she went a bit preoccupied and starey. 

“What’s the matter?”

“I left my fourteen-year-old having a lie-in this morning. I’d forgotten the kids have gone back to school.” 

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No Driving Practice

No Driving Practice

For some time now, my life has revolved around little car-based errands.  They fitted in with Perran and Carenza’s need for driving practice.  It was my attempt to make myself feel I was achieving something in spite of the fact that I was spending all my time slumped grumpily in the passenger seat of my Fiesta.  We would drive to the next town to pick up an order from PC world, or to our nearest retail park to solve wardrobe crises at Next or M&S. (Just what should a middle-aged trainee teacher wear? Children can be very cruel, you know.)

Trouble is, the practice driving stopped on Tuesday when both the twins passed their test.  We’ve decided not to pay the exorbitant motor insurance rates as they will soon be off to university.   So no practice is now needed.

My irritating errands, however, have carried on, since I am in the habit of setting them up – getting items delivered next day to a nearby store, for instance, rather than them arriving at our house a week later when I’m out.

However, I need a return to sanity now – back to two wheels rather than four.  This morning I undertook my final errand – to pick up a bicycle basket.

Cheesy photo

After the twins both finally passed their driving test within one hour of one another, I felt cheated that I didn't have the obvious photo of them tossing their L plates in the air.
They must still have been pretty happy about passing because this morning they very kindly obligingly trooped out onto the drive to pose for the photo without blackmail or even bribery.

Take 1

"You forgot to smile, Perran."
"Sorry- got a nasty sore throat."

 

 





Take 2

"Perran was throwing but Carenza wasn't."
 "Sorry."
"Sorry."









Take 3

"Carenza was throwing but Perran wasn't."
 "Actually, Mum, since you and Dad aren't paying our motor insurance, that's probably enough for now."

 

What the L

When the twins were aged two and potty training, I booked myself some time “working at home”.  A colleague rang me with a query and as I answered her I must have sounded somewhat distracted.  The reason:

Perran had momentarily lost control and weed on the kitchen floor.  He was so frustrated with himself that he began bawling loudly.  Carenza, eager to see what the matter was, came racing round the corner, skidded in the wee and fell flat on her back in the puddle.  She too began to cry at the top of her lungs. 

“What’s that noise?” asked  Dr Edwards on the other end of the phone.

“Nothing.  Er, I really have to go now.”

Then there was potty-training on a trip to Edinburgh Zoo, when Carenza, feeling warm and secure on Daddy’s knee, had a little wee.  It was a bit chilly, but eventually, the breeze dried Nigel’s trouser leg.  Then she got back on his knee and did it again.

And potty training at York Railway Museum.  They each liked to have their own potty, so we felt a bit conspicuous carrying two of them, ill-disguised in plastic bags.

But let me say now that potty training twins was as nothing compared to teaching them to drive. 

So it is with huge relief that I can announce the fact that they both passed their driving tests today.

I wanted to take a cheesy celebration shot of them both but they have each gone out with a friend – for a walk.

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Vaccination

Nothing to do with story,
but you just don't often see a silver-washed fritillary

I’m writing this as I sit here in the GP’s waiting room. 

What am I waiting for? 

A vaccinaton. 

On my form from the college nurse, it was expected that I had received BCG (yep, a regular matter during my schooldays, although not any longer);

 two doses of MMR (nope, this was something that I heart-searched about submitting my babies to, not something I had experienced myself - I wrote on the form that I have had the illnesses themselves but not the vaccination);

lastly, Meningitis C (a vaccination not invented in my day - always makes me think of Mel C from the Spice Girls, but I understand it’s far less pleasant).  I had no alibi for this one, so rang up for an appointment.

I haven’t watched any of those gruesome autopsy-based shows, so I don’t know whether you can tell the age of somebody from the vaccination marks on their arm, but you can certainly date them from their vaccination record.

I haven’t had a vaccination for absolutely ages and as I sit here pondering this, I remember that I’m not terribly fond of needles.

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Recycle, Re-use

Pascoe has been a complete hero.  On the last day of the academic year, he raided the rich heaps left by the bins outside the halls of residence at his university.  He shuttled back and forth on his bike with loads of goodies abandoned by students who couldn’t see any use for a saucepan or a kettle over the summer holidays and little regard for the fact that they would have to buy new ones in the Autumn.    Or, more likely, their parents would.

Yesterday we got it all out of the loft and the twins exclaimed “It’s like Christmas.”

They sifted through woks, hair-driers, can openers and assembled a set each.

The deal is that we buy Perran and Carenza laptops, a nemesis we always knew was coming.  They’re not sure about printers as apparently other people borrow and break them and there are usually facilities for printing.

There are one or two other things they may need but they’re going to see how it goes when they get there.  They will probably have to resort to Borrowing and Sharing at times, but isn’t that what student life should be about?

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In-Car Aggro

I would not have chosen to be the one to teach my children to drive, but Nigel has a better alibi, with a full-time job a long commute away.  

“But nurturing learner drivers is in conflict with my anger management technique,” I plead.

In general, that technique consists of a quick shout.  In fact I’m not sure that you could call it anger management.  Maybe just anger.  Nevertheless, I don’t have the necessary commitment or stamina for sulking, so it’s what I do. 

However, it’s not good news to get red and furious when trying to work out a route back to the roundabout which we just left at the wrong exit, not profitable to shout accusations as I attempt to prevent us from taking the slip road onto the motorway.

After weeks of driving practice, finally I think I am beginning to grow up and master my wrath.

Then yesterday, I managed to get into a contretemps with one of the twins.  After a near miss in the town centre, they were clearly expecting recriminations and I failed to deliver.

“I’m not going to argue with you now – we’ll do a post mortem later.”

“But how am I to learn if you don’t tell me?”

“We’re both a bit stressed just now.”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong did I?”

“JUST BLOODY WELL DRIVE THE CAR!”

Equilibrium restored, we were able to move on in peace.

 

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Firm

When we arrived home after the Greenbelt festival, the opening of the front door was impeded by a lump of envelopes.  Most of them looked boring (bury, burn, destroy).  Some went straight into the recycling box which we keep tellingly close to the letterbox.

But one, with my name on it, bore the UCAS insignia.  I tore it open.

“Congratulations…” it began.

Phew.

Although I had been the first of the four of applicants in our house to receive a conditional offer for a course last year, I was the last to have the offer firmed up.  In spite of being treated like a firm candidate and receiving joining information from both faculty and college, nothing had changed on UCAS Track. 

With my course about to begin, I had begun to experience UCAS Anxiety.

On investigation, I discovered that a routine, yet vital, medical form had been lost somewhere between my GP and Cambridge occupational health.  But now I was into the August summer holidays and seemed always to end up speaking to colleagues of the people who had originally been dealing with me.  It had the air of something which could make Kafka’s “The Trial” look like a walk in the park.

But now I’m sorted. 

The only disadvantage - I’ve run out of excuses to put off tackling my reading list.

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Greenbelt

Just got back from Greenbelt, a festival of arts, politics and theology.

After several years of my kids camping with friends, we had a fairly orderly encampment of five families or part-families, more typical of how it was before the offspring became teens.

With Carenza, I visited an art exhibition by Nicola Green about the election of Obama, with Perran, I attended  Shobana Jeyasingh’s “Configurations” (Indian Classical Dance alongside a string quartet), I joined Pascoe for  a talk on food security in Malawi and with Nigel, the hilarious comedian Barbara Nice (your Nana’s point of view – but only if your Nana was deeply subversive).

We also shared craich, cups of chai and glasses of wine with good friends.

I have been fed spiritually, but luckily, not watered.  Last year, we were six inches deep in quagmire.  I saw another middle-aged woman slip over.  She arose looking like a chocolate-coated gingerbread man and I spent the rest of the weekend worrying it would happen to me.  But this year was a good one for sitting around on the grass wearing ridiculous festival clothes (of which I have a selection).

For us, it was probably the perfect Greenbelt, but as with everything else, things are changing.  Greenbelt happens at Cheltenham Racecourse where they are about to knock down and rebuild the huge grandstand, so the festival may be looking for a new home.  Plus the twins reckon that if they come next year, it should be as volunteers, to help with the day-to-day running rather than relaxing with us.

But I’m sure that somehow, somewhere, Greenbelt will happen and that most of us will be there.

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Kitchen Sink

"Where are we going to put this, Pascoe?"  "I have no idea, Ian."

A couple of times recently, we have bundled everybody into the car for a camping trip, or even a two week holiday touring Croatia, and still been able to see out of the back window.    

It kinda feels like we’re getting away with something. 

It used to be horrendous, trying to pack for every eventuality for three small children, even for just a weekend. 

A low point was setting off for home from the Lake District when the children were still tiny.  We were at a T junction on a steep hill when the hatch at the back of the car sprang open and a bucket of Duplo cascaded down the slope.  Other parents who were passing by, clearly aware of just how expensive that stuff is, came and helped us retrieve most of it.

It didn’t get better even when the kids hit their teenage years. 

There was a period of Clothing Indecision. 

“My goodness me – do you really need five pairs of shoes when we’re only going for three days?”

There has also been Bringing Friends.

On the whole, okay, except for that one time when they’d been to an alcohol-centred party the night before and two of them were sick in the car before we reached our destination.

Still, I’m looking forward to a properly crammed car when we ferry them off to Uni – much more like the good old days. 

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