Looking for Zoella

The teens have birthdays only three days apart which presents a few logistical issues.  For a start, everything has to be the same.  It’s not like one has a birthday in February and the other in November leaving eight long months for the November born to forget what happened on February born’s special day.  With only three days to separate the events are too fresh to even be memories and the pressure is on to make sure that the present pile is the same cubic dimension, the parties/celebrations are of the same calibre and the energy levels are maintained throughout.  It is terrifying singing happy birthday when you know that you are under a pair of beady eyes doing a thorough audit of your felicitation vigour.

When they were younger there was also the party situation to navigate but, as they have got older, we have chosen not to spend money on parties but to have a family treat instead (sorry, I know that sounds annoyingly twee but I can’t think of any other way to describe it!).

This year we decided on a couple of days in Brighton because (a) it is a great place (b) we love it and most importantly for Teen 2 (c) it the home of Zoella and Alfie.

I was forbidden from sending some sort of embarrassing mother communication to Zalfie (I know, they even have their own super-couple nickname) begging an audience for Teen 2.  We had to be content with lurking around The Lanes with our eyes peeled for a sighting.  Teen 2 was adamant that if she did spot one of them she would not make an approach, a combination of nerves and respect for their privacy.  I did point out that they make a living out of having no privacy but this was greeted with a ‘you don’t know what you are talking about’ stare but, that said, she did carry round her hardback copy of ‘Girl Online’ in her backpack the whole time just in case she could get it signed.

I know.  Bless.

We clearly do not have promising futures as celebrity stalkers as Zalfie remained well hidden, but we did have a lovely time walking the hallowed ground upon which they had walked.  We are now trying to persuade Teen 1 to apply for Brighton University so that we have plenty more reasons to go back.

Can’t go to Brighton without a wander on the pier.

 And the best fish and chips EVER.  Thanks to the graphicfoodie.co.uk for the review.

 Breakfast at Bill’s

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 Teen 2 and her BFSB (Best Friend Since Birth) ticking a visit to Photomatic off their wish list.

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Retail therapy – Halloween pumpkins because the display was too good to resist

and an early birthday present to me, the most fantastic bag from Sophia and Matt.

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This is my new favourite shop, gorgeous things everywhere.  Sophia sold me my bag and she was very lovely; I think products from their website are going to feature heavily on my Christmas list…

Sourdough pizza at Franco Manca (highly recommended – tasty, light, and amazing prices), and a trip to the Theatre Royal Brighton.

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Last morning of the trip.  Bacon bagels from Bagelman in Hove – right on Zoella’s doorstep!

Delish.

A Morning Snapshot


A bright, warm Saturday morning, the day stretching ahead ripe with the promise of sunshine and rest.  No work today and no household chores as we are in the final days of our summer break.

Trainers on and headphones in as I leave the teens in bed, groggily catching up on the social media juggernaut that has ploughed on through the night as they slept.

Outside, the village is waking too.  Bleary eyed fathers are already herding their broods down to the beach, their silhouette a peculiar seaside monster made of crabbing nets, buckets, sun tents and all-terrain buggies.

Around the corner I side step a couple of Boden clad mummies furtively vaping with big, deep drags, sipping on takeaway coffees as they try to banish the taste of Sauvignon from the night before.

Down the hill to the town beach where the sea, glassy smooth, glints and shines in the morning sun.  I glance over to the mainland where I left the everyday niggles of normal life a few days ago, and try not to think that soon we will be back on the ferry to pick up where we left off.

I follow the sweep of the bay and slow my pace as I come up behind a few of the elder states people of the community.  Soft, washed out chambray caps sitting on pillows of white hair.  Nut brown, weather worn faces a physiological log of a lifetime of sailing.

On past the sailing club and down to the beach.  There is no sail training on today but plenty of fresh-faced children pulling dinghies out to the water’s edge, buoyancy aids flapping in the breeze, shouting to each other across the sand as they anticipate another day on the water.

Up ahead there is a gathering along the sea wall, a gang of families have erected a temporary cook out and breakfast buns are being dished out and handed down the line in a sort of bacon buttie relay.  No-one makes space for me to pass and as I cross to the other side to get by I am reminded that the ‘Down from London’ contingent often seem to leave their manners at home in Clapham but always pack their huge egos and sense of entitlement into their Musto kit bags .

Homeward bound now and I make a loop heading inland to the village.  This road is wide and tree-lined, big, moneyed houses all with their own collection of shiny four by fours lined up in the drives.  Propped up against one of the gates are the remnants of last night,  a burnt out bbq, a half full plastic pint glass, all the curtains in that house are still closed tight, it must have been a good party.

Up the hill and nearly home, the cafe on the corner  is spilling onto the pavement with morning service.  The little shop that sells everything has set out its street display of nets, painted rocks, beach balls and paperbacks.  As I put my key in the front door I spy the vaping mummies again, this time hair brushed and lipstick on as they head down to the beach to play parenting tag and relieve the dads who have completed the early morning shift.

Time to rouse the teens into action.  Let the day begin.

 

Best Summer Ever

It’s official, as of yesterday Teen 1 is no longer a uniform wearing school pupil.  She has put the last full stop on the last GCSE and emerged dazed but triumphant into what is officially the Best Summer Ever.

I did helpfully point out that it is only the last GSCE If she passes them all and doesn’t have to re-take any which didn’t go down terribly well, TBH.

However, even my helpful parental musings couldn’t ruin the mood yesterday as she gleefully stacked all her books, flash cards, coloured charts and revision timetables into bags destined to moulder in the garage.  The dining table was restored to its rightful use as a place to eat rather than a place to study, sigh, text, sigh some more, scroll through Facebook, delete Facebook because something irritated you, re-install Facebook due to FOMO, study a bit more…you get the picture.

Once the public areas of the house were ‘de-examed’, we headed upstairs to the bedroom.  It would be easy here to write a trite paragraph about teenagers bedrooms being black pits of messy despair but, fortunately, Teen 1 does not generally conform to this stereotype (that honour goes to Teen 2 who wears the teenage pit badge with pride).  Teen 1 is generally a little bit OCD about having a tidy room, some friends have even been known to be too scared to stay over lest their overnight bag caused offence.

So the fact that a certain amount of post exam fumigation was required shows what kind of pressure Teen 1 has been feeling.  We liberated half a dozen glasses, numerous yoghurt pots in varying degrees of furriness, and a rubbish bag full of wrappers that explained why I thought there was  a hungry marmoset living in the biscuit tin demolishing the contents as soon as it was re-filled.

The stained and food encrusted hoodie and shorts that seemed to be the 24 hour uniform during study leave have gone on a boil wash, windows flung open and crisp fresh linen put on the bed.  In short, order has been restored.

Teen 1 now has ten glorious weeks of freedom stretching out ahead of her.  Many plans are afoot – days out, trips to the beach, festivals, and of course the obligatory school prom (when did our secondary schools morph into poor imitations of an American high school in a Disney movie?).  All scheduled around two Summer jobs which will go some way towards funding everything.

The first event is a big beach party rumoured to be taking place sometime next week.  When I pressed for more details I was told that they hadn’t been released yet by Party Admin.  What is Party Admin ? I ask. Apparently it is a self-appointed group of fellow 16 year olds hold that regular meetings, I don’t know where but I am suspecting Costa, to organise the details of the event.  WTF? I am pretty sure that in my day we just scammed a two litre bottle of cider and hung around the back of the station for an hour or two.

So, Teen 1, if you are reading this (and I know you do, if only to make sure I am not revealing anything too embarrassing), enjoy your Best Summer Ever.  You have earned it and I couldn’t be more proud of the tremendous effort you have put in to giving every exam your best shot.  Even maths, our mutual nemesis.

Play hard, have fun, and when Party Admin finally release a schedule can you let me know?

Best Summer Ever

The Mother Book from Selfish Mother

A lot of you reading this will already be well acquainted with Selfish Mother a fantastic blogzine on family life.  Social media at its very best, Selfish Mother is bursting full of honest accounts of day to day life from the parenting coal face.  Sometimes hilarious , sometimes moving, but always very genuine, Selfish Mother is the antithesis to the ‘shiny happy people yummy mummy’ take on life.  We don’t all have to be perfect and at the end of day we are all just doing the best we can – sipping a green juice on the way to yoga or sipping a sauv blanc as soon as the clock hits 7pm, there is no right or wrong way, just your way. Selfish Mother Logo

As well as the hundreds of blogs and vlogs available on the site there is also a shop which has raised over 75k for charity to date.

Signature sweatshirts and T  shirts are the order of the day with some great kids stuff available too.

One of the most recent additions to the range is ‘The Mother Book’ a collection of posts that have featured on Selfish Mother, all lovingly curated by site founder and editor, Molly Gunn.

The Mother Book

Packed full of posts on everything from pregnancy to teenagers (including an article from yours truly in the teen section), The Mother Book is perfect to dip in and out of.  Keep it by your bed, by the loo, tucked behind the toaster…have a flick through and you will straight away find a few posts that ring very true.

As if things couldn’t get any better, Selfish Mother are giving £2 profit from every book to the charity; mothers2mothers who believe in the power of mothers to end paediatric AIDS. M2M train, employ, and empower mothers living with HIV to bring health and hope to other mothers, their families, and communities.

So, what’s not to love – a great read and a warm charity glow in one hit.  Stock up on a few and keep them in your present drawer (oh wait, I don’t have one of those, I only aspire to having one), I’m sure we all know a parent or two who needs to be reminded that they are not alone and that, to quote Selfish Mother, we are all winging it.

 

 

 

 

The Reluctant Gardener

The joy of gardening has always been a total mystery to me.  It is hard work, never ending, and to see results of your labours you have to play the long game.

I am more of an instant gratification girl.  I used to like that TV programme with Alan Titchmarsh and the woman who had no need of a bra.  They used to sweep into someone’s garden and completely transform it from a barren wasteland to a decking clad, fully flowering paradise in about 72 hours. That is my kind of gardening.

Even having a mother who is literally OBSESSED with growing, digging, cutting back and planting, and a best friend who has made a career out of the soil (she has even opened her own nursery, well worth a visit if you find yourself on the Isle of Wight), I have still never been able to bring myself to have lively chats about hardy annuals.

Until now.

There is a chink in my horticultural armour.  I have grown something!  Actually, a few things.

In between Christmas and New Year I spent a grumbly 90 minutes in the freezing rain and howling wind stuffing onions (I think ‘bulbs’ might be the technical term) into pots of earth (compost?).

My fingers went numb, my hair went frizzy, and my pink Converse got muddy.  The whole experience confirmed that all my feelings towards gardens were truly justified.  I retreated to the kitchen and sat glowering at the earth buckets as I defrosted with a cup of coffee.

But then, something happened.  The onions stared to grow.   Against my better judgement, and even though it went against all my principals, I started to take an interest.  I made a good fist of pretending not to care.  I channelled my inner 14 year old and treated the tiny shoots like they were a boy I really fancied. i.e. strolled nonchalantly into the garden pretending to be just putting the bins out whilst furtively casting desperate glances at the object of my desire.

Week by week they grew, and week by week I felt more excited until one sunny day I was greeted by the most lovely, brassy, uncoordinated mish mash of flowers (it was a sale bag of bulbs, a lucky dip of colours and varieties) all standing tall and proud, chests puffed out doing the tulip equivalent of jazz hands.

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I am not saying that I am a convert.  I will not be weeding, digging over or mulching anytime soon.  But I did, just a tiny little bit, get it.  My next project is a mini lavender farm to attract bumble bees – my contribution to protecting the ecosystem.  I know they don’t look much at the moment but I’ve got high hopes.  I’ll keep you posted.

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Does Thin Equal Happy?

When I was about 12 years old my mum came home with a new recipe book called “Cooking to Make Kids Slim”.  The front cover was a photograph of an unhappy looking plump-ish child dressed in tight shorts and a straining t shirt, standing on a set of scales.  As the podgy girl who always got picked last in PE I completely identified with this picture, it sowed the seed that fat=sad and thin=happy and marked the beginning of my dieting journey.**

Thirty four years later and I am still trying to reach the thin=happy part of the equation.  I have been on some sort of diet for most of my adult life; from mad ones that precluded all foods apart from tomatoes and edam cheese, too good to be true ones that allowed cream, chocolate and wine, to highly expensive ones that involved weekly visits to a suspicious looking ‘clinic’ somewhere off Great Portland Street.

I have been a size 8, a size 18 and spent my entire adult life madly yo-yoing between the two.

The problem is twofold.  Firstly, I love food.  Not just because it is food – I am not gratuitously mainlining Dominos pizza and Krispy Kremes. I also love all the happy associations that come with the stuff on my plate.  Family mealtimes, great nights out with friends, new tastes in another country, or simply the comfort of a bar of Dairy Milk in front of a good film.  Definitely what you would call an emotional eater.

I am fully informed.  I know that to lose weight I have to put less in and expend more, there is no magic solution to shedding the pounds.  The only real value that the bonkers diet plans hold for me are the change in routine and break in habits and, with something like Weight Watchers, the weekly weigh in of shame – nothing like the disappointed sigh from your WW leader to focus the mind.

I know I am not alone, I don’t think I have a female friend who is not on perma-weight-alert, so why do we do it?  I don’t have a burning desire to look like a particular celebrity, I am not medically obese and in a ‘diet or die’ scenario.

Do I think that if I was my perfect weight then everything else in life would fall into place and be perfect?  To be honest?  Yes, probably a little bit.  Because the self-esteem demon that has a cosy home in my brain’s frontal lobe keeps telling me so.  If I was thinner I would be happier, more successful, more liked and loved.

I will never actually find out if this is true because I will never feel that I am thin enough.  I have a postcard that someone sent me once that says “I wish I was as fat as I was the first time I thought I was fat”.  This about sums it up.  If we took a straw poll of 100 women I wonder how many would answer yes to the question ‘are you at your ideal weight?’.  And of those who answered yes, would they also answer yes to ‘has it changed your life and made you happy?’.

So as I embark on a six week pre-summer diet jaunt (giving Slimming World another go, haven’t tried them for a few years) wish me luck and, if you have the answer to the thin=happy conundrum I would love to hear it.

**Disclaimer – this is not an exercise in maternal guilt, I’m pretty sure I nagged her to buy the book…

 

Good Riddance World Book Day

Today has been a momentous day.  A joyous day.  A milestone day.

After 13 years and 26 costumes today was my last EVER World Book Day.

Time for a happy dance.

As I slapped pink paint onto egg boxes at 11.30pm last night I was smiling.

As I punched holes in the egg boxes and threaded elastic at 7.00am this morning I was almost giddy with excitement because I never, ever, ever, have to do it again.

The tyranny of the World Book Day Costume is over for me.

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I wasn’t always this curmudgeonly.   My early WBD years were earnest affairs of heavily researched and lovingly assembled costumes.  I think we probably even actually sat down and read the books together which is, after all, what it is all about.

We travelled from the pre-school days of the Cinderella dress through Pippi Longstocking to Harry/Hermione and Catniss.  Alice in Wonderland, Tracy Beaker, Where’s Wally (I know, but it is still a book although, admittedly, one without any words) they have all appeared in our fancy dress lexicon.

This year was slightly more problematic.  Teen 2, being in the final year of middle school, has kind of outgrown the book day thing so her list of requirements for a costume included minimal dressing up, a character that can be linked with other characters so that she and her friends could all be sort of the same, and something that meant they could all wear their Topshop skinny jeans.  A tall order I think you will agree.

So we settled on The Three Little Pigs – aforementioned jeans, checked shirts and pig snouts made from the late night egg box painting session.

When interrogated in the car on the way home from school Teen 2 revealed that my porcine creations had only been worn for the first five minutes of the day before being binned, so I’m quite glad that I didn’t embark on a huge sentimental last hurrah of a costume.

Good riddance World Book Day.  Next year as I walk to work passing Just William, Cruella de Vil and Fantastic Mr Fox I will smile nostalgically and think back fondly to all our own WBD costumes of the past.  I will go home and lecture Teen 1 and Teen 2 about the joys of reading and the magic of the printed word.

But I will NOT make a costume.

Definitely time for a happy dance.

 

 

 

 

 

Feeling Overwhelmed

The past couple of weeks I have mostly been feeling overwhelmed.  Not overwhelmed in a good way (A surprise party!  You guys are amazing!  I don’t know what to say!) but in a suffocating, life-can-be-quite-hard-work-and-also-a-bit-shitty-sometimes sort of a way.

It feels like all the points on my many and various to do lists have merged together and risen up in one giant wave threatening to totally engulf me in a metaphorical wipe out.  This isn’t just a single parent rant, I am well aware that there are many happy couples out there who are feeling the stress just as keenly, but having to shoulder the responsibility of everything on my own is almost certainly a contributing factor.

The worst part about it is that, no matter how much I achieve there is always more to be done waiting around the corner; work, house, children, blog, self, there is never the opportunity to sit and reflect on tasks completed or problems conquered before gearing up to fight the next battle.

Teen 1 gets frequently exasperated and points out that I am, in fact, my own worst enemy.  There are many things that I struggle to fit in to a day that she views as unnecessary and, while our benchmarks of necessity are vastly different (when you are 16 years old cleaning the bathroom and running the hoover round do not feature highly on a priority list), I do know that I tend to fill every minute with activity in a slightly manic way.  Any self-help junkie worth her salt knows that occupation is the enemy of depression, time spent re-organising a kitchen cupboard is time that could otherwise be lost to dark thoughts and naval gazing.

The trick to getting a better balance whilst still keeping busy would be to master the art of filling vacant time pockets with things that benefit your mental state.  Swap weeding the garden for a yoga session, replace cleaning the oven with a twenty minute coffee break and a couple of chapters of a good book.  All very good in theory, and some people I know manage this very well – I am nothing but envious.  I have tried to emulate the method but the hairy guilt monster lurks so fiercely over me for the duration of the yoga/coffee/reading whatever session that any benefit is outweighed by the thoughts of all the other things I really should be doing.

So, in an effort to try and release some of the pressure I think the answer for someone like me is to try and ‘re-brand’ a few of the things that are on life’s to-do list.  Scrubbing the loo is always going to be a rotten chore so no point trying to alter those kind of duties, but there are other activities that have become a burden that need not to be.  Walking the dog always feels like a pain in the neck that eats into every day when, in fact, it is a fantastic opportunity to breathe fresh air, stretch muscles, and chew over thoughts and ideas uninterrupted.  Writing this blog should not be a task that hangs over me demanding attention but a brilliant hobby to be savoured and enjoyed.

I put this theory to the test this weekend.  Teens 1 and 2 are away and the prospect of two whole days with no meals to make or taxi duties to perform made me concoct a massive list of tasks that I wanted to get done.  Everything was on there from tidy and re-organise the garage to cleaning all the windows to spring cleaning the goldfish bowl.  I screwed my courage to the sticking post and chose one thing – shorten the pair of curtains I got on Ebay so that they actually fit the window.  I fired up the Iplayer and found a couple of engrossing plays on Radio 4 and got to work.  The job took longer than expected (don’t they always) and actually took all day but, do you know what?  It didn’t matter.  I had a happy and relaxing time pinning and sewing, lost myself in some radio drama and at the end of the day had completed a task that has been bugging me for months.

The re-branding experiment was a success.  It remains to be seen whether I can roll out the pilot scheme into everyday life, I suspect it might be a work in progress, but for now at least I have built a temporary dam in the fast flowing river of pressure that was threatening to sweep me away.

Feeling Overwhelmed

What (Not) To Wear

One of the pluses of your children getting older is that you have a little more opportunity to think about yourself.  Life is no less busy but in a different way – mother and toddler group replaced by late night pick-ups from parties or cinema, pre-primary ballet superseded by GSCE revision.  However, the days of staggering out of the house, bleary eyed from sleep deprivation, with baby sick and toddler Weetabix encrusted onto your sweatpants, are in the past.  The only downside is that when your children are three and six they still like you and greet every outfit with “Mummy, you look like a Princess!”.  Ten years on and my sartorial decisions are generally met with an eye roll, a sneer and the teenage equivalent of “you’re not going out dressed like that are you?”.

So, in the spirit of all self respecting magazine articles aimed at woman in their mid forties, I decided it was time to implement a bit of an image audit and try to regain some of the polish I think I must have had back the heady days before children.

This is obviously not going to be an overnight process.  In fact, it is a mission for 2016, so no pressure to be transformed in record time.  I don’t really want to be completely transformed, I would settle for marginally improved – set the bar quite low and anything else is a bonus is my theory.

Step one took place last week when I spent the morning having a ‘Colour Me Beautiful’ consultation.  Twenty years ago this system of colour analysis was all the rage.  People were flinging scarves on you at every opportunity and labelling you as Spring/Summer/Autumn/Winter depending on your palette.  To be honest, I was always a bit sceptical and never took any of the opportunities to have my colours done – it all seemed a bit New Age and bonkers.  Then, a few years ago, I was out with a friend and we were idly browsing the rails in a clothes shop.  As we flicked through the hangers the friend dived into her bag and pulled out a little wallet filled with coloured bits of fabric which she proceeded to hold up against the clothes in the shop.  It turned out that she was a colour analysis devotee and would not entertain the thought of buying something that did not feature in her range of given colours.  As we were discussing this I realised that yes, she did always look lovely and always ‘right’.  Not because of the latest fashions or massively expensive purchases but because whatever she wears is entirely appropriate to her skin tone, hair colour, body shape and style.

I was prepared to be talked around and booked myself an appointment with the wonderfully monikered Fennella Flor (yes, it is her real name, I asked!  I love it, it makes her sound like a 1950s movie studio starlet), a Bournemouth based consultant for Colour Me Beautiful.  I had booked in for the full works, colour, make up and style – an approximately four hour session with a light lunch included.

Fennella sat me in front of a mirror in the window (natural light is key to the process) and created a blank canvas by covering my clothes in an off-white gown.  She then proceeded to drape different coloured squares over me holding them to my face to see what worked.  The funny thing was, it actually did make a difference.  Colours that I thought suited me such as dark navy and shocking pink actually sucked the life out of my skin whilst some shades of green and teal (yes, teal) made my skin tone glow and eyes shine.  I was instantly converted and we spent a happy couple of hours drilling down the exact colours that are right for me and loading them into my own personal wallet so that I too can be the person in the shop furtively comparing clothes to fabric swatches.  Interestingly Colour Me Beautiful no longer use the seasons to categorize clients, as a global company it did not make sense when the seasons invoke different colours depending where in the world you live.  Instead they use groupings of light, deep, warm, cool, clear and soft in varying combinations.  Turns out I am warm and soft with lots of tones of green, camel and lighter blues in my wallet.

Colours sorted it was onto style and make up.  The style section of the consultation is where you try and work out what style of clothes suit your body shape and lifestyle, it is a good opportunity to have a hard think about making some changes and stepping out of your comfort zone.  I finished the session with some homework – going home to my wardrobe and weeding out the wrong colours and shapes as well as items that are more the ‘old’ you than the ‘new’.  This posed a bit of a problem for me as one of the things that emerged from the session as that I should stop wearing stripes.  What, no stripes?  That is 85% of my wardrobe obliterated in one hit.  I’m not sure I’m ready to bin all the Bretons in one go, that will have to be a gradual withdrawl.

I came away from Fennella’s studio feeling fired up and ready to shed my mummy chrysalis.  I have my wallet of colour swatches and tons of great advice on ways to update and improve my look.  What I really need now is a Fennella Flor clone to be with me whenever I go shopping and every time I look in the wardrobe to choose what to wear.  I’m definitely converted to colour analysis and the whole experience was not only really good fun but a perfect springboard to my 2016 improvement mission.

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I think I need to join SA – Stripes Anonymous…

 

 

Why I Hate January

January2How is it possible that it is only the 12th January?  It feels like every January day lasts the equivalent of three days of any other month of the year.  It labours on, dragging its schoolbag and scuffing its toes, rolling its eyes and scowling.

It is not helped by the new beginnings and health kicks that millions of us embark upon as soon as the sun comes up on New Years Day.  If we were cavemen (woman/people/whatevs), we would be using January to keep warm, conserve fat and generally hunker down until life becomes a bit more bearable.  January in the modern age  is the exact opposite, and there are many reasons for it to be the most hated bully in the calendar playground.

  • Dry January. Seriously, who invented this? Of all the days that little glass of red is needed to take the edge off, the gloomy 31 at the start of each year are the most obvious. I have embarked on this for the past three years and only achieved it once so far. This year ended after a record one week! All power to those of you who stick it out but I am happy with my edited version of ‘not on a school night’. *
  • Spiralizers. Let it be known that I have not eaten, and never will eat, spaghetti made out of a courgette. No matter how much you preach at me with evangelical zeal, waving a Lakeland catalogue in my face as you list the virtues of the versatility of vegetabletini. I want carbs.
  • Nutribullets. Several times over the past couple of months I have found myself browsing the shopping pages for a Nutribullet. Why? Because of peer pressure from the juicing brigade. It is January, I feel that it is my duty to carry a cup of kaley green sludge to the office with me. It will make my hair shiny and my skin glow. I will become thin and fit. OR, I will be £100 odd pounds poorer and after two weeks will have to find space in the cupboard for yet another redundant gadget. This one could go either way, my finger is still hovering over the ‘add to cart’ button…
  • Resolutions. The list to end all lists. The list that contains 95% recycled points from every year that has gone before. The list that can only lead to self-flagellation, despair, reproach and depression. The warm glow generated by writing down all the changes you plan to make is soon cancelled out by the realization that you haven’t actually achieved any of them.
  • Money. Or lack of it. Since January often starts with a deficit (even my most carefully budgeted Christmases go awry at the last minute when the panic sets in) it can only go downhill. There really is nothing but bad news on the bank statement and, when you think it must be nearly payday, a glance at the calendar tells you there are still two weeks to go. There is a silver lining though, a proper cast iron excuse not to buy that nutribullet.

As I’m writing I realise that I could go on and on – celebrity fitness DVDs, grey and drying skin, rubbish weather and days where the sun never seems to rise before it sinks.  So I think I’ll make like a Neanderthal.  Snuggle down, carb up, put my fingers in my ears and sing loudly until February knocks on the door of my cave.

*for the trivia hounds among you the actual answer to that question is the charity Alcohol Concern as they trademarked the phrase in 2014, although the Finnish government spearheaded a similar campaign called ‘Sober January’ in 1942 as part of its war effort.

The Winter Children by Lulu Taylor

The Winter Children“Nothing seems to have any point if she can’t have Dan…”

Unrequited love, broken hearts, the pain of infertility, the pain of childbirth – both longed for and not wanted. The Winter Children by Lulu Taylor draws up all these topics into a neat and compelling bundle that had me engrossed from the first chapter.

Francesca and Dan have been friends for twenty years, since their shared time at Cambridge University. In that time Olivia has joined them as Dan’s wife and the three of them enjoy a seemingly happy and easy friendship. Such is the friendship that when Dan and Olivia are almost torn apart by their infertility Francesca steps up with a selfless offer that is their salvation.

A beautiful, happy family follows and, when Olivia and Dan find themselves in need of a new home Francesca is quick to offer them rent free luxury in a cottage in the grounds of her grand renovation project – the majestic but adandoned Renniston Hall.

As the story unfolds we are drawn in to the complex connections between characters past and present and it soon becomes clear that Francesca’s motives are not altruistic.

This book is a thriller and a tale of love, both contemporary and historical. It is a really enjoyable  story which twists and turns without being contrived, and the characters leap from the page to stay with you long after you have put the book down.

Fans of an ambiguous ending may be disappointed as the book has a fairly clear resolution but, for me, it worked well to finish the story this way.

The Winter Children is a book that you will want to read in one sitting, it sweeps you along and the story and characters were so vivid in my mind that I almost feel I have watched it as a TV drama in HD. I would highly recommend it and, in fact, have already done so to my mum who loved it and Teen 1 who has it in her holding pattern of books to be read. Tri-generational appeal and perfect if you are lucky enough to have a few more days of Christmas holidays left to play with.

My copy of The Winter Children by Lulu Taylor was given to me free of charge for the purposes of this review for Mumsnet Bloggers Network (thank you!). Opinions are all my own.

Duran Duran Paper Gods Tour

Duran Duran Paper Gods

On the afternoon of 5th March 1983 I took my 13 year old self to meet my best friend, Gemma, on our favourite bench in Littlehampton.  We liked it because it was situated on the corner of three roads – plenty (of boys)  to look at as we sat and chatted about life and Cola flavoured lip gloss.

This day was a bit different though.  This day I was approaching the bench with a confession, a secret, something I had to unburden in the interest of friendship even though I didn’t know what the reaction would be.

I took a deep breath and went for it

“I think I am a Duranie!”

There was a beat of no response and so I ploughed on

“They were on Saturday Superstore this morning and they were so funny and the songs are really good and Simon Le Bon is HANDSOME…!”

I studied Gemma anxiously waiting to see if that was going to be the end of our teen bench assignations

“Oh my God, I watched that too – they were amazing, I really love them now!”

Phew, we were on the same page.  Having spent the months prior to this date priding ourselves on our scorn of Duran Duran and anyone who liked them, we had both been fully converted in the space of a morning.  All it took was Mike Read and Sarah Greene to bring us round.

Having come out and proud with my new Duranie status I embraced it with gusto.  Frilly shirts, funny hair, little hearts painstakingly painted on my cheekbone.  Posters went up, day dreams were crafted and lyrics were learnt.  My affections moved from Simon Le Bon to John Talyor with a  short lived stop at Roger.

As I got older and tried to be cooler my exuberance died down a bit, but I remained a fan over the years.  How exciting that last night I was at the Bournemouth International Centre to see Duran Duran on their Paper Gods tour.

The venue was sold out with a mixed bag of an audience, fans from all eras of the bands history plus the obligatory gangs of girls on a night out – everyone in high spirits.  We gave the support act  (The Bloom Twins) a polite go but after two songs retreated back to the bar.  It was like watching French and Saunders doing some sort of parody of a 1980s synth combo but without the funny bits.

No matter, we weren’t there for the support, we were there for the band, and when they burst onto the stage opening with Paper Gods we were not disappointed. They powered through the set mixing new material with old favourites, maintaining an energy that was pretty impressive given that they are all happily rocking their way to the big 60.  It can’t be denied that they all look older, but so do the rest of us, to be fair.  Simon Le Bon has cultivated a fine line in Dad Dancing which was quite endearing as pretty much everyone  in the audience could identify with it.  After a fantastic performance of ‘Planet Earth’ he brought us all right back down to earth by saying that they wrote that song 35 years ago.  35 years! There are people on the Jeremy Kyle Show who have been born, had children and grandchildren in that time.  For God’s sake man, why remind us of that, don’t you know that while we were lost in that song we were all young again, if only in our own imaginations?!

We bounced from ‘Come Undone’ to ‘Pressure Off’ to ‘Notorious’, the band sounded as fresh and current as anyone with a fraction of their musical mileage.  A crowd pleasing encore of ‘Save a Prayer’ and ‘Rio’ sent us into the night feeling, quite rightly, that we had spent the evening in the company of Pop Royalty.  Brilliant.

As we shuffled out to the car park I had to laugh when a lady in the queue behind me turned to her friend and said “how is it that I can’t remember what I did yesterday but I can happily belt out all the words to a song that I first heard 35 years ago?” That probably summed up the audience demographic but it also highlighted the exact reason why were all still there 35 years on, because great bands make great music that has staying power, year after year.

Oh, and for the record, John Taylor has still totally got it.  Just saying.

 

 

 

 

Woman and Home Magazine Dorset Divorcee

My Day With Woman And Home Magazine

A couple of months ago I received an email via my Contact Me page from a features writer at Woman and Home.  They were researching a piece on ‘new beginnings’ and had seen my blog – would I be interested in chatting to them?  A few emails and phone calls later and I had agreed to be interviewed and photographed for the January edition of the magazine.

Eeek!  I was not too worried about the interview part of the equation but the photograph…that was another matter.  I am well known amongst family and friends for being fantastically un-photogenic.  Many have accepted the challenge of capturing a decent photo of me but few (very few, OK, none) have succeeded.  The chicken and egg result of this scenario is that when faced with any kind of lens I undergo some sort of gurning/rigor mortis transformation.  Not a good look.

So, whilst this was a fantastic opportunity to promote the blog, it also gave me the chance to stop being such a wuss and face my photographic demons head on.  YOLO, as Teens 1 and 2 would say.

The day for the photoshoot was duly scheduled for three weeks later.  An emergency pre-photo list was required.

  1. Lose a stone
  2. Have Botox
  3. Grow four inches
  4. Discover art of looking like a relaxed human being in front of a camera

This was clearly on of my more ambitious lists and when it became obvious that it may not be possible to achieve all (or any) of the points I decided to adopt a faux casual laissez faire attitude to the day; an altogether much more relaxing approach if not quite as constructive.

The day of reckoning arrived and I headed to London on the early train.  I was met at Waterloo by a taxi and had a lovely journey across to Fulham where the shoot was taking place.  It was a crisp, bright autumn day and London was at its most beautiful – every shade of golden brown on the trees, sun glinting off the river. Why did I never notice any of that stuff when I lived there?!  Maybe because my journeys were conducted underground not over ground in black cab luxury I guess.   It was like driving through a Richard Curtis movie, if the cab driver had turned out to be Hugh Grant I wouldn’t have been surprised.

We reached our destination and I stood at the door.  Deep breath, shoulders back, best foot forward.  I needn’t have worried though, the Woman and Home team couldn’t have been more friendly. There was a small army in situ from photographer to stylist to hair and make up and everything in between.  There were also three others like me, there to be photographed for the January issue of the magazine.  I was the last to arrive and the others were in various stages of readiness –  full make up here, rollered hair there.  As the photographer went to work on her first subject I was taken downstairs to find an outfit.

Woman and Home Collage 1

Transformation ingredients – Make up, hair, clothes, shoes, jewellery…

 

Down in the basement the Stylist reigned supreme and her two assistants darted around nervously plucking hangers from the rails, grabbing shoes from the rack.  The Stylist eyed me up and down and thrust trousers, tops, jackets and shoes at me in varying combinations – occasionally calling the Picture Director down to get her opinion. It was like playing at dressing up in someone else’s wardrobe, great fun.   An outfit was decided on, plenty of sequins and the most amazing gold glittery shoes.  There were no mirrors so I had no idea how I looked but I knew I was in safe hands and that the team were working to a master plan.  Make up was next, wonderful smoky eyes and false eyelashes, followed by hair which was styled and sprayed into a big and beautiful ‘do’.  A bite of lunch and it was my turn to face the camera.  The photographer and her assistant were friendly and laid back, obviously well used to getting the best out of clueless twits like me.  That said – they definitely had their work cut out!  I spent a lot of time swaying and flicking, smiling and laughing.  I was the last subject of the day so the whole team were there giving words of encouragement and cheering me on, and not once did I feel like a total wally.  For someone with such severe photograph-a-phobia (yes, I did just make that up), this was a huge achievement.  As the session came to an end I realised that – shock horror – I had actually enjoyed it.  I had no idea if they had managed to get a halfway decent photo of me but it didn’t matter – I was Cindy Crawford, I was Helen Mirren, my inner A-lister had been unleashed and it felt fantastic.

Woman and Home Collage 2.png

The Super Sparkly Result

 

When the finished article landed on my doormat it was confirmed, the friendly and helpful gang from the photoshoot were not actually mere mortals, but miracle workers put on this earth to transform the drab and dreary into sparkly glamour pusses for the day.  I was like the human version of a black and white film that had been colourised and re-released.  If only I had the full team in my house to get me ready every morning…

 

 

Why I Am Not Like Kate Winslet

Kate WinsletOK, I am obviously not a peachy skinned, hour glass shaped, Oscar winning household name but that is not what this post is about. It is about parenting and why I am not, and never will be, the parent that Kate Winslet is.

On BBC Radio 4’s ‘Woman’s Hour’ on Friday, Jenni Murray interviewed Kate Winslet about her two current movies, The Dressmaker and Steve Jobs. It was very easy listening and made me want to go and see at least one of the films so ticks in the boxes for both the publicity department and for Kate who delivered a faultless series of answers to Murray’s questions. Her combination of thespian luvviness and ‘I’m really a normal woman just like you’ is polished to perfection, and she sounded fresh and perky, not like she was on her four hundredth press junket and sick to the back teeth of talking about both films.

So far so good. Then Murray moved on to more general topics (her womanly figure, her work life balance etc. etc.) and she touched upon the recently reported fact that Winslet does not allow her children to use any form of social media. When pressed on the reasons why, Winslet embarked on a fairly lengthy homily about children being children, precious years and old fashioned values. She wants her kids to be out climbing trees and dancing in the rain not sat with their thumbs moving at lightning speed over a small but all powerful screen.

Well – duh – that is, of course, what we all want for our children. Few people embark on parenthood with a manifesto that states every actioned shall be selfied, every thought be broadcast. We all have visions of Pooh sticks and camp fires, picnics and tree houses but as your children get older it quickly becomes apparent that the Enid Blyton regime is just not practical.

Obviously KW is perfectly entitled to her own opinions and parenting style and I fully respect both. BUT, I do have two issues with the sermon that was delivered on Woman’s Hour. Firstly, few children like to be different to their peers. Do you remember the kid at school who didn’t have a TV? How weird! For teenagers especially it is vital to be perceived as the same as your friends, not stick out like a sore thumb. If, however, you are the children of a world famous movie star then you are already different. Your life is, by default, nothing like the life of the person you sit next to in Maths so to be the teen without social media just adds to your mystique rather than make you a laughing stock. My point being that yes, dancing in the rain sounds lovely but for those of us operating in the real world how practical is it to enforce on our children?

My second gripe is that although we all hate the tyranny of Instagram and the like it is, unfortunately, part of modern life. What feels like a digital tsunami to our generation is the norm for our children and whilst we can do our best to limit exposure is it the right thing to try and ignore it all together? Rather than modelling ourselves and our parenting on a 1950s cereal commercial, surely it is our role to teach and guide our children in the safe and correct usage of the social media that surrounds them every day? I’m all for climbing trees but, in terms of life skills, it’s got to be on a list that includes being internet savvy or my role as a 21st century parent is incomplete.

A Spare Half An Hour

Yesterday I had a spare half an hour. Well not, strictly speaking, spare – it was the half hour between scoffing my ham sandwich and getting my head back down to work. Thirty minutes of procrastination time, a sort of lunch-to-work decompression chamber if you like.

There are many useful things that I could have done with this little window of time. I could have:

  • Telephoned the dentist and made check-up appointments for the three of us
  • Emptied my bulging purse of receipts and updated my accounts
  • Taken the dog for a scamper around the field
  • Made menu plans for the week ahead like a proper grown up parent
  • Called a far away friend for an overdue catch up
  • Got my head back down to work half an hour ahead of schedule

What I did NOT need to do was:

  • Scan the Mail Online showbiz pages to find out that Keira Knightly went for a walk wearing a leather jacket
  • Buy a £2.00 scratch card on the National Lottery website and not win anything
  • Order an enormous bag of polystyrene beads from Amazon
  • Worry that my sometimes inappropriate sense of humour means I am destined for early onset dementia (what’s not to like about Mr Bean?)

And what I really, REALLY did not need to do was to indulge in gratuitous Google stalking of people I am no longer in touch with. Don’t ask me what sparked the urge to try and find info on friends of old, it is like a drug or porn addiction (I imagine…), once you have typed that name into the search box you can’t step away from the screen until you have dug down through pages and pages of results like an archaeologist on speed.

There are endless sources of potential stalker gold – Facebook, LinkedIn, You Tube, Instagram, company websites, personal websites, blogs, businesses and databases, all offering titbits of info on people you used to know.

But do you actually want to know? Is anybody genuinely delighted to find out that the person they used to work with years ago is now at the top of their career game, enjoying a blissful marriage, raising perfect kids, having a novel published whilst launching a million pound start up business from their kitchen table? Oh, and to cap it all, in that photo they look like they have not put on a pound or gained a wrinkle in fifteen years.

I’m so pleased for them!

No, really

I.  Am. Really. Really. DELIGHTED.

Of course the flip side would be to find out that said person/people have suffered sadness and misfortune. I would like to think that I not a sufficiently bad person to be pleased if this was the case. It has never happened so we’ll never know. Generally the fruits of Google stalking are like the Christmas round robin letter – good news and boasting only, the everyday irritations of life left unmentioned.

The moral of the tale is that Google stalking never pays. There is a reason that you are no longer in touch with that person who you suddenly need to know about, best remind yourself of that reason and leave it at that. The next time half an hour falls into your hands get on the phone to the dentist, sort your accounts or walk the dog.  You’ll thank me in the long run, I promise.

Social Media

Fancy A Game Of Teen Bingo?

I no longer have a tween in my family.  Last month’s birthday celebrations (and I do not advise having children born only three days apart, it makes for a very hectic week every year) meant that not only has the teen turned sweet sixteen, but the tween is no more!  We now have a household of three females, 13 years, 16 years and 45 years – you can smell the hormones from four streets away.  Seriously, you do NOT want to be anywhere near our place when there is a full moon.

The tween-that-was is a slightly reluctant teenager.  She has always enjoyed the role of being the youngest and is quite vocal about not wanting to grow up.  Mainly, I suspect, because with growing up comes more responsibility, more chores, less opportunity to lie around the place saying ‘but I’m only…(insert age here)’ when asked to do something.

So, where turning 13 is usually much anticipated and celebrated, in our house it has been the elephant in the room, no mention to made, strictly verboten. We have also been issued with rules.  We are not allowed to:-

  • Tell her she is a stroppy teenager every time she gets in a bad mood.
  • Look exasperated and say ‘for goodness sake you are nearly 14 years old’ whenever she forgets her lunch box /PE kit/ own name.  This much hated tradition of rounding up to the next age usually begins the day after the last birthday.
  • Remind her repeatedly of the things that her older sister did or didn’t do when she was a new teenager.
  • Get cross and tell her to wash up/tidy her room/put her shoes away because she is ‘not a little girl any more’.

I am doing my best to follow these instructions but the plain truth is that I am now fighting a solo battle against two teens who have me surrounded in a pincer movement of angst, frustration and growing up-ness.  So, to pass the time and lighten the atmos I am indulging in regular games of Teen Bingo.  A game for 1-100 players but only fully appreciated by parents who are currently navigating the post-child, pre-adult minefield.  If that is you then stay strong, I feel your pain.  Keep your bingo card in the cutlery draw or the bottom of your bag (or, for some real fun, on the fridge door where the teens can see it – that will really make them mad!), I guarantee you will be shouting ‘House!’ before you know it.

Teen Bingo Card2

A Parallel Life

Have you seen the film Sliding Doors? It follows a character in parallel lives, the stories decided by one moment in time when Gwyneth Paltrow either does or doesn’t jump on a tube train.

Last weekend I had my own Sliding Doors moment. It was the teen’s birthday (sweet sixteen, more of that to follow) and she had chosen to have ten friends over for a birthday dinner party. I was head chef, the tween was maître d and the role of waiter was to be played by teen and tweens father. This was quite a big deal. Due to the geographical distance between us, a sighting of the lesser spotted ex-husband on our patch is quite rare, however, on this occasion the stars aligned and the teen was able to have her wish of having her father at the party – albeit in a waiter-ish sort of way.

We adopted our Upstairs Downstairs/Downton Abbey roles with alacrity. The party guests munched on smoked salmon blinis, roast chicken with dauphinoise potatoes, salted caramel profiteroles and birthday cake. They laughed, danced, sang and played games around the table. Meanwhile, on the other side of the green baize door the three of us chopped, stirred, sweated, washed up and grazed on leftovers whilst keeping an eye on the rugby on the kitchen TV.

It was amicable and comfortable and fun. It felt as if no time had passed and the years since the separation did not exist. It was how it should be, a complete family having a celebration of a special birthday. Somewhere between making the gravy and lighting the birthday candles I realized that for that one evening I was having a parallel life moment. This is how it would have been if divorce had not got in our way. This would have been our life had infidelity and poor communication kept their noses out and left us alone to navigate our marriage.

In the cold light of day I do realise that nothing is that clear cut. Our lives could have gone any number of ways, had we not failed at the hurdle we did it may have been another further down the line. But for that one evening I felt happy that we could genuinely re-create a happy family tableau for the teen. I felt cheated of the family life that I always assumed I would have. And, most of all, I felt furious for letting the whole situation make me feel so sad.

Even when you have completely moved on there are still little blips waiting in the wings to trip you up, especially where the children are involved. I guess that the life skill here is to recognise the blips for what they are, acknowledge them and float forwards. It’s not living in the past, it’s just a passing thought of ‘what if’.  A personal Sliding Doors moment, nothing more.

Millie Bday 16

The Birthday Girl

Dorset County Show 2015 bull

Dorset County Show 2015

One of my most favourite things since coming to live in Dorset is the Dorset County Show. We have been every year of the four that we have lived here – the first two just as spectators and the most recent two as spectators and competitors. I get stupidly excited as soon as the tents start going up on the showground on the outskirts of Dorchester, a canvas metropolis rising from the fields. The early bird ticket office appears on the high street and there is a definite feel of the circus coming to town.

To give you the back story, the Dorset County Show began in August 1840 when a group of local farmers formed the Dorchester Agricultural Society and staged the 1st Annual Exhibition. 175 years later and the show still largely run by farming families and still a key date in the Dorset and South West Calendar. It is a huge event with livestock classes, horse and pony shows, elegant carriages and bonkers scurry racing. There are dogs galore, birds and ferrets, oodles of shopping opportunities and mouth-watering food stalls at every turn.

The show is a two day event and it is hard work to fit it all in a one day visit. I generally drive the teen and the tween to distraction, marching them round on a schedule fretting that I will miss the Dog and Duck Man/Hounds Demo/Pig Judging/Grand Parade.

Of all the tents (and there are many) to look at my top favourite is Homecraft and this is where we have made our entries for the past two years. There are a myriad of classes you can enter and competition is stiff, especially in the jam and marmalade classes – we’re talking hardcore WI preserves here, no room for lightweights.

Jam and Marmalade2

Last year was our first year of entering. I chose the picnic hamper and lemon drizzle cake classes and had a happy time channelling my inner Kirstie Allsopp as I worked on my entries. The morning of the show dawned and we were up and out at 7am to drop the entries at the tent before the show opened. It is a brilliant feeling driving onto the showground at this time. The autumn mist hangs low around the fields and all around you the show is waking up – exhibitors are munching bacon sarnies, cows are being hosed down, ponies hooves are being polished. There is a sense of excitement and anticipation as the minutes tick down to the gates opening. We parked up at the tent and, full of first time enthusiasm, carried our entries inside. The atmosphere was quiet and tense. It suddenly dawned on me that this was not like ‘show and tell’ or the cake stall at the school fête. This was serious! All around me people were placing, tweaking, polishing and appraising their creations whilst casting furtive glances to the other competitors and their entries.

I placed my picnic basket in its allotted space and began arranging my foodie mis-en-scène as best I could. I tried to engage my neighbour in jolly banter about her entry – this was a  school girl error – a chummy exchange of picnic preparation angst was not going to happen, she slammed her wicker lid firmly shut as I tried to peer in.

Entries set, we returned home to have breakfast and get ready for our big day out. By now what has started out as a simple bit of fun ‘Yey! Let’s enter some stuff to the county show! Such fun!’ had become a nail biting, nerve racking, full on worry. I had gone in like a lamb to the slaughter, no idea that the volume and quality of entries would be so high. I had gone in not really thinking about the competition element but now I wanted to win something!

Happily, with a bit of luck and a following wind, I did win something. First prize for my picnic hamper – hurrah for me and two fingers to the lady who was so secretive about her entry at the start of the day. (I know, it is not attractive to gloat, but sometimes needs must).

Picnic Hamper

So now we had the taste for competing we resolved to build on our success in the 2015 show. This year we chose different categories – rainbow cake and marmalade for me, Victoria sponge for the tween and a scarecrow as a family effort with the teen leading the way. The scarecrow was the most fun – we laughed ourselves stupid trying to stuff tights with newspaper and feed them into old jeans from the charity shop. The theme for the scarecrow category was ‘Thomas Hardye’ but rather than go trad with our costume we styled our chap as a member of the film crew from the most recent adaptation of Far From the Madding Crowd.

Scarecrow 3

It was a gamble but it paid off and we came away with second prize. The tween triumphed with a second prize for her victoria sponge but my cake and marmalade remained lurking in the depths of the un-placed; definite room for improvement there I think.

Produce

We enjoyed a great day; marvelled at enormous bulls, cheered on spaniels and labradors as they raced in and out of the lake, ate hog roast and fudge and indulged in some fantasy chicken purchasing -I like the ones wearing big feathery trousers, the girls prefer the fat and fluffy ones.

Animals Collage

We returned to the homecraft tent as the sun was sinking and the crowds were drifting home. We folded and squeezed our make-do man into the boot of the car and retrieved the tweens winning sponge. Stopping only at the bin of shame to dispose of my un-placed rainbow cake we headed home already discussing, in true reality TV style, how we could ‘up our game’ and really ‘nail it’ with our entries for the Dorset County Show 2016.   Watch this space.

Oh Dear What Can The Matter Be?

Door LockYesterday started like a perfectly normal school holiday day. Woke at 7.00am, emptied the dishwasher while the kettle boiled for a cup of tea. Drank my tea in the peace of the morning and contemplated the day ahead – morning in the office, and afternoon taking assorted children to the overpriced and overheated fungal hell that is Splashdown Water Park.

Time for a quick shower before seizing the day. So far so good? Yes. Until I tried to exit the shower room. The door handle went up and down as normal but the door stayed shut. OK, no problem, it always was a bit sticky. I gave it a little wiggle. Still stuck. I added some wellie and wrenched it up and down. Not budging. A thin film of nervous sweat broke out all over me as I realised that there was every possibility that I was really and properly locked in. OK, keep calm. How hard can it be to get out? How about flinging myself at the door with all my might in the style of Cagney and Lacey (or Scott and Bailey for younger readers).

Ouch.

Is it me or is it really hot in here? And am I finding it hard to breathe? Opens window and leans out gulping fresh air like a mad woman. A good opportunity to be reminded that this was too far to jump and the spiked railings below might cause a problem.

I returned to the door and rattled it some more in case it had undergone a change of heart and taken pity on me. Nope. Banged and rattled it really, really hard in a very cross way.

“I was fast asleep! You woke me up! It’s 7.30am in the school holidays for gods sake”

My banging had flushed the teen from her lair.

“Oh darling, I’m so sorry to wake you”

I said

“ BUT IN CASE YOU HADN’T NOTICED I’M LOCKED IN THE BLOODY BATHROOM”

Small silence.

The teen rattles the door from the other side. “It’s stuck” she says.

Okaaay…

The next twenty minutes were spent trying a variety of useless doors opening activities – sliding a credit card in, locating hinges, synchronised rattling from both sides of the door.

Nothing.

“I’m going to call the fire brigade” she says.

“NO! DO NOT, ON ANY ACCOUNT CALL THE FIRE BRIGADE”.

I would rather have lived out the rest of my days in that bathroom, like some sort of modern day Rapunzel, than suffer the embarrassment of being rescued by a local firefighter.

The horror of possible rescue by a stranger spurred me on. The teen followed instructions and fetched a screw driver from the cupboard under the stairs. She unscrewed the outer plate and handle of the door before feeding a piece of string, well actually a hair wrap – it was all she had to hand – under the door to me. She then stood on the pavement outside the front door while I tied a hair brush to the string to weight it down and flung it out of the window. Hair brush was swapped for screwdriver and I hoisted it back up to my ceramic cell. I unscrewed my side of the door and gave a triumphant push.

Nothing happened.

Aarghh! Now I was stuck in a room with a closed door that was (a) stuck and (b) had no handles.  I was literally turning into one of these lateral thinking puzzles about locked rooms, ice blocks and Kirkby grips or some such.

By now the tween and her sleepover pal had emerged to see what the noise was and they were occupying themselves by feeding our neurotic spaniel calming dog treats to stop him whimpering and scratching at the (still firmly shut) door.

In a last surge of fury, I grabbed the screw driver and rammed the hole where the handle should have been, wiggling, poking and pushing until, finally, the door flung open and I was propelled out into the bedroom to be greeted by three pale and worried faces and one black furry one.

Thank God.

I was a free woman. No need to try and preserve my dignity whilst clambering down a ladder in nothing but a moth eaten Frankie Goes To Hollywood T-shirt. No need to make a guilty call to the landlord to explain a splintered door hanging off it’s hinges.

“At last! Can you make us breakfast now you are out?” asked the tween.

Order was restored. On with the day.

Is This Really Suitable For A Fifteen Year Old?

15This week I met up with a friend (regular readers will remember her mega lists and, no, she still hasn’t painted the front door) to have a drink and go to the cinema. It was a chick-flick sort of an evening so we decided to see ‘Trainwreck’.

Trainwreck’ was directed by Judd Appatow, the guy who gave us ‘Bridesmaids’, and ‘This is 40’ (amongst many others) so you know you are in fairly safe hands in terms of a contemporary comedy. It actually was a fun film, it made us laugh and we left the cinema smiling – happy days.

It didn’t prompt me to write a film review but it has made me really think about film censorship and certification. ‘Trainwreck’ was a certificate 15. My teenager would be perfectly within her legal rights to buy a ticket to watch it, and she probably will on a wet afternoon at the fag end of the summer holidays. The thought of her watching it horrifies me as, as far as I am concerned, the adult content of the film is way more suited to an 18 certificate. The language and explicit sexual references come thick and fast (a very apt description), sometimes beyond what is funny and into overkill territory.  Maybe I am being taken over by the aliens of middle age, that could account for a small percent of my opinion, but I think that the relaxation of censorship also has something to do with it.

I was 15 in 1985/86 (* gulp *) and the most popular movies released at that time included ‘The Breakfast Club’, ‘Desperately Seeking Susan’, and ‘Top Gun’. All rated 15. I’m guessing that if we indulged in a Netflix 1980’s sesh we would find all three of those pretty tame by today’s standards. Some bad language and a bit of sex maybe but nothing along the lines of the no holds barred content in today’s 15 rated films.

Of course times change and every generation believes those who come after them to be more precocious, street wise, knowledgeable. I am not suggesting that we return to the early days of film classification when, in 1941, the merest hint of Jayne Mansfield’s boobs resulted in director Howard Hughes having to take 37 specific re-shoots before a scene in ‘The Outlaws’ was deemed to be decent. But is there not a happy medium between then and now?

If I was not the parent of relevant aged children I probably wouldn’t give a flying flamingo about the whole issue. Although maybe I would from a rite of passage point of view? Surely most people my age have memories of trying to look old enough to get into AA or X rated films? And what about that delicious sense of triumph when you were actually officially old enough to go and watch films with content previously denied? It was nothing that we didn’t know about already but seeing it on the big screen after the long years of childhood was what it was all about.

I am not some rampant Mary Whitehouse type figure but it seems to be that the ‘Porkys’ and ‘Nine ½ Weeks’ of yesterday today are the ‘Trainwreck’ and ‘The Inbetweeners Movie’ of today.

Is it just a generational thing? Am I stuck in the past? What do you think?