Well at least I think that's the right way of saying we had a good trip. The children of course find the word Fahrt - which sounds like the word you think it does hilarious. And were on the floor to discover that the word for Daddy is Vati - pronounced Farty. Oh such larks.
Being as I am a big wuss about flying, I usually get myself in a lather before getting on a plane. Since the advent of children I have found they keep me busy enough to calm the nerves a bit, but at the same time I also have to work quite hard to keep the panic out of my voice on the take off and landing - the bits I really really hate. Nerves not helped this time by the sight of machine gunned cops patrolling Heathrow, nor by the rather bumpy landing in Hamburg - apparently it's very windy there and always like that. But we had the two littlies screaming that their ears hurt (lucky Spouse was dealing with them), no 2 lay dramatically across my lap, having twigged I think( despite my best efforts) that I was none too keen on events, and no1 apparently clutched my mother's hand so tightly she thought it would break...
Still we landed in one piece and then it was off for the adventure that is finding a hire car in a foreign land. On one trip to Spain Spouse disappeared for nearly an hour as the hire car place was two miles up the road from the airport, and I was left with four rather restless children and lots of luggage...
This time we were helped by the fact that though mil needs assisted passage and walks very slowly with a walker she calls her Steel Horse, my mother is still pretty able, so we deposited the grannies (or the Omis as they are known in Germany) with the offspring and set off in search for the Avis office. We had arrived at Terminal 1, so of course the Avis office was in Terminal 2. We eventually found it, got the keys to our car - or rather bus, it was really a Mercedes van that seated nine - to discover that said bus was on the fourth floor of the furthest carpark. After debating whether to let the grannies know what was going on or just get the car, we opted for the latter and then spent a merry half hour getting lost in the one way system in Hamburg. Once we had found the right route and picked everyone up, we spent another merry hour or so driving through Hamburg in the pouring rain before eventually finding the right motorway. Normally we fly to Hannover which is only an hour away from our destination of Wolfsburg, but this time we couldn't get flights when we wanted so now we were a further two hours away, and we had arrived at six pm. The hotel we stay in is rather quiet so they don't actually have any staff on on Sundays, and we had to pick up the keys from my mil's rellies, who luckily live just down the road. Once unpacked and children happily deposited with grannies, we headed across the road for a quick drink in the very freundlichen gasthof before bedtime - originally we thought we might get a meal there, but it got so late we ended up feeding everyone from a rather dodgy looking bratwurst vendor at a fair that we happened to past.
The gasthof was just as it had been on our previous visit and the owner came over to greet us like longlost friends which was rather nice - as was the mindblowing schapps he also offered us on the house. So Spouse and I staggered our way home in preparation for an earlyish start with the rellies up the road who were coming for breakfast.
Actually the rellies up the road aren't really, or rather one of them is of a kind in that his mother was step great aunt to my mil, but the family connection has gone on so long now we all treat them like family. They are very jolly and kept us highly amused at breakfast although the Kindern spent most of their time in a fog and hadn't a clue what was being said to them. After breakfast it was off to visit mil's rather fearsome sister, who has MS and has lived in a home for the last thirty years where she merrily bosses everyone about and gives everyone merry hell. She is a splendid example of a difficult aunt. Every family ought to have one. We did, but ours has popped off now. However, we were in trouble the moment we arrived because we were late, so you can't have everything.
We left mil with her and headed for the rather splendid pool that graces the outskirts of Wolfsburg, where we all machen vielen spass mucking about with the wave machine and going on rides round the jet stream which takes you outside. Although it rained the whole day luckily the sun came out for that bit.
Then it was back to pick up mil and have dinner in the hotel with mil's best friend and husband. Sadly best friend now a bit Alzheimerish, so I spent the whole meal confirming that Ja, Spouse was Mein Mann, and er she had actually come to the wedding. Still she seemed pretty happy and certainly hadn't forgotten mil, which was great. Plus another school friend had tipped up for the party so that was good too. And the bonus for me was that for the first time ever in Germany I found myself understanding a four way conversation. Maybe now they're all old they speak slower...
The week progressed in similar vein - we had two visits to different farms, and luckily this time mil didn't arrange so many things that we clashed appointment times with people (one year Spouse and she went to tea witn one friend while I waited with fil and the children at another, and everyone was offering the inevitable Kaffee and Kuchen that you get in Germany). We were also able to show the children again the fabulous Wolfsburg Castle where their Great Granny grew up - well technically she lived in a little house in the corner of the grounds which is now part of the building which houses the castle museum. Her father was the Riding Master to the Count von Schulenberg, and his job in World War I was to make sure the Count made it back from the Somme in one piece. My family is dead boring by comparison, so I find it all fascinating.
Spouse also dragged us all around the Volkswagen works and this time we took a tour of the works themselves. Personally I think I've seen all I need to know about robots making cars from those Picasso car ads, so I took the opportunity to have a little snooze, but the others seemed to enjoy it...
We also had a fabulous day at the house of the non-rellies. They live in an old farmhouse which has been in the house for generations and have the most magical garden with a beautiful pond, tons of wonderful plants, the neatest lawn imaginable and lots of nooks and crannies for the kids to hide in. It's also full of wonderful old stone memorials they've picked up on their travels and a water feature to end all water features made of an old stone mill. Charlie Dimmock eat your heart out...
So we had a jolly meal with them, followed a day later by an equally jolly meal with some of mil's rellies who own a farm in what used to be East Germany. By dint of sheer hard work and determination they have built up their milk farm from scratch again since the Wall came down. The kids were wowed by the cows and the two little pigs they saw (we didn't let them know that the piggies weren't likely to make it to adulthood for fear of turning them vegetarian), although unfortunately for me they all took a shine to the dog we took for a walk. Oh dear. With the demise of Georgie I feel my dogless days maybe numbered...
We then had a fabulous walk around the town walls of Gardelegen, the mediaeval town where mil grew up, before a short trip out to Isenschnibbe, the estate she lived on as a child (her father was an estate manager for the Prince of Lippott-Detmolt - I told you her background was interesting...) before heading home to eat with our friends across the road.
Our final day was spent with mil's sister and another trip to the pool, before a final very jolly meal in a restaurant owned by rellies of the non rellies.
All in all it was a great trip, made infinitely better by having an extra pair of hands in the form of my capable mother, the fact that the children are now older, and my sudden whizzy ability to speak German. And I was only marginally terrified on the way home when I spotted a man with a beard carrying a suspicious looking computer case. I thought he'd checked in and then left the airport, but then he popped up in Duty Free. I wasn't quite sure whether I wanted him on the plane, or of it...
Luckily my fears were groundless and we had a smooth trip down, and though I still shut my eyes, I did manage to peep out and see the millenium wheel on the way down. And now I can breathe a sigh of relief as it will be a year or so before I have to go on a plane again...
Fur unser erlebtetes Familie und Freunden in Deutschland, die haben uns ein gutes schones Besuch gemacht.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Running on Empty update
So, this week I have finally got a copy of the book in my sticky paw - yay! Of course there were a few errors - mainly minor, but I did spot one typo, so I corrected them and had to upload the file on Tuesday. I erroneously thought this would generate a new proof by today, and I would then be able to press the green for go button.
However, nothing is ever straightforward and I discovered yesterday that though a new proof has been generated, till the people in the US pass it, I can do nowt. This in itself wouldn't be problematic, I have ten days to go till my official launch date. The only trouble is I'm off to Germany in the morning (Two grannies, four children, one husband, a hire truck - no dog - you couldn't make it up. I feel another book coming on...) and am going to find it tricky to sort out. As a failsafe I have ordered 200 copies to go to my friend's house, but I'm also taking my laptop with me and hoping I can sort out an internet connection in the hotel we're staying in. If not, I'm in big trouble. As we're staying out in the Deusch equivalent of Hicksville, and I have fond memories (not) of having to sterilise baby's bottles with camping sterilising tablets and buying Baby Wasser (sterilised water) because a) we forgot the adaptor for the steriliser and b) the hotel room lacked a kettle, I don't hold out much hope for this enterprise. Presumably even Hicksville has internet cafes, though...
So fingers crossed I will be able to pass the proof next week, and then the book will be ready to order from Amazon. But if you can bear to wait, join me for my online launch party which takes place from 8-15 June at: http://RunningonEmptyLaunchParty.blogspot.com - and if you buy a copy I'll sign it and give you a discount....
So anyone out there in cyberspace, pass the word on and tell all your running buddies...
Hope to see some of you there!
PS Was going to blog about the sad demise of our hamster (alas Georgie is no more), but have run out of time. Suffice to say sprogs distinctly unsaddened by his departure (I was slightly less saddened then I would have been, given that his latter days were punctuated by a tendency to bite Spouse and I when we tried to give him antibiotics), and we buried him in the garden in the pouring rain. Spouse donned a top hat and tails for the occasion, the children all drew him pictures and made him a coffin out of a shoe box, and we stood solemnly (or not in my case as I had to repress a severe fit of giggles) as the children all threw earth on his grave, and then stamped on it. So now we are petless - at least till the autumn, Spouse wisely suggesting we wait for a new pet till after the summer holidays - and I get let of cage duties for a bit. And no, we're still not getting a dog....
However, nothing is ever straightforward and I discovered yesterday that though a new proof has been generated, till the people in the US pass it, I can do nowt. This in itself wouldn't be problematic, I have ten days to go till my official launch date. The only trouble is I'm off to Germany in the morning (Two grannies, four children, one husband, a hire truck - no dog - you couldn't make it up. I feel another book coming on...) and am going to find it tricky to sort out. As a failsafe I have ordered 200 copies to go to my friend's house, but I'm also taking my laptop with me and hoping I can sort out an internet connection in the hotel we're staying in. If not, I'm in big trouble. As we're staying out in the Deusch equivalent of Hicksville, and I have fond memories (not) of having to sterilise baby's bottles with camping sterilising tablets and buying Baby Wasser (sterilised water) because a) we forgot the adaptor for the steriliser and b) the hotel room lacked a kettle, I don't hold out much hope for this enterprise. Presumably even Hicksville has internet cafes, though...
So fingers crossed I will be able to pass the proof next week, and then the book will be ready to order from Amazon. But if you can bear to wait, join me for my online launch party which takes place from 8-15 June at: http://RunningonEmptyLaunchParty.blogspot.com - and if you buy a copy I'll sign it and give you a discount....
So anyone out there in cyberspace, pass the word on and tell all your running buddies...
Hope to see some of you there!
PS Was going to blog about the sad demise of our hamster (alas Georgie is no more), but have run out of time. Suffice to say sprogs distinctly unsaddened by his departure (I was slightly less saddened then I would have been, given that his latter days were punctuated by a tendency to bite Spouse and I when we tried to give him antibiotics), and we buried him in the garden in the pouring rain. Spouse donned a top hat and tails for the occasion, the children all drew him pictures and made him a coffin out of a shoe box, and we stood solemnly (or not in my case as I had to repress a severe fit of giggles) as the children all threw earth on his grave, and then stamped on it. So now we are petless - at least till the autumn, Spouse wisely suggesting we wait for a new pet till after the summer holidays - and I get let of cage duties for a bit. And no, we're still not getting a dog....
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Here Come the Clowns...
On Sunday we went to the circus. Not any old circus you understand, but one ambitiously arranged by the PTA at the kids' school. Given that Spouse has been moaning for years about how annoying summer fairs and their ilk are, and I have been moaning for the same length of time about how I have MUG written on my forehead and end up volunteering for things, we both greeted this new development with relish. At last a fundraiser that sounded like fun...
We've only been to the circus once before - and despite our initial reservations, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, so had high hopes for this one. And the kids were besides themselves with excitement.
Our first indication that the circus we were about to see might not be quite of the same calibre was when (having gone to help set up) I discovered that the fee for the circus was £1200. Not bad money for two hours work - until you factor in that they set up the night before (and were there till midnight) and had to hang around all day till 2.30pm for just one show and then pack up to go away.
Another factor of course was the weather. It rained all day Saturday, and the whole thing nearly got cancelled when the truck got stuck in the mud. Sunday dawned, grey and windy, and then the rain set in....
Most people chose to shelter in the school before the show started, but as we dashed across the field the heavens opened and 400 odd people got very very wet.
The show was meant to start at 2.30, but in the best showbiz tradition things were running late. Isn't it ever going to start, moaned no 2. Soon, I must have said a dozen times while promising lots of women in spangly costumes, as I felt sure she would like that.
As it turned out there was one woman in a spanglyish costume who far from being the svelte nimble waif I had imagined had the chunkiest legs imaginable.Her first trick was to do acrobatics on a spinning half crescent in the shape of a moon - or as this was a French circus, Madame Legs was on her lune... First off, something was apparently stuck and she was hissing at the crew to help her out. Once that was fixed, Madame L duly did her bit, climbing up and down la lune, sticking legs and arms out at various points and ending up spinning around on her neck. Apart from that bit, it was scarcely impressive, but no 2 who is a keen gymnast was suitably awed.
Next on came the clowns who were sadly distinctly unfunny. They did a routine based around famous Moroccan acrobats, which I assumed was a warm up for said famous Moroccan acrobats, but was simply a precursor to them pulling four kids out of the audience into the ring. All my children were vainly holding their hands up, but sadly (for them) and luckily (for us) we were too far from the front.
Then there was a fanfare and Mr Spinning Plate Man was announced. His helpers came and stuck up two wobbly looking stands each holidng for sticks. He loaded a plate, and started to spin it, then went on to the next one. By the time he'd got to no3 , no1 had stopped spinning. He span it again and carried on. Then in his enthusiasm to load a plate it went spinning off to the ground. He picked up and spotted that no 1 plate had stopped spinning. He went to spin it again and carried on. He lost another plate, and nos2 and 3 plates had by now stopped spinning altogether. By this time Mr SPM was getting quite cross, particularly as the audience were roaring with laughter. Eventually he got all eight plates up there, but didn't manage to achieve complete spinning harmony before disappearing off in a grump.
He was replaced by a young lad who was chucking a stick about with a bit of string. He seemed reasonably skilful and all was going well till he pulled a dad out of the audience and got him to hold the stick. The dad didn't understand what was expected of him and kept lifting the stick higher and higher, until he was practically standing on his chair, before it dawned on him that Mr Stick Man wanted him to chuck the stick to him.
After that the clowns returned and did a funnyish routine involving a gun that bent sideways and a bursting balloon. Which would have been great if the balloon hadn't gone off pop before he'd fired a shot....
Then it was back to Mr SPM and Mr SM who did a routine with bits of string and a sort of yoyo kind of thing that they kept chucking to each other. Well, they tried to... Mr SPM demonstrated that this too wasn't his thing, because he kept dropping his. In the end you could tell a sense of desperation had set in and the first half came to a rather hasty close with all the grown ups on the floor with laughter.
In the interval we concluded that they were probably all hungover - after all what else are you going to do at midnight in the pouring rain when you've only just got your tent up, but drown your sorrows?
We went back for the second half with a degree of nervous anticipation, wondering what more tortures would be on offer.
First up it was the clowns again, offering a semi-funny routine about pulling out a tooth. Should have sent Spouse up there... Kids most cross because once again when audience participation asked for they were overlooked as they were too far back. They're only picking people at the front, said no 3 crossly. Right. That's why we're not sitting there...
Once the tooth was pulled, it was time forMadame Legs to reappear and lie on her back kicking a variety of objects about, which was rather clever but a little pointless and then Mr SM returned in a new guise as a magician. His first effort was to juggle some balls. His next two tricks progressed a little more smoothly, although in one of the boxes he used, it was possible to see the two way mirrors. He was evidently trying quite hard, but didn't seem to know where any of his props were, or more worryingly, quite what he was supposed to be doing with them. The piece de resistance came when he was pulling some handkerchiefs out of a box, which promptly came over, along with the table it was standing on. Somehow I don't think that was part of the act. Net result was collapse of all the adults in the audience, though luckily for our magician friend, children are slightly less discerning...
The finale was Madame Legs doing things on a rope - and here I have to say I was impressed. She shinned up a rope and swung around and off it, at times only hanging on by an arm or a leg. Sadly though, it wasn't quite enough to lift the performance above am dram levels. Still, as I said, children aren't terribly discerning, and at least they enjoyed it. And as we trudged back through the rain we thought, well at least we've had a laugh, the school made some money, and what else would we have done with ourselves on a wet Sunday in May? Actually, I can think of quite a lot, but OTOH Mr SPM is going to go down in school folklore, and it was worth it to see him alone....
We've only been to the circus once before - and despite our initial reservations, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, so had high hopes for this one. And the kids were besides themselves with excitement.
Our first indication that the circus we were about to see might not be quite of the same calibre was when (having gone to help set up) I discovered that the fee for the circus was £1200. Not bad money for two hours work - until you factor in that they set up the night before (and were there till midnight) and had to hang around all day till 2.30pm for just one show and then pack up to go away.
Another factor of course was the weather. It rained all day Saturday, and the whole thing nearly got cancelled when the truck got stuck in the mud. Sunday dawned, grey and windy, and then the rain set in....
Most people chose to shelter in the school before the show started, but as we dashed across the field the heavens opened and 400 odd people got very very wet.
The show was meant to start at 2.30, but in the best showbiz tradition things were running late. Isn't it ever going to start, moaned no 2. Soon, I must have said a dozen times while promising lots of women in spangly costumes, as I felt sure she would like that.
As it turned out there was one woman in a spanglyish costume who far from being the svelte nimble waif I had imagined had the chunkiest legs imaginable.Her first trick was to do acrobatics on a spinning half crescent in the shape of a moon - or as this was a French circus, Madame Legs was on her lune... First off, something was apparently stuck and she was hissing at the crew to help her out. Once that was fixed, Madame L duly did her bit, climbing up and down la lune, sticking legs and arms out at various points and ending up spinning around on her neck. Apart from that bit, it was scarcely impressive, but no 2 who is a keen gymnast was suitably awed.
Next on came the clowns who were sadly distinctly unfunny. They did a routine based around famous Moroccan acrobats, which I assumed was a warm up for said famous Moroccan acrobats, but was simply a precursor to them pulling four kids out of the audience into the ring. All my children were vainly holding their hands up, but sadly (for them) and luckily (for us) we were too far from the front.
Then there was a fanfare and Mr Spinning Plate Man was announced. His helpers came and stuck up two wobbly looking stands each holidng for sticks. He loaded a plate, and started to spin it, then went on to the next one. By the time he'd got to no3 , no1 had stopped spinning. He span it again and carried on. Then in his enthusiasm to load a plate it went spinning off to the ground. He picked up and spotted that no 1 plate had stopped spinning. He went to spin it again and carried on. He lost another plate, and nos2 and 3 plates had by now stopped spinning altogether. By this time Mr SPM was getting quite cross, particularly as the audience were roaring with laughter. Eventually he got all eight plates up there, but didn't manage to achieve complete spinning harmony before disappearing off in a grump.
He was replaced by a young lad who was chucking a stick about with a bit of string. He seemed reasonably skilful and all was going well till he pulled a dad out of the audience and got him to hold the stick. The dad didn't understand what was expected of him and kept lifting the stick higher and higher, until he was practically standing on his chair, before it dawned on him that Mr Stick Man wanted him to chuck the stick to him.
After that the clowns returned and did a funnyish routine involving a gun that bent sideways and a bursting balloon. Which would have been great if the balloon hadn't gone off pop before he'd fired a shot....
Then it was back to Mr SPM and Mr SM who did a routine with bits of string and a sort of yoyo kind of thing that they kept chucking to each other. Well, they tried to... Mr SPM demonstrated that this too wasn't his thing, because he kept dropping his. In the end you could tell a sense of desperation had set in and the first half came to a rather hasty close with all the grown ups on the floor with laughter.
In the interval we concluded that they were probably all hungover - after all what else are you going to do at midnight in the pouring rain when you've only just got your tent up, but drown your sorrows?
We went back for the second half with a degree of nervous anticipation, wondering what more tortures would be on offer.
First up it was the clowns again, offering a semi-funny routine about pulling out a tooth. Should have sent Spouse up there... Kids most cross because once again when audience participation asked for they were overlooked as they were too far back. They're only picking people at the front, said no 3 crossly. Right. That's why we're not sitting there...
Once the tooth was pulled, it was time forMadame Legs to reappear and lie on her back kicking a variety of objects about, which was rather clever but a little pointless and then Mr SM returned in a new guise as a magician. His first effort was to juggle some balls. His next two tricks progressed a little more smoothly, although in one of the boxes he used, it was possible to see the two way mirrors. He was evidently trying quite hard, but didn't seem to know where any of his props were, or more worryingly, quite what he was supposed to be doing with them. The piece de resistance came when he was pulling some handkerchiefs out of a box, which promptly came over, along with the table it was standing on. Somehow I don't think that was part of the act. Net result was collapse of all the adults in the audience, though luckily for our magician friend, children are slightly less discerning...
The finale was Madame Legs doing things on a rope - and here I have to say I was impressed. She shinned up a rope and swung around and off it, at times only hanging on by an arm or a leg. Sadly though, it wasn't quite enough to lift the performance above am dram levels. Still, as I said, children aren't terribly discerning, and at least they enjoyed it. And as we trudged back through the rain we thought, well at least we've had a laugh, the school made some money, and what else would we have done with ourselves on a wet Sunday in May? Actually, I can think of quite a lot, but OTOH Mr SPM is going to go down in school folklore, and it was worth it to see him alone....
Monday, May 22, 2006
It's not fair!
Some time ago, you may remember that I had a slight set to with no 2 about going to Holy Communion classes. Actually set to is putting it mildly. At the age of 7 she produced the biggest tantrum of her life and turned into spawn of the devil. In the end I persuaded her to carry on by bribing her with having a veil.
Now for those not familiar with the whole HC thing in the catholic church, what happens is that aged 7/8 children take communion for the first time, ie they eat the bread and drink the wine that represents Christ's body and blood, in memory of the Last Supper. It brings them in theory into communion with the rest of the church. Us Left Footers believe that the act of the Eucharist, when the priest actually says the words This is my Body etc turns the host into the Body whereas the protestant church preaches that is a representation of the event (ie we believe in transubstantiation, they believe in consubstantiation - and thereon hangs one of the reasons for the Reformation).
But I digress, you're not here for a theology lesson. Part of the big thing about it as far as little girls are concerned is they get to dress up for the day and wear a white dress and white veil. When I made my HC my ma eschewed this as missing the point - this is meant to be a spiritual and solemn occasion, she didn't want me worrying about my appearance. So I never got a veil. And last year when No1 did it, neither did she. My reasons were somewhat less religious, and more practical, namely I was too busy to organise it, so persuaded her to go for a white ribbon in her hair instead. Which was fine ... at the time.
Fast forward to this year, and my foolish bribe. As per usual I have been so busy I hadn't got round to sorting out the veil. Come the day before the HC I still hadn't... whoops. So we set off on our usual Sat morning mad scrabble of activities: tutorials, ballet, gym lessons etc and as no 3 and no4 now have a gap between their lessons I whisked them to Adams where I felt sure I had seen some veils some weeks earlier. There we encountered Spouse with no 2 (no1 still being at her class ) - who had had the same thought. Obviously we are in a phase of non-communication in our marriage...
Adams it turned out had neither veils nor pretty white shoes, the other required item, and Spouse had to dash off to pick up no1 and take no2 to gym. So I picked up the baton of the veil buying, and dashed over to Woolies, where I was hoping to find a bride's costume, but helas, to no avail... I did manage to pick up some shoes though, and some cheapo sandals for nos3&4. So that was a result. Going back to ballet for no4's lesson I met another HC mum who told me about a bridal shop in the next town, five minutes' drive away. Result.
No4 duly having finished ballet, we ran up the road to where no 2 does gym, met Spouse who was walking into town with no1, grabbed the car keys and dashed up the road. Bridal shop duly found, it transpired, that yes, they did have veils. Ok, I'll have one, I said. The choice was limited to two - both of which just looked like a bit of net curtain attached to a little white side comb. And they cost £22 - blimey I said, that's the most expensive bit of material I've ever bought, but needs must and all that. If I could sew at all I'd have done it myself, but really I know my limitations...
So veil duly bought, it was back to gym to pick up no2 then home for lunch, before taking no1 to her dance class, followed by her epic shopping trip.
At this point, no1 kicked up a fuss because no2 had a veil and she didn't get one. I didn't know you wanted one, I said. I only mentioned it a billion times, was the very cross response. To be fair she probably did. Oh I'm such a bad mother, I clearly wasn't listening.
When I went out shopping I was under strict instructions from no3 to get her a Mini Winnie - a miniature Winnie the Pooh in the mouth of a variety of different creatures, which are bizarrely all the rage at the moment. We've been looking for them for ages but managed to find some in the local cinema. In order to reduce tensions at home, I decided to buy no 4 one too - no 2 already has two so I didn't get her one. Then no 1, who only has one asked if she could spend her pocket money on one. I said yes. Big mistake....
I get home and all hell breaks loose. I didn't get a mini Winnie sobs no 2, it's not fair. (Life, as I frequently point out to her, isn't...). But you have two, I say. And no 1 has got one, she says. But you got a veil and I didn't, says no 1. Then nos 3 &4 chip in that it's not fair that they only have one each... In desperation to cheer a sobbing no 2 up I produce a pair of sandals I've brought that afternoon for her for her birthday, but that's no good either. No 3&4 have cottoned on that no 1 has lovely new clothes, no 2 is moaning that she has also got the Kelly Clarkson CD (bought with pocket money), But, I bought it to share with you, wailed no 1. And in a minute I am about to lose my rag and take everything everyone has back to the shops.
Luckily Dr Who is on and that proves a distraction...
By the day of the HC the fairnesses or otherwise of life seem to be forgotten, and we go to church to witness the great event. The older I get the more bizarre my religion seems to me. And I can't help escaping this feeling that communion is a weird form of cannibalism. The church is packed with people who clearly aren't regular churchgoers as they talk all the way through it (another reason my mother was so agin me having a big ceremony, I seem to remember) - even at the solemn moment when the children took their communion. There has been a reasonable amount of indoctrination in that all the children know all the right answers, but on the whole it passes off ok. And no one falls in the (rather deep) baptismal full size immersion font, which is a result.
We repair to a local hostelry to have a celebratory lunch. Two down two to go.
Mum, says, no1 as we leave, why didn't I get a veil on my Holy Communion. You know it's really not fair....
Now for those not familiar with the whole HC thing in the catholic church, what happens is that aged 7/8 children take communion for the first time, ie they eat the bread and drink the wine that represents Christ's body and blood, in memory of the Last Supper. It brings them in theory into communion with the rest of the church. Us Left Footers believe that the act of the Eucharist, when the priest actually says the words This is my Body etc turns the host into the Body whereas the protestant church preaches that is a representation of the event (ie we believe in transubstantiation, they believe in consubstantiation - and thereon hangs one of the reasons for the Reformation).
But I digress, you're not here for a theology lesson. Part of the big thing about it as far as little girls are concerned is they get to dress up for the day and wear a white dress and white veil. When I made my HC my ma eschewed this as missing the point - this is meant to be a spiritual and solemn occasion, she didn't want me worrying about my appearance. So I never got a veil. And last year when No1 did it, neither did she. My reasons were somewhat less religious, and more practical, namely I was too busy to organise it, so persuaded her to go for a white ribbon in her hair instead. Which was fine ... at the time.
Fast forward to this year, and my foolish bribe. As per usual I have been so busy I hadn't got round to sorting out the veil. Come the day before the HC I still hadn't... whoops. So we set off on our usual Sat morning mad scrabble of activities: tutorials, ballet, gym lessons etc and as no 3 and no4 now have a gap between their lessons I whisked them to Adams where I felt sure I had seen some veils some weeks earlier. There we encountered Spouse with no 2 (no1 still being at her class ) - who had had the same thought. Obviously we are in a phase of non-communication in our marriage...
Adams it turned out had neither veils nor pretty white shoes, the other required item, and Spouse had to dash off to pick up no1 and take no2 to gym. So I picked up the baton of the veil buying, and dashed over to Woolies, where I was hoping to find a bride's costume, but helas, to no avail... I did manage to pick up some shoes though, and some cheapo sandals for nos3&4. So that was a result. Going back to ballet for no4's lesson I met another HC mum who told me about a bridal shop in the next town, five minutes' drive away. Result.
No4 duly having finished ballet, we ran up the road to where no 2 does gym, met Spouse who was walking into town with no1, grabbed the car keys and dashed up the road. Bridal shop duly found, it transpired, that yes, they did have veils. Ok, I'll have one, I said. The choice was limited to two - both of which just looked like a bit of net curtain attached to a little white side comb. And they cost £22 - blimey I said, that's the most expensive bit of material I've ever bought, but needs must and all that. If I could sew at all I'd have done it myself, but really I know my limitations...
So veil duly bought, it was back to gym to pick up no2 then home for lunch, before taking no1 to her dance class, followed by her epic shopping trip.
At this point, no1 kicked up a fuss because no2 had a veil and she didn't get one. I didn't know you wanted one, I said. I only mentioned it a billion times, was the very cross response. To be fair she probably did. Oh I'm such a bad mother, I clearly wasn't listening.
When I went out shopping I was under strict instructions from no3 to get her a Mini Winnie - a miniature Winnie the Pooh in the mouth of a variety of different creatures, which are bizarrely all the rage at the moment. We've been looking for them for ages but managed to find some in the local cinema. In order to reduce tensions at home, I decided to buy no 4 one too - no 2 already has two so I didn't get her one. Then no 1, who only has one asked if she could spend her pocket money on one. I said yes. Big mistake....
I get home and all hell breaks loose. I didn't get a mini Winnie sobs no 2, it's not fair. (Life, as I frequently point out to her, isn't...). But you have two, I say. And no 1 has got one, she says. But you got a veil and I didn't, says no 1. Then nos 3 &4 chip in that it's not fair that they only have one each... In desperation to cheer a sobbing no 2 up I produce a pair of sandals I've brought that afternoon for her for her birthday, but that's no good either. No 3&4 have cottoned on that no 1 has lovely new clothes, no 2 is moaning that she has also got the Kelly Clarkson CD (bought with pocket money), But, I bought it to share with you, wailed no 1. And in a minute I am about to lose my rag and take everything everyone has back to the shops.
Luckily Dr Who is on and that proves a distraction...
By the day of the HC the fairnesses or otherwise of life seem to be forgotten, and we go to church to witness the great event. The older I get the more bizarre my religion seems to me. And I can't help escaping this feeling that communion is a weird form of cannibalism. The church is packed with people who clearly aren't regular churchgoers as they talk all the way through it (another reason my mother was so agin me having a big ceremony, I seem to remember) - even at the solemn moment when the children took their communion. There has been a reasonable amount of indoctrination in that all the children know all the right answers, but on the whole it passes off ok. And no one falls in the (rather deep) baptismal full size immersion font, which is a result.
We repair to a local hostelry to have a celebratory lunch. Two down two to go.
Mum, says, no1 as we leave, why didn't I get a veil on my Holy Communion. You know it's really not fair....
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Online launch party
I am going to be holding a launch party for Running on Empty on June 8 in my local Ottaker's, but for those of you who can't make it, watch this space as I will shortly be announcing details of an online launch party to be held in blogspace - either here or a new blog of my making.... Probably the latter, as I've cluttered up Maniac Mum quite enough with my marathon doings.
If anyone is interested in receiving an evite, just email me at: jules@marathonmum.com and you can go on my mailing list.
If anyone is interested in receiving an evite, just email me at: jules@marathonmum.com and you can go on my mailing list.
Monday, May 15, 2006
A Decade of Motherhood
Today is no 1's tenth birthday, which feels like a huge milestone, both to her and to us. Blimey. Where have the last ten years gone? In a blur of babies and nappies mainly, I think...
To celebrate this momentous occasion I took her shopping on Saturday with a good friend whose birthday is the day after no 1s. No 1 like all my offspring arrived very late, so my GF was demanding that I have the baby on her birthday, so it seemed only appropriate to take her on our trip.
It was quite strange thinking on Saturday that I had gone in that evening to be induced, and no 1 didn't actually arrive till two days later... we've packed in a lot in the last two days and it is quite mindblowing to think what a long time I was waiting around for (in a fair amount of pain, as well...) After ten years the hideousness of the experience remains undiminished. I can remember calling for an epidural at 7am on the 15th (this after 7 hours of excruciating racking labour pains, as a result of the three lots of prostin I had been given), and then having to wait until 10 am for the anaesthetist. The reason for the delay turned out to be that my roomie (who was being induced with me) was having an emergency caesarian. It was a weird experience - I shared two of the most harrowing nights of my life with a complete stranger, during which we told each other all sorts of intimate details about our lives, and we left hospital never to see one another again.
Once I finally got the epidural things got fairly boring for a while as I dilated ever so slowly. They started off saying the baby would come around midday, but by midday I was stuck at 9cms and appeared not to be going anywhere at all. By 3pm I had progressed no further, so the consultant was called. He immediately decided that it was forceps or a caesarian for me. The caesar I wasn't bothered about, apart from the fact that they had let me go on so long I was thinking why didn't you say that twelve hours ago you buggers. But the forceps for some reason really freaked me out, and Spouse had to pretty much slap me on the cheeks to get me calmed down again. The consultant did manage to do something to get me to 10cms and then I was allowed to have a go at pushing the baby out. But she was having none of it, at some point she had turned round the wrong way and in turning back again in the birth canal her head was at such an odd angle she wasn't going to come out without help. So, forceps it ended up being... Although by that time, quite frankly I was past caring. I just wanted this baby out of me.
I can still remember suddenly thinking, whoops this is going to get messy, and telling Spouse to come up my end of the bed. The consultant turned round and said, He's a dentist, he won't mind some blood.... I didn't see any of the aftermath, but Spouse assures me a little is putting rather a lot of spin on it.
The consultant clearly had a sense of humour, as I can remember him describing what to do to the registrar he was training (by this time there seemed to be dozens and dozens of people in the room - did I care? Not a bit) that what he was about to do was like sliding a knife between butter. Yeah, right. As he approached me with these whacking great metal things shaped like tennis rackets, part of me was fascinated, thinking how on earth do they fit? Whilst the other part of me was horrified - he was going to put those things INSIDE me????
But as it turned out he was top notch and no 1 was extracted with minimum fuss, and barely a forcep mark on her head. After several moments of extreme tension the room broke into spontaneous applause as she cried for the first time. Spouse and I of course were on cloud nine, but I was amazed at how thrilled the professionals all seemed. It was a magic moment. The first of many...
And so it was on Saturday I took my oldest baby on a girlie shopping trip for the first time. It felt like a rite of passage for both of us. There are probably no clothes now left in our local shopping centre, and part of me is mourning the loss of my little girl, who is on the cusp of leaving childhood behind. But I can't but celebrate for her really. Ten years ago I held her in my arms, and started on a journey of discovery. The journey continues, but each day it gets better and better.
For my special K with love
To celebrate this momentous occasion I took her shopping on Saturday with a good friend whose birthday is the day after no 1s. No 1 like all my offspring arrived very late, so my GF was demanding that I have the baby on her birthday, so it seemed only appropriate to take her on our trip.
It was quite strange thinking on Saturday that I had gone in that evening to be induced, and no 1 didn't actually arrive till two days later... we've packed in a lot in the last two days and it is quite mindblowing to think what a long time I was waiting around for (in a fair amount of pain, as well...) After ten years the hideousness of the experience remains undiminished. I can remember calling for an epidural at 7am on the 15th (this after 7 hours of excruciating racking labour pains, as a result of the three lots of prostin I had been given), and then having to wait until 10 am for the anaesthetist. The reason for the delay turned out to be that my roomie (who was being induced with me) was having an emergency caesarian. It was a weird experience - I shared two of the most harrowing nights of my life with a complete stranger, during which we told each other all sorts of intimate details about our lives, and we left hospital never to see one another again.
Once I finally got the epidural things got fairly boring for a while as I dilated ever so slowly. They started off saying the baby would come around midday, but by midday I was stuck at 9cms and appeared not to be going anywhere at all. By 3pm I had progressed no further, so the consultant was called. He immediately decided that it was forceps or a caesarian for me. The caesar I wasn't bothered about, apart from the fact that they had let me go on so long I was thinking why didn't you say that twelve hours ago you buggers. But the forceps for some reason really freaked me out, and Spouse had to pretty much slap me on the cheeks to get me calmed down again. The consultant did manage to do something to get me to 10cms and then I was allowed to have a go at pushing the baby out. But she was having none of it, at some point she had turned round the wrong way and in turning back again in the birth canal her head was at such an odd angle she wasn't going to come out without help. So, forceps it ended up being... Although by that time, quite frankly I was past caring. I just wanted this baby out of me.
I can still remember suddenly thinking, whoops this is going to get messy, and telling Spouse to come up my end of the bed. The consultant turned round and said, He's a dentist, he won't mind some blood.... I didn't see any of the aftermath, but Spouse assures me a little is putting rather a lot of spin on it.
The consultant clearly had a sense of humour, as I can remember him describing what to do to the registrar he was training (by this time there seemed to be dozens and dozens of people in the room - did I care? Not a bit) that what he was about to do was like sliding a knife between butter. Yeah, right. As he approached me with these whacking great metal things shaped like tennis rackets, part of me was fascinated, thinking how on earth do they fit? Whilst the other part of me was horrified - he was going to put those things INSIDE me????
But as it turned out he was top notch and no 1 was extracted with minimum fuss, and barely a forcep mark on her head. After several moments of extreme tension the room broke into spontaneous applause as she cried for the first time. Spouse and I of course were on cloud nine, but I was amazed at how thrilled the professionals all seemed. It was a magic moment. The first of many...
And so it was on Saturday I took my oldest baby on a girlie shopping trip for the first time. It felt like a rite of passage for both of us. There are probably no clothes now left in our local shopping centre, and part of me is mourning the loss of my little girl, who is on the cusp of leaving childhood behind. But I can't but celebrate for her really. Ten years ago I held her in my arms, and started on a journey of discovery. The journey continues, but each day it gets better and better.
For my special K with love
Friday, May 12, 2006
It's been a sporty week....
... In our house.
Not only did I manage to impress in the pool (ha!), but no 3 has also just learnt to swim, and no 1 managed to swim ten lengths on Tuesday, the furthest she's ever gone.
I also had a tennis lesson which was glorious - tennis being my sport of choice - and have been on two wonderful runs, where my back wasn't killing me for the first time in ages. Yay...
Spouse has been at the gym.
Everyone did tennis yesterday apart from no2 who refuses point blank, so all in all we're getting reasonably fit as a family.
And on top of that I have just signed no1 up to run the Race for Life with me in July.
She is very insistent she wants to do it, and we went running together on Sunday. She managed three-quarters of a mile before stopping with a stitch, which is more or less what I did the first time I went out running. I'm thrilled she's doing it with me, even if I end up walking her all the way.
So if anyone out there in cyberspace wants to sponsor us, you can do so by going to the following page: http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/marathonmumandfriends
I haven't set the target high as I asked alot of people when I was marathon training last year. But Race for Life goes to Cancer Research UK, which is one of the best causes I can think of, as nearly everyone knows someone...
I shall be running in memory of a very good friend, who died eight years ago, and was one of the bravest people I've ever met.
Not only did I manage to impress in the pool (ha!), but no 3 has also just learnt to swim, and no 1 managed to swim ten lengths on Tuesday, the furthest she's ever gone.
I also had a tennis lesson which was glorious - tennis being my sport of choice - and have been on two wonderful runs, where my back wasn't killing me for the first time in ages. Yay...
Spouse has been at the gym.
Everyone did tennis yesterday apart from no2 who refuses point blank, so all in all we're getting reasonably fit as a family.
And on top of that I have just signed no1 up to run the Race for Life with me in July.
She is very insistent she wants to do it, and we went running together on Sunday. She managed three-quarters of a mile before stopping with a stitch, which is more or less what I did the first time I went out running. I'm thrilled she's doing it with me, even if I end up walking her all the way.
So if anyone out there in cyberspace wants to sponsor us, you can do so by going to the following page: http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/marathonmumandfriends
I haven't set the target high as I asked alot of people when I was marathon training last year. But Race for Life goes to Cancer Research UK, which is one of the best causes I can think of, as nearly everyone knows someone...
I shall be running in memory of a very good friend, who died eight years ago, and was one of the bravest people I've ever met.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Triathlon Triumph?
Well, not exactly, but I went for my second swimming session last night, and it was somewhat better then my previous excursion.
I have to say here, hand on heart, actually I didn't want to go, as last time was so humiliating, I wasn't really sure I wanted a repeat performance. Plus the kids were all being fractious, nos 3&4 particularly so as they are knackered. This is a result of staying up too late to watch Dr Who, and then having nightmares. What to do? What to do? I could of course put them to bed early on Saturday night, so they miss it, but I'm not sure I can cope with the fall out. No 3 is so desperate to watch it, and then spends most of the time on my lap with her face pressed firmly towards my shoulder. But not watch Dr Who? Not on your nelly...
I have to say I can't blame her really. This series of Dr Who is turning out to be even better then the last, and I soooo love David Tennant. He does soulful and vulnerable turning into hard steel when required so very well. The ultimate TV hero methinks... I have a feeling one or two of my male leads might well end up modelled on him. Although I do have a slight problem with Dr Who turning into a bit of a love rat, even if he doesn't mean to be. Much as I liked Jon Pertwee and Tom Baker as a child, I don't think I saw them as romantic lead material...
But I digress. As a result of all this Dr Who watching nos3&4 have demanded their big sisters keep them company in bed on Saturday nights to stave of nightmares. All that happens is everyone stays up too late, so I have banned them doing this during the week. Net result, last night as I was leaving the house, no4 was wailing her head off, and no 3 was holding tight to her duvet staring grimly at the ceiling and saying in the pathetic tones she knows so well how to adopt, I'll try to be brave...
Spouse meanwhile was outside fixing screws to our trailer, so was oblivious to the chaos indoors. I toyed with calling it quits and not going at all. After all, as my beloved said to me, no one's making you do this... No one but me that is. And I am insanely competitive, and want to swim properly. And the only way to do that is to endure the humiliation.
So it was a nice surprise to discover that the humilation was somewhat less this time around. For a start I met a mum whose daughter is in the same year as no1. She's run the marathon four times and beat me hands down last year, so I know she's much fitter then I am. However, she told me that she is really rubbish at this swimming malarkey. And while she looked pretty good to me, I did discover that once I got going properly I was catching her up, so I might be rubbish too, but not as slow at swimming perhaps as at running. (Well a girl can dream.... the other woman in the pool looked majorly competent to me and she hasn't progressed out of the beginner's lane yet because she claims the second lane is too fast. Yikes... doubt I'll ever get there!)
Not only that, but in a schadenfreude kind of way I was pleased to discover that the only bloke in the beginner's lane was also much worse then I was. So I might be crap, but there is someone behind me. I suppose sport in that sense is like a metaphor for life. There will always be both better, and worse then you... And as we used to tell each other when I was at school. Aim for the stars and you might hit a tree. Aim for the tree and you'll hit the ground.
After my last bungled attempt at swimming crawl, I wasn't looking forward to ploughing up and down the pool on my side again. But luckily this time the instructor took pity on me and after two lengths of that, I was allowed to go for Superman, where I get to stick one arm out and have the other by my side. I did two wobbly lengths of this, then another two somewhat better, and then it was on to one arm stretched out like Superman, and bringing the other up to my ear and down into the water. This I found somewhat tricky at first. Having all the spatial awareness of a gnat, I kept getting muddled up. I was meant to start off, face out of the water, with one arm stretched out, and the other at my side. As I turned my face into the water, my elbow was meant to come up to my ear, and then I was supposed to sweep my arm downwards and back to my side, ready for one I lifted my head out of the water. For the first half a length I was lifting my elbow up, as my head was out of the water, and putting it down as I went into it, which resulted in me swallowing half the pool. But eventually I got the hang of it.
So then I progressed on to using both arms in half a stroke, which was miraculously much easier, and I powered my way up the pool in a triumphant style (especially as it was at this point that I realised I was faster then my friend). My triumph was shortlived, however when I completed my second length, only to be told that I was lifting my head up out of the water, instead of rolling it from one side to the other. Do it again, was the instruction (which I suspect I will come to dread), so I did. This time, I kept my head in the water, and managed to get it right. The main problem I was having now was the breathing. My instructor had told me earlier that I should let the breath out in the water before coming up for air. This worked okish when all I had to do was swim on one side, but factor in using both arms, and remembering which side I breathed on last, and I was all over the shop. As I said, spatial awareness isn't my thing.
However, I evidently managed well enough to get onto the next bit, which was called catch up, and involved starting with one arm out straight, bringing the other one down, touching it and lifting the first arm up and out of the water, before bringing it down to touch the first one again. This took me another four lengths to master, but I eventually go the hang of it, though every now and then I lost the rhythm, swallowed buckets of water and had to stop.
For our final torture, the instructor had the three women at the end of the pool, from where we had to kick off and float as far as we could. The first attempt for all of us was pretty pathetic. After a few seconds you start to list to one side, and then have to do an undignified scramble to the poolside before you drown. However, after being taught the trick of slightly widening your arms to balance you, this was much easier. And to my utter amazement I went further then the other two. I knew all those years of mucking about and practising floating in the pool as a child weren't wasted...
Then it was onto our last two lengths. This time I had to do a one two three motion with my arms, bringing them up from waist, to just below my shoulder and then over my arm. I managed two lengths of this, not stopping, but was absolutely knackered at the end.
Still. It was easier then last time, and I felt I had achieved something. If only to fill my sinuses with water (I spent a very uncomfortable night with a blocked nose as a result) - but you can't have everything.
As we got out of the pool the conversation turned to the other two parts of tri - biking and running. My instructor apparently running a run-bike-run session on Wednesdays, which sounds really scary. And judging by the way the conversation ran, my pathetic 8-speed bike which is already eight years old won't be up to the challenge. I would obviously like to have a go at that, but Wednesdays is Brownie night, so that's out for a few years yet. Hmm, maybe this triathlon thing will take a little longer to achieve then I thought....
****NEWS FLASH****
Yesterday I sent the marathon book to press. I should I hope have a proof to check by next week. And then all being well, copies a week or so afterwards. I'll keep you posted...
I have to say here, hand on heart, actually I didn't want to go, as last time was so humiliating, I wasn't really sure I wanted a repeat performance. Plus the kids were all being fractious, nos 3&4 particularly so as they are knackered. This is a result of staying up too late to watch Dr Who, and then having nightmares. What to do? What to do? I could of course put them to bed early on Saturday night, so they miss it, but I'm not sure I can cope with the fall out. No 3 is so desperate to watch it, and then spends most of the time on my lap with her face pressed firmly towards my shoulder. But not watch Dr Who? Not on your nelly...
I have to say I can't blame her really. This series of Dr Who is turning out to be even better then the last, and I soooo love David Tennant. He does soulful and vulnerable turning into hard steel when required so very well. The ultimate TV hero methinks... I have a feeling one or two of my male leads might well end up modelled on him. Although I do have a slight problem with Dr Who turning into a bit of a love rat, even if he doesn't mean to be. Much as I liked Jon Pertwee and Tom Baker as a child, I don't think I saw them as romantic lead material...
But I digress. As a result of all this Dr Who watching nos3&4 have demanded their big sisters keep them company in bed on Saturday nights to stave of nightmares. All that happens is everyone stays up too late, so I have banned them doing this during the week. Net result, last night as I was leaving the house, no4 was wailing her head off, and no 3 was holding tight to her duvet staring grimly at the ceiling and saying in the pathetic tones she knows so well how to adopt, I'll try to be brave...
Spouse meanwhile was outside fixing screws to our trailer, so was oblivious to the chaos indoors. I toyed with calling it quits and not going at all. After all, as my beloved said to me, no one's making you do this... No one but me that is. And I am insanely competitive, and want to swim properly. And the only way to do that is to endure the humiliation.
So it was a nice surprise to discover that the humilation was somewhat less this time around. For a start I met a mum whose daughter is in the same year as no1. She's run the marathon four times and beat me hands down last year, so I know she's much fitter then I am. However, she told me that she is really rubbish at this swimming malarkey. And while she looked pretty good to me, I did discover that once I got going properly I was catching her up, so I might be rubbish too, but not as slow at swimming perhaps as at running. (Well a girl can dream.... the other woman in the pool looked majorly competent to me and she hasn't progressed out of the beginner's lane yet because she claims the second lane is too fast. Yikes... doubt I'll ever get there!)
Not only that, but in a schadenfreude kind of way I was pleased to discover that the only bloke in the beginner's lane was also much worse then I was. So I might be crap, but there is someone behind me. I suppose sport in that sense is like a metaphor for life. There will always be both better, and worse then you... And as we used to tell each other when I was at school. Aim for the stars and you might hit a tree. Aim for the tree and you'll hit the ground.
After my last bungled attempt at swimming crawl, I wasn't looking forward to ploughing up and down the pool on my side again. But luckily this time the instructor took pity on me and after two lengths of that, I was allowed to go for Superman, where I get to stick one arm out and have the other by my side. I did two wobbly lengths of this, then another two somewhat better, and then it was on to one arm stretched out like Superman, and bringing the other up to my ear and down into the water. This I found somewhat tricky at first. Having all the spatial awareness of a gnat, I kept getting muddled up. I was meant to start off, face out of the water, with one arm stretched out, and the other at my side. As I turned my face into the water, my elbow was meant to come up to my ear, and then I was supposed to sweep my arm downwards and back to my side, ready for one I lifted my head out of the water. For the first half a length I was lifting my elbow up, as my head was out of the water, and putting it down as I went into it, which resulted in me swallowing half the pool. But eventually I got the hang of it.
So then I progressed on to using both arms in half a stroke, which was miraculously much easier, and I powered my way up the pool in a triumphant style (especially as it was at this point that I realised I was faster then my friend). My triumph was shortlived, however when I completed my second length, only to be told that I was lifting my head up out of the water, instead of rolling it from one side to the other. Do it again, was the instruction (which I suspect I will come to dread), so I did. This time, I kept my head in the water, and managed to get it right. The main problem I was having now was the breathing. My instructor had told me earlier that I should let the breath out in the water before coming up for air. This worked okish when all I had to do was swim on one side, but factor in using both arms, and remembering which side I breathed on last, and I was all over the shop. As I said, spatial awareness isn't my thing.
However, I evidently managed well enough to get onto the next bit, which was called catch up, and involved starting with one arm out straight, bringing the other one down, touching it and lifting the first arm up and out of the water, before bringing it down to touch the first one again. This took me another four lengths to master, but I eventually go the hang of it, though every now and then I lost the rhythm, swallowed buckets of water and had to stop.
For our final torture, the instructor had the three women at the end of the pool, from where we had to kick off and float as far as we could. The first attempt for all of us was pretty pathetic. After a few seconds you start to list to one side, and then have to do an undignified scramble to the poolside before you drown. However, after being taught the trick of slightly widening your arms to balance you, this was much easier. And to my utter amazement I went further then the other two. I knew all those years of mucking about and practising floating in the pool as a child weren't wasted...
Then it was onto our last two lengths. This time I had to do a one two three motion with my arms, bringing them up from waist, to just below my shoulder and then over my arm. I managed two lengths of this, not stopping, but was absolutely knackered at the end.
Still. It was easier then last time, and I felt I had achieved something. If only to fill my sinuses with water (I spent a very uncomfortable night with a blocked nose as a result) - but you can't have everything.
As we got out of the pool the conversation turned to the other two parts of tri - biking and running. My instructor apparently running a run-bike-run session on Wednesdays, which sounds really scary. And judging by the way the conversation ran, my pathetic 8-speed bike which is already eight years old won't be up to the challenge. I would obviously like to have a go at that, but Wednesdays is Brownie night, so that's out for a few years yet. Hmm, maybe this triathlon thing will take a little longer to achieve then I thought....
****NEWS FLASH****
Yesterday I sent the marathon book to press. I should I hope have a proof to check by next week. And then all being well, copies a week or so afterwards. I'll keep you posted...
Sunday, May 07, 2006
In the Swim
Not content with having done a marathon, I now have a hankering to have a go at a triathlon, swimming and cycling having been my exercises of choice before I took off on this crazy running thing. I had this rather naive notion it might be easier then running 26 miles.
I should say here, that though I am an enthusiastic swimmer, and usually manage 40-50 lengths at a time, I am more then somewhat lacking in technique. My crawl is non-existent, backstroke just about passable, butterfly (don't even go there) and my breaststroke is the best of a bad bunch. I recently went swimming with a friend who is pretty accomplished in the swimming department, and she laughingly observed that apparently I don't kick my legs at all during breaststroke.
Having spent more years then I care to remember poolside watching the sprogs learning to swim, it has occurred to me of late that once they get properly going (which after years and years of anguish no1 is finally about to do), they are all going to be miles better then their mum. Being of a somewhat competitive bent, I of course, Can't Have That, so had decided that I should learn how to do it properly.
Which is how I found myself the other week by the side of the pool enrolling for a triathlon class. Given that I am fairly fit, and can swim a reasonable distance, I didn't think I would be a complete no-hoper... at least I was in a better shape then I was when I was marathon training - or so I thought.
I knew I was in trouble when the chap asked me how far I could swim. I can do forty lengths, I said proudly. There was a pause. A significant pause, and I realised I was expected to say something else. That's breaststroke, I added. The significant pause led to a significant look, and my dreams of swimming glory disintegrated in front of me. We don't do breaststroke, he said.
And so it was, dear reader, that I was confined to the beginner's lane, doing drills which consisted of lying on my side, in the water, with my arms by my side, kicking my legs while I rolled my head back and forth in and out of the water in one fluid motion. As if. It is a wonder that I didn't drown. I am going to be soooo much more sympathetic to the children when I watch their pathetic efforts at crawl.
Luckily, my trainer appears to be a man of infinite patience,, and he put up with my feeble attempts to potter up and down the pool trying not to look like a drunk porpoise. I've had worse, he announced cheerfully at one point (though I suspect he's just saying that), and at another telling me that I'll be like the other two in my lane in a month. How long have you been coming, I asked one of them. Eight months, was the not very heartwarming reply. Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
How did it go? Spouse wanted to know when I got back. Knackering, dispiriting, humiliating.... how many more negatives can I get in a single response? However, I know now the title of my next book, should I purse this triathlon thing further... It'll be called Up the Hill Backwards: Diary of a Triathlon Mum. You heard it here first....
I should say here, that though I am an enthusiastic swimmer, and usually manage 40-50 lengths at a time, I am more then somewhat lacking in technique. My crawl is non-existent, backstroke just about passable, butterfly (don't even go there) and my breaststroke is the best of a bad bunch. I recently went swimming with a friend who is pretty accomplished in the swimming department, and she laughingly observed that apparently I don't kick my legs at all during breaststroke.
Having spent more years then I care to remember poolside watching the sprogs learning to swim, it has occurred to me of late that once they get properly going (which after years and years of anguish no1 is finally about to do), they are all going to be miles better then their mum. Being of a somewhat competitive bent, I of course, Can't Have That, so had decided that I should learn how to do it properly.
Which is how I found myself the other week by the side of the pool enrolling for a triathlon class. Given that I am fairly fit, and can swim a reasonable distance, I didn't think I would be a complete no-hoper... at least I was in a better shape then I was when I was marathon training - or so I thought.
I knew I was in trouble when the chap asked me how far I could swim. I can do forty lengths, I said proudly. There was a pause. A significant pause, and I realised I was expected to say something else. That's breaststroke, I added. The significant pause led to a significant look, and my dreams of swimming glory disintegrated in front of me. We don't do breaststroke, he said.
And so it was, dear reader, that I was confined to the beginner's lane, doing drills which consisted of lying on my side, in the water, with my arms by my side, kicking my legs while I rolled my head back and forth in and out of the water in one fluid motion. As if. It is a wonder that I didn't drown. I am going to be soooo much more sympathetic to the children when I watch their pathetic efforts at crawl.
Luckily, my trainer appears to be a man of infinite patience,, and he put up with my feeble attempts to potter up and down the pool trying not to look like a drunk porpoise. I've had worse, he announced cheerfully at one point (though I suspect he's just saying that), and at another telling me that I'll be like the other two in my lane in a month. How long have you been coming, I asked one of them. Eight months, was the not very heartwarming reply. Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
How did it go? Spouse wanted to know when I got back. Knackering, dispiriting, humiliating.... how many more negatives can I get in a single response? However, I know now the title of my next book, should I purse this triathlon thing further... It'll be called Up the Hill Backwards: Diary of a Triathlon Mum. You heard it here first....
Monday, May 01, 2006
Running on Empty
I am very pleased to announce that I now have a fab cover for Running on Empty, thanks to my designer chum, Rob Walster. To view said lovely cover, you can go to my website :www.marathonmum.com.
I am also pleased to announce the winner of my Top Tunes to Run to Competition. I don't know his/her name as I just had an email address, but the winner came up with the inspired Highway to Hell. Yup... I know that feeling. Honourable mentions go to Philip Buckingham for Keep on Running and Jan Waterfield for What A Feeling, because that probably just about sums it up...
I hereby launch another competition for people to tell me what they saw on marathon day that you don't see on the TV, or alternatively the funniest thing you've seen when out running. The winner will receive a bottle of bubbly and the two runners up a copy each of the book.
I am hoping to get the book off to the printers this week, so with a bit of luck I should have copies by the end of the month. I'll keep you posted. If you want more information you can email me at: jules@marathonmum.com and I'll put you on my mailing list.
And finally, I am delighted to announce that A November to Remember by Taryn Mckeiver is now available to buy, priced £9.99. You can either order it through your local bookshop, or online at Amazon. Alternatively you can buy it direct from Taryn by visiting her website: www.anovembertoremember.co.uk
I am also pleased to announce the winner of my Top Tunes to Run to Competition. I don't know his/her name as I just had an email address, but the winner came up with the inspired Highway to Hell. Yup... I know that feeling. Honourable mentions go to Philip Buckingham for Keep on Running and Jan Waterfield for What A Feeling, because that probably just about sums it up...
I hereby launch another competition for people to tell me what they saw on marathon day that you don't see on the TV, or alternatively the funniest thing you've seen when out running. The winner will receive a bottle of bubbly and the two runners up a copy each of the book.
I am hoping to get the book off to the printers this week, so with a bit of luck I should have copies by the end of the month. I'll keep you posted. If you want more information you can email me at: jules@marathonmum.com and I'll put you on my mailing list.
And finally, I am delighted to announce that A November to Remember by Taryn Mckeiver is now available to buy, priced £9.99. You can either order it through your local bookshop, or online at Amazon. Alternatively you can buy it direct from Taryn by visiting her website: www.anovembertoremember.co.uk
Sunday, April 23, 2006
London Marathon
To all runners in the London Marathon today. Congratulations. You are all heroes and heroines! And I nominate my top tune for you: Simply the Best, because you all are...
I watched some of the race today and was green as anything. If I can just sort out this pesky sciatica problem I have, I would love to have a go again next year...
Watching today has certainly reinspired me. And it was soooo great recognizing bits of the course and thinking, I've run along there....
Am still trying to decide which is my favourite top tune - thanks to all who entered!
Will be posting the result on here and on the website in due course, and launching another competition...
I watched some of the race today and was green as anything. If I can just sort out this pesky sciatica problem I have, I would love to have a go again next year...
Watching today has certainly reinspired me. And it was soooo great recognizing bits of the course and thinking, I've run along there....
Am still trying to decide which is my favourite top tune - thanks to all who entered!
Will be posting the result on here and on the website in due course, and launching another competition...
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Top Tunes to Run Too
If you've been paying attention, you'll know I've been running (scuse the pun) a top tunes to run to competition. The entries are still flooding in, but like Mr Incredible, you still have time.
So if you have a top tune to run to, let me know by emailing me at:jules@marathonmum.com
My favourite so far is: Highway to Hell.
Let's hope for Sunday's marathon runners it's more like a Highway to Heaven!
you can also email to be on my mailing list.
And if anyone is remotely interested in the progress of the book, I have a designer working on a cover as we speak. (cheers, Rob!!), Spouse is still proofreading the ms (He is not cut out for editorial work being not nearly subtle enough with the body blows, but otoh he does have quite a a good eye for typos. I did however have to leave the room the other day when he queried nearly every single word on one page. He is much better suited to what he knows best, ie: dentistry - rather appropriately I am married to Marathon Man), and I am waiting for an isbn number. Once that's all done I hope to get it off to the printer in the next couple of weeks. I'll keep you all posted...
So if you have a top tune to run to, let me know by emailing me at:jules@marathonmum.com
My favourite so far is: Highway to Hell.
Let's hope for Sunday's marathon runners it's more like a Highway to Heaven!
you can also email to be on my mailing list.
And if anyone is remotely interested in the progress of the book, I have a designer working on a cover as we speak. (cheers, Rob!!), Spouse is still proofreading the ms (He is not cut out for editorial work being not nearly subtle enough with the body blows, but otoh he does have quite a a good eye for typos. I did however have to leave the room the other day when he queried nearly every single word on one page. He is much better suited to what he knows best, ie: dentistry - rather appropriately I am married to Marathon Man), and I am waiting for an isbn number. Once that's all done I hope to get it off to the printer in the next couple of weeks. I'll keep you all posted...
Legoland or bust
As I have been rather busy over the last week or so thanks to that lovely Mr Inverdale, I haven't got round to posting an account of our merry trip to Legoland, which was one of the highlights (at least for the children) of the Easter break. Me, I am soooo not a fan of theme parks, but hey, it kept the kids busy for a day, so what the hell...
We set off fairly early with Pyrtotechnic Builder Mate and his family. Being Legoland vets they knew that otherwise we would be stuck in a huge queue. They helpfully provided us with vouchers to get one kid in free, which given the prices was just as well. Even saving £46 we still managed to spend over £100, and that was just on getting in...
Negotiating my way through the least-child friendly entry gates I've ever encountered, with the littlies, I managed to lose the others when I came out the other side. I started walking down the hill, thinking, buggers! They've gone on without us, before I realised that I was more likely then not to lose them in the vast hordes swarming all over the place. Shades of my start to the marathon sprang to mind, when queuing for the loo I managed to lose my twin sister and then spent 3/4 of an hour frantically looking for her before the start. Luckily as I returned to the entrance I spotted Spouse in the crowds, so we managed not to waste a whole day looking for one another. Which was just as well as he was carrying lunch on his back...
We had a quick look at the models to start with. Now, while I am all very impressed by the dedication of someone who puts thousands of pieces of lego together to create Big Ben (and it is clever, I grant you), I have to say, my overwhelming thought when I saw it was - why???? What on earth possessed the first employee of Lego to say, I know what I want to be when I grow up, a professional lego builder. Imagine telling that to your careers teacher. I dunno, it's all Scandinavian to me...
Mind you, someone at Legoland at least has a good sense of humour. In the London section in a corner, there is a building site, which represents... you've guessed ...it the Olympics site. It's a bit empty at the moment, but I presume they'll be adding to it as they go...
Models duly admired, it was on to the first ride, a rather gentle affair which took us through Legoland's equivalent of Fairy Tale Land, which was quite sweet, and no 4 was entranced enough to be quiet and well behaved throughout.
Which helas, cannot be said for our next ride. This should have been another gentle boat ride around a lake. We had to split up into threes, so Spouse went witn nos2&3, while I go nos 1&2. The boats had steering and an accelerator, and that was about it. No1 was keen to drive, so I let her, but the accelerator was on my side. No matter how hard I pressed it to the floor, nothing much happened. And no1's steering was pants. So as a result we ended up hitting the bank on the first corner. No4 promptly burst into hysterical sobs and demanded to get out. Don't worry, I said between gritted teeth, this is fun... Apparently not. No4 kept up the wailing all the way round, no1's steering improved not one whit, and everyone else beat us home. Not even the promise of lunch was enough to stem the floods, and by the time we got out no1 was saying, I quite see why being a mum is such hard work. At last, the shoe is on the other foot...
After we had lunched on sandwiches provided by Spouse (lunch out anywhere with four sprogs is pretty much out, but at Legoland? It would have been a definite no-brainer), the boys decided they had to go on the rollercoaster. Luckily sprogs were content with boring things like the merrygoround and a big wheel. We had one or two hairy moments on the big wheel when various of the children tried to look over the side. The worst culprit was no4s wild and excitable male twin (he was born on the same day as her). His poor mother spent most of the ride clutching onto him for dear life. Sometimes I am so glad I only have girls...
By the time we had done that and lost all the children a dozen times in the fort, the boys had caught up with us. Spouse looked vaguely green, so I guess that is one experience he won't be repeating in a hurry. Then it was time to go on a version of the spinning teacups. Remembering their previous experience of this on Brighton Pier, when no2 wanted to go faster and then screamed so loudly when she did that she banged her head and had to come off the ride, she and no1 wisely opted to stay put. Spouse sedately went on the ride with the little ones, while PBM and his family flew wildly round, making me very very glad I'd stayed where I was.
The day ended with us watching the show - I was actually quite in awe of these amazing stunt people who kept leaping merrily off a tower into what looked like two inches of water, but I presume was somewhat deeper, visiting a jungle exhibition (no4 and I had to make a hurried exit as she started screaming again), and going to look at the Lego workshop, where it transpires there really are people who make lego models for a living. Can't see that giving you many work opportunities...
Sprogs all had a great time, and ended up knackered. Spouse and I had an okish time and ended up knackered and potless. But at least we've ticked that off the list of Things To Do With The Children...
We got home to two phone calls to tell me that this very blog had been mentioned on Radio 2, which I have to say was probably the best part of the whole day...
We set off fairly early with Pyrtotechnic Builder Mate and his family. Being Legoland vets they knew that otherwise we would be stuck in a huge queue. They helpfully provided us with vouchers to get one kid in free, which given the prices was just as well. Even saving £46 we still managed to spend over £100, and that was just on getting in...
Negotiating my way through the least-child friendly entry gates I've ever encountered, with the littlies, I managed to lose the others when I came out the other side. I started walking down the hill, thinking, buggers! They've gone on without us, before I realised that I was more likely then not to lose them in the vast hordes swarming all over the place. Shades of my start to the marathon sprang to mind, when queuing for the loo I managed to lose my twin sister and then spent 3/4 of an hour frantically looking for her before the start. Luckily as I returned to the entrance I spotted Spouse in the crowds, so we managed not to waste a whole day looking for one another. Which was just as well as he was carrying lunch on his back...
We had a quick look at the models to start with. Now, while I am all very impressed by the dedication of someone who puts thousands of pieces of lego together to create Big Ben (and it is clever, I grant you), I have to say, my overwhelming thought when I saw it was - why???? What on earth possessed the first employee of Lego to say, I know what I want to be when I grow up, a professional lego builder. Imagine telling that to your careers teacher. I dunno, it's all Scandinavian to me...
Mind you, someone at Legoland at least has a good sense of humour. In the London section in a corner, there is a building site, which represents... you've guessed ...it the Olympics site. It's a bit empty at the moment, but I presume they'll be adding to it as they go...
Models duly admired, it was on to the first ride, a rather gentle affair which took us through Legoland's equivalent of Fairy Tale Land, which was quite sweet, and no 4 was entranced enough to be quiet and well behaved throughout.
Which helas, cannot be said for our next ride. This should have been another gentle boat ride around a lake. We had to split up into threes, so Spouse went witn nos2&3, while I go nos 1&2. The boats had steering and an accelerator, and that was about it. No1 was keen to drive, so I let her, but the accelerator was on my side. No matter how hard I pressed it to the floor, nothing much happened. And no1's steering was pants. So as a result we ended up hitting the bank on the first corner. No4 promptly burst into hysterical sobs and demanded to get out. Don't worry, I said between gritted teeth, this is fun... Apparently not. No4 kept up the wailing all the way round, no1's steering improved not one whit, and everyone else beat us home. Not even the promise of lunch was enough to stem the floods, and by the time we got out no1 was saying, I quite see why being a mum is such hard work. At last, the shoe is on the other foot...
After we had lunched on sandwiches provided by Spouse (lunch out anywhere with four sprogs is pretty much out, but at Legoland? It would have been a definite no-brainer), the boys decided they had to go on the rollercoaster. Luckily sprogs were content with boring things like the merrygoround and a big wheel. We had one or two hairy moments on the big wheel when various of the children tried to look over the side. The worst culprit was no4s wild and excitable male twin (he was born on the same day as her). His poor mother spent most of the ride clutching onto him for dear life. Sometimes I am so glad I only have girls...
By the time we had done that and lost all the children a dozen times in the fort, the boys had caught up with us. Spouse looked vaguely green, so I guess that is one experience he won't be repeating in a hurry. Then it was time to go on a version of the spinning teacups. Remembering their previous experience of this on Brighton Pier, when no2 wanted to go faster and then screamed so loudly when she did that she banged her head and had to come off the ride, she and no1 wisely opted to stay put. Spouse sedately went on the ride with the little ones, while PBM and his family flew wildly round, making me very very glad I'd stayed where I was.
The day ended with us watching the show - I was actually quite in awe of these amazing stunt people who kept leaping merrily off a tower into what looked like two inches of water, but I presume was somewhat deeper, visiting a jungle exhibition (no4 and I had to make a hurried exit as she started screaming again), and going to look at the Lego workshop, where it transpires there really are people who make lego models for a living. Can't see that giving you many work opportunities...
Sprogs all had a great time, and ended up knackered. Spouse and I had an okish time and ended up knackered and potless. But at least we've ticked that off the list of Things To Do With The Children...
We got home to two phone calls to tell me that this very blog had been mentioned on Radio 2, which I have to say was probably the best part of the whole day...
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
More on Marathon Mum
...If anyone out there is interested in being on my mailing list, so I can let you know when the book is available you can contact me on: jules@marathonmum.com
Will be blogging about something other then the marathon shortly, when I have a moment...
However I can't let this week pass without wishing everyone taking part in Sunday's London Marathon a massive GOOD LUCK. Wish I was going to be there again. Never mind there's always next year...
Will be blogging about something other then the marathon shortly, when I have a moment...
However I can't let this week pass without wishing everyone taking part in Sunday's London Marathon a massive GOOD LUCK. Wish I was going to be there again. Never mind there's always next year...
Friday, April 14, 2006
Marathon Mum Goes Live!
Phew! That was a steep learning curve. My website is now up and running at: www.marathonmum.com, if anyone is interested.
I'm running a competition all next week to name that top running tune.
The winner gets a free copy of Running on Empty - when I have them, that is...
I'm running a competition all next week to name that top running tune.
The winner gets a free copy of Running on Empty - when I have them, that is...
Thursday, April 13, 2006
The Trials of a Marathon Mum
This week I was listening to John Inverdale on Radio 2 waxing lyrical about the marathon, and asking people to email in song titles they run to. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss not to send in an email about the book wot I have written called: Running on Empty: Diary of a Marathon Mum.
I was out at Legoland yesterday (of which more later) and got home to two very excited phone messages from my twin sister and a friend to say that John Inverdale had not only read out my email but mentioned this blog. Oo-er! Am gobsmacked. There is a slight problem however, as having heard the listen again version this morning, I realised that he was sending people to this site to find a book which currently doesn't exist. Well it does, but you can't buy it - yet. There's copy sitting in my computer as I write, but it isn't published, and I still don't have a cover. So if anyone perchance did come looking yesterday (and I am hazarding a guess some of you did, as I seem to have 22 extra hits on my blog) and expected to find a book, it is coming and I will be posting details of it when it does. But in the meantime, let me tell you why I have missed the best pr moment of the year to promote it.
First off, I didn't write a diary as such when I was training, and didn't have a blog then, as I do now. However, I do have a very wonderful writing egroup where I let off steam from time to time, so I used to merrily post the mad doings of my training runs. And, dear reader, they were pretty mad.
In the course of my training I: nearly ran in front of a race horse, got lost with my friends' dog on a Spanish mountainside and then nearly got said dog run over; got stuck in a bomb alert outside Waterloo station after a hot and sticky run when I was due for a hospital appointment;nearly lost the will to live on a laughingly called "Fun Run" up the Long Mynd in Shropshire; and tripped over my feet outside my local hospital. This was all took place against a background of Spouse hiving off to India for a white water rafting trip, DIY Disasters, children pooing in their pants etc etc.Quite how I a)managed to keep sane and b)did any training is beyond me.
About halfway through my training it occurred to me that it was so mad to even be doing it I should write a book about it and try and raise a few more funds for the wonderful charity I ran for (Tadworth Court Children's Trust). So I started to take my merry little emails a bit more seriously. However, time as ever being agin me, I didn't always keep copies on my computer. After the marathon I got stuck into various other bits and pieces of work, but then wrote a sample three chapters and synopsis which with my agent's blessing I sent off to various places. Getting a less then enthusiastic response, I put it to one side (fatal mistake) and decided I would have a go at self publishing later.
My plan had been to get going in the autumn. But anyone kind enough to have stuck with the programme here, and read my blog from its earliest inception in November, will know that around that time my old computer blew up and I lost everything. Yes, yes, I know I should have backed up, but the old computer was so ancient I found it damned nigh impossible to do so. I then got sidetracked with editing Taryn's book, A November to Remember, which I have mentioned before.
So it wasn't until January this year that I had time to get back to my own little effort. I then had to go onto my email group and trawl through six months of emails to find the relevant bits of nonsense I had posted, so I actually had something to say in my book. Otherwise it might have been a tad light - not just running on empty, but short of content too...
This done, I then sent it back to my agent as she had interest from another publisher. At that point I still, like Mr Incredible, had time (just). Helas, as is the way of the rather brutal world of publishing, I had a rejection just over a week ago. Aaaghh!!!
So it's back to plan a) then, rather more belatedly then I had hoped.
I'm currently busy checking proofs, have someone designing a cover, and will be sorting out a website shortly.
So, if there is anyone out there remotely interested. Running on Empty, will be coming to a bookshop near you soon , and more details about it, and my website will be posted here when I have them.
You read it here first...
PS A friend has just kindly pointed out that my links don't work. Sorry must have done something wrong and will try and fix it when I've got time. Just now I have a book to produce...
With many many thanks to John Inverdale for giving me the best bit of publicity I could have hoped to get!
I was out at Legoland yesterday (of which more later) and got home to two very excited phone messages from my twin sister and a friend to say that John Inverdale had not only read out my email but mentioned this blog. Oo-er! Am gobsmacked. There is a slight problem however, as having heard the listen again version this morning, I realised that he was sending people to this site to find a book which currently doesn't exist. Well it does, but you can't buy it - yet. There's copy sitting in my computer as I write, but it isn't published, and I still don't have a cover. So if anyone perchance did come looking yesterday (and I am hazarding a guess some of you did, as I seem to have 22 extra hits on my blog) and expected to find a book, it is coming and I will be posting details of it when it does. But in the meantime, let me tell you why I have missed the best pr moment of the year to promote it.
First off, I didn't write a diary as such when I was training, and didn't have a blog then, as I do now. However, I do have a very wonderful writing egroup where I let off steam from time to time, so I used to merrily post the mad doings of my training runs. And, dear reader, they were pretty mad.
In the course of my training I: nearly ran in front of a race horse, got lost with my friends' dog on a Spanish mountainside and then nearly got said dog run over; got stuck in a bomb alert outside Waterloo station after a hot and sticky run when I was due for a hospital appointment;nearly lost the will to live on a laughingly called "Fun Run" up the Long Mynd in Shropshire; and tripped over my feet outside my local hospital. This was all took place against a background of Spouse hiving off to India for a white water rafting trip, DIY Disasters, children pooing in their pants etc etc.Quite how I a)managed to keep sane and b)did any training is beyond me.
About halfway through my training it occurred to me that it was so mad to even be doing it I should write a book about it and try and raise a few more funds for the wonderful charity I ran for (Tadworth Court Children's Trust). So I started to take my merry little emails a bit more seriously. However, time as ever being agin me, I didn't always keep copies on my computer. After the marathon I got stuck into various other bits and pieces of work, but then wrote a sample three chapters and synopsis which with my agent's blessing I sent off to various places. Getting a less then enthusiastic response, I put it to one side (fatal mistake) and decided I would have a go at self publishing later.
My plan had been to get going in the autumn. But anyone kind enough to have stuck with the programme here, and read my blog from its earliest inception in November, will know that around that time my old computer blew up and I lost everything. Yes, yes, I know I should have backed up, but the old computer was so ancient I found it damned nigh impossible to do so. I then got sidetracked with editing Taryn's book, A November to Remember, which I have mentioned before.
So it wasn't until January this year that I had time to get back to my own little effort. I then had to go onto my email group and trawl through six months of emails to find the relevant bits of nonsense I had posted, so I actually had something to say in my book. Otherwise it might have been a tad light - not just running on empty, but short of content too...
This done, I then sent it back to my agent as she had interest from another publisher. At that point I still, like Mr Incredible, had time (just). Helas, as is the way of the rather brutal world of publishing, I had a rejection just over a week ago. Aaaghh!!!
So it's back to plan a) then, rather more belatedly then I had hoped.
I'm currently busy checking proofs, have someone designing a cover, and will be sorting out a website shortly.
So, if there is anyone out there remotely interested. Running on Empty, will be coming to a bookshop near you soon , and more details about it, and my website will be posted here when I have them.
You read it here first...
PS A friend has just kindly pointed out that my links don't work. Sorry must have done something wrong and will try and fix it when I've got time. Just now I have a book to produce...
With many many thanks to John Inverdale for giving me the best bit of publicity I could have hoped to get!
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
It's a Sheep's Life...
Today we went to the farm, with the children's best friends and their dad. It being spring, not unnaturally there were rather a lot of lambs about. Indeed, we arrived just as one was being born. A propos of my recent posting about having babies, I think it must be tough being a sheep in a children's farm. Not only do you have to go the whole birth rigmarole, but you get to do it with an audience of five year olds. That must be really fun...
The first baby was born before we twigged what was happening, but we did get to see the magic of no 2 arriving. Having only ever delivered babies myself it was quite a revelation to see something being born. And as my friend said it was worth coming just for that alone. There was one dodgy moment when it looked as though the second baby might not be breathing, but soon both were snuggled up to their mum in an Aah, isn't nature sweet kind of way. Children all totally transfixed by this apart from no 3 who found the notion of someone putting their arm inside a sheep's butt (I do so love the americanisation of my children) rather appalling. They were also quite revolted by the bloody bag of the placenta dangling from the mum's behind (and I thought human birth was undignified), so I had a fair bit of explaining to do as no 1 is the only one who has a reasonable idea about the birds and the bees. Following on from witnessing a live birth, I'd say now all of my children seem to have got the picture.
Once that excitement was over, and the thrill of feeding goats had passed, the children then had to go into the obligatory playbarn that all these places insist on having. They spent a happy half hour rushing around screaming. We spent a happy half hour chatting in between bouts of reminding them not to leave no 4 behind as she is rather little and liable to get sat on.
The playbarn exhausted, I did a loo trip with nos 3 & 4 and arranged to meet the others outside where the trampolines were. Remind me again - was I at a farm or a playground? En route back no 4 insisted on feeding the goats, and she and no 3 had a stand up row about who held the food. This nearly resulted in no3 marching off, which would have been disastrous as the place was heaving and we had already nearly lost the big ones twice. I managed to calm her down in the end, and we went out to look for the others. We found no2 and her BF in the playground but of no1 and her BF there was no sign. They eventually turned up on a bouncy thing, nowhere near the play area they were supposed to be in. "We thought it was part of the same thing," was their excuse which didn't cut the mustard at all...
We sat in the sunshine while the sprogs took turns getting lost/playing on the bouncy thing/falling over and hurting themselves and generally having a great time. The afternoon you could say was a great success. We would probably be sitting there now if we hadn't bribed them with ice creams.
Just as we were on our way out, we discovered two more lambs had arrived. Unfortunately a third had died, which was a tad traumatic for the audience, who had all pushed off before the happy conclusion to the tale. As my friend pointed out, in America the farm would probably get sued for that...
So we left with six tired, but happy children, all of whom had experienced a little slice of the magic of nature.
Well, sort of...
The day has obviously had a big impact on no 4. Ever since we got home she has been delivering lambs, and most of them appear to be dead...
The first baby was born before we twigged what was happening, but we did get to see the magic of no 2 arriving. Having only ever delivered babies myself it was quite a revelation to see something being born. And as my friend said it was worth coming just for that alone. There was one dodgy moment when it looked as though the second baby might not be breathing, but soon both were snuggled up to their mum in an Aah, isn't nature sweet kind of way. Children all totally transfixed by this apart from no 3 who found the notion of someone putting their arm inside a sheep's butt (I do so love the americanisation of my children) rather appalling. They were also quite revolted by the bloody bag of the placenta dangling from the mum's behind (and I thought human birth was undignified), so I had a fair bit of explaining to do as no 1 is the only one who has a reasonable idea about the birds and the bees. Following on from witnessing a live birth, I'd say now all of my children seem to have got the picture.
Once that excitement was over, and the thrill of feeding goats had passed, the children then had to go into the obligatory playbarn that all these places insist on having. They spent a happy half hour rushing around screaming. We spent a happy half hour chatting in between bouts of reminding them not to leave no 4 behind as she is rather little and liable to get sat on.
The playbarn exhausted, I did a loo trip with nos 3 & 4 and arranged to meet the others outside where the trampolines were. Remind me again - was I at a farm or a playground? En route back no 4 insisted on feeding the goats, and she and no 3 had a stand up row about who held the food. This nearly resulted in no3 marching off, which would have been disastrous as the place was heaving and we had already nearly lost the big ones twice. I managed to calm her down in the end, and we went out to look for the others. We found no2 and her BF in the playground but of no1 and her BF there was no sign. They eventually turned up on a bouncy thing, nowhere near the play area they were supposed to be in. "We thought it was part of the same thing," was their excuse which didn't cut the mustard at all...
We sat in the sunshine while the sprogs took turns getting lost/playing on the bouncy thing/falling over and hurting themselves and generally having a great time. The afternoon you could say was a great success. We would probably be sitting there now if we hadn't bribed them with ice creams.
Just as we were on our way out, we discovered two more lambs had arrived. Unfortunately a third had died, which was a tad traumatic for the audience, who had all pushed off before the happy conclusion to the tale. As my friend pointed out, in America the farm would probably get sued for that...
So we left with six tired, but happy children, all of whom had experienced a little slice of the magic of nature.
Well, sort of...
The day has obviously had a big impact on no 4. Ever since we got home she has been delivering lambs, and most of them appear to be dead...
Vive l'Entente Cordiale!
Twenty years ago I spent a very happy summer as an au pair in Paris. My young charge was four years old and easy as pie, and my employees were a charming couple who made me feel very much at home. I left promising to stay in touch and intending to go back and see them one day...
Somehow that day never came. I left university, got a job, got married and life rolled on without a return trip to my favourite city. I did manage (just) the keeping in touch part, and heard all about how the little girl I looked after was growing up and what the sister who joined her after my departure was like. But, helas opportunities to meet came there none.
Until now.
I heard from my French friends at Christmas. They were planning a trip to London. Great, I emailed back, we must meet up.
So meet up we did. Spouse, the offspring and I drove up to London and took a trip around Tate Modern with them, and spent a wonderful afternoon in their company doing a blipvert catch up of the last twenty years. It was something of a shock to realise that the little girl I remember so fondly is now 25 and getting married next year (how old does that make me feel?), but other then that they were exactly the same as before.
The children were entranced both by Tate Modern and by my friends. They were particularly taken with an exhibit which looked like sugar cubes, and provided a fine maze for them to get lost in. Spouse and I spent the first part of our visit losing and finding children - as my mother says, keeping control of several children is like getting jelly to set.
Our meeting passed all too quickly, but by about 6.30 the natives were getting restless, and quit while you're behind always being my motto when out with the offspring, it was time to leave.
But this time I've promised we won't wait twenty years to see one another again....
Pour mes chers amis, Jean-Luc et Dominique, au memoire de notre petit piece de chance! xxxx
Somehow that day never came. I left university, got a job, got married and life rolled on without a return trip to my favourite city. I did manage (just) the keeping in touch part, and heard all about how the little girl I looked after was growing up and what the sister who joined her after my departure was like. But, helas opportunities to meet came there none.
Until now.
I heard from my French friends at Christmas. They were planning a trip to London. Great, I emailed back, we must meet up.
So meet up we did. Spouse, the offspring and I drove up to London and took a trip around Tate Modern with them, and spent a wonderful afternoon in their company doing a blipvert catch up of the last twenty years. It was something of a shock to realise that the little girl I remember so fondly is now 25 and getting married next year (how old does that make me feel?), but other then that they were exactly the same as before.
The children were entranced both by Tate Modern and by my friends. They were particularly taken with an exhibit which looked like sugar cubes, and provided a fine maze for them to get lost in. Spouse and I spent the first part of our visit losing and finding children - as my mother says, keeping control of several children is like getting jelly to set.
Our meeting passed all too quickly, but by about 6.30 the natives were getting restless, and quit while you're behind always being my motto when out with the offspring, it was time to leave.
But this time I've promised we won't wait twenty years to see one another again....
Pour mes chers amis, Jean-Luc et Dominique, au memoire de notre petit piece de chance! xxxx
Maniac Mum becomes Marathon Mum
Last year I ran the London Marathon for the first (and I hope not the last) time. I wasn't a runner before I embarked on this mad challenge, but I have become one, albeit an incredibly slow one. I have written a book about the experience called: Running on Empty: Diary of a Marathon Mum, and am in the process of self publishing it. I am enclosing an extract, in the hope that it will amuse, and will publish more details when I know them...
MARCH 2005
Places to Piss in Surrey
Yesterday I finally managed to run 20 miles. I am just approaching theperiod of marathon training known as tapering down. You build up to twenty miles, and then for the next three weeks slash your mileage so your muscles can strengthen and get bolstered with enough glycogen and carbohydrate supplies.
I have been slowly increasing miles since Christmas, and managed seventeen miles a fortnight ago. This takes me to the middle of Canary Wharf on the map, but I was keen to do the twenty miles as that takes me just out of Canary Wharf and starting on Commercial Road, which is three miles from Tower Bridge, which is three miles from the end... so psychologically a good place to reach.
Anyway last week I was meant to run nineteen miles, but got hit by a rotten cold so didn't run. In the meantime I lost my trusty laceup boots, which I walk everywhere in. This might seem insignificant and if I wasn’t marathon training, would be. But the mantra of late marathon training is that you don't change anything you aredoing. ANYTHING at all. And now I know why.
As I couldn't find my boots I have been slobbing around in a pair of old trainers. Which are too small for me, and rubbed my big toe, which in turn caused some kind of compression to a muscle (lord alone knows which) in my foot. Net result by Thursday my foot was feeling a bit achy. I bunged one of those hospital strappy things on it, and went out running regardless. Which would have probably been fine had I not gone running with pyrotechnic builder mate and Spouse.
PBM is a serious runner, and much younger then we are. Spouse is not a runner and deeply unathletic, but suffers from Male Pride, so had to run as fast as we were. In fact at one point he was ahead, but then I took them up to the downs and he slipped behind. Meanwhile PBM who had been running slowly, upped the ante and we ended up hammering it home. So net result was foot very unhappy, and I could barely walk on it for three days.Yikes! I thought to myself maybe I've got a greenstick fracture, but thankfully it responded to hot and cold treatments.
Then I had to buy myself some new trainers - again should have gone with same as before, DON'T CHANGE ANYTHING, except my local sports shop didn't have the same ones, I didn't have time to shop around, so I got some of same make butslightly different. Am fully expecting blisters as have read in marathon magthat fifty runners got blisters last year from having worn new trainers on theirlast long run. Whoops. That will be me then...
Anyway. The day finally arrives, when I think this is it, go for it girl. First off it is pissing with rain, but I have a fetching rain jacket provided by the London Marathon team at a mere cost of £25 and that actually does the business, so you can run in the pouring rain and remain relatively dry. I decided to break the run down into two five mile sections, followed by a three miler (so I have done the half marathon), then one five mile and a two mile.
The thinking behind marathon training is that you start slow and finish fast. You are meant to conserve all your energies and put on the pace in the secondhalf. I seem to do all my runs too fast at the beginning and lose pace towardsthe end. So, yesterday I thought I would play it nice and slow.
So accordingly, I set off at a brisk walking pace , diverting into town briefly to use the loos in the shopping. This is important. VERY important. Being as you need to be really hydrated if you are stupid enough to go running long distances, but you also need to make sure you have a fairlyempty bladder if dire consequences aren't to follow on said run.
I could probably now write a book on places I have pissed in Surrey - a deserted pathway leading under a roundabout by the M25, a wood on the way to Oakshott which I thought was fairly secluded till I realised I was bang opposite a cottage that I somehow had failed to notice, and various discreet bushes on my many and varied routes in the environs of home. Added to which I had the further complication of women's things this month (sorry boys... look away if this gets too gruesome) - and am likely to have this happening for the marathon itself.
In anticipation of this I have managed to purchase some industrial size tampons,and on my way round develop a master plan in case of emergencies involving an empty raisin box for disposing purposes (amazing what years of dealing with small children does to your innovative skills!). Fortunately it didn't come to that,so hoping the industrial style tampons will do the trick come race day. Thinking it most unfair that men don't have these problems, but then again I haven't suffered from nipple rub ... yet ... so it could be worse.
Anyway - I set off very slowly and go to Leatherhead in 1hour 10 mins. So far so good. I stopped for a drink and some raisins (well I might have needed the empty packet...) and then went for the next five mile section, which took me via Oakshott, Stoke D'abernon and Fetcham via several incredibly windy longroads and more hills then I care to mention. The one coming into Fetcham was particularly killing. But my next five miles was achieved in an hour. Yay! I'm upping the pace. Maybe I am getting the hang of this. Then it was on to Bookham revelling in the fact that it was only three miles - up another long hill with huge houses bearing tacky names like Robin's Wood, and Mon Repos and large lawns - everywhere in this part of Surrey looks the sodding same, I could have been on the road to Oakshott for all I knew.
Bookham came in a blissfully quick thirty minutes though, and I was pleased to discover that the High Street was very short as predicted on the map - unlike most of the roads I run down which seem twice as long as I think they're going to be. Feeling rather knackered by this time, I walked out of Bookham, as I really couldn't face yet another hill.
Then I found myself on a major road with no sign of the roundabout I was searching for, and no pavement, so I ran on grass, with my back to the traffic (very dumb I know, but I couldn't find anywhere to cross). I eventually arrived at thepoint I was hoping to reach, but it was one roundabout down from where Ithought I would be, so I had two more hills to negotiate until I reached thenirvana that is the roundabout at Leatherhead which means I am on the home straight.
By this time every part of my body is not just aching, it feels as if I am about to fall apart. You couldn't even call the movements I am making jogging anymore. I'm doing a kind of slowshoe shufffle, except it's not at all slick. I probably look as though I about to keel over at any moment - I certainly feel like it. So I am heartened to meet two chaps coming in the opposite direction who look somewhat worse then I do. Hmm, wonder if they've run seventeen miles...
Anyway I made it through Ashtead in an hour and ten minutes, but by then I am in agony. So I walk most of the way back from there, and finally make it home in 4hours 35 mins. Current prediction for the marathon on that time is about 6 hours. Oh dear. However, I did run up about ten hills, and am hoping that as the marathon is flat I might be able to limp in in around five hours. BUT importantly, I now feel it is not only achievable,but I will do it. No probs... And I am rather proud to think last year I couldn't even run a mile. And now I've done twenty....
MARCH 2005
Places to Piss in Surrey
Yesterday I finally managed to run 20 miles. I am just approaching theperiod of marathon training known as tapering down. You build up to twenty miles, and then for the next three weeks slash your mileage so your muscles can strengthen and get bolstered with enough glycogen and carbohydrate supplies.
I have been slowly increasing miles since Christmas, and managed seventeen miles a fortnight ago. This takes me to the middle of Canary Wharf on the map, but I was keen to do the twenty miles as that takes me just out of Canary Wharf and starting on Commercial Road, which is three miles from Tower Bridge, which is three miles from the end... so psychologically a good place to reach.
Anyway last week I was meant to run nineteen miles, but got hit by a rotten cold so didn't run. In the meantime I lost my trusty laceup boots, which I walk everywhere in. This might seem insignificant and if I wasn’t marathon training, would be. But the mantra of late marathon training is that you don't change anything you aredoing. ANYTHING at all. And now I know why.
As I couldn't find my boots I have been slobbing around in a pair of old trainers. Which are too small for me, and rubbed my big toe, which in turn caused some kind of compression to a muscle (lord alone knows which) in my foot. Net result by Thursday my foot was feeling a bit achy. I bunged one of those hospital strappy things on it, and went out running regardless. Which would have probably been fine had I not gone running with pyrotechnic builder mate and Spouse.
PBM is a serious runner, and much younger then we are. Spouse is not a runner and deeply unathletic, but suffers from Male Pride, so had to run as fast as we were. In fact at one point he was ahead, but then I took them up to the downs and he slipped behind. Meanwhile PBM who had been running slowly, upped the ante and we ended up hammering it home. So net result was foot very unhappy, and I could barely walk on it for three days.Yikes! I thought to myself maybe I've got a greenstick fracture, but thankfully it responded to hot and cold treatments.
Then I had to buy myself some new trainers - again should have gone with same as before, DON'T CHANGE ANYTHING, except my local sports shop didn't have the same ones, I didn't have time to shop around, so I got some of same make butslightly different. Am fully expecting blisters as have read in marathon magthat fifty runners got blisters last year from having worn new trainers on theirlast long run. Whoops. That will be me then...
Anyway. The day finally arrives, when I think this is it, go for it girl. First off it is pissing with rain, but I have a fetching rain jacket provided by the London Marathon team at a mere cost of £25 and that actually does the business, so you can run in the pouring rain and remain relatively dry. I decided to break the run down into two five mile sections, followed by a three miler (so I have done the half marathon), then one five mile and a two mile.
The thinking behind marathon training is that you start slow and finish fast. You are meant to conserve all your energies and put on the pace in the secondhalf. I seem to do all my runs too fast at the beginning and lose pace towardsthe end. So, yesterday I thought I would play it nice and slow.
So accordingly, I set off at a brisk walking pace , diverting into town briefly to use the loos in the shopping. This is important. VERY important. Being as you need to be really hydrated if you are stupid enough to go running long distances, but you also need to make sure you have a fairlyempty bladder if dire consequences aren't to follow on said run.
I could probably now write a book on places I have pissed in Surrey - a deserted pathway leading under a roundabout by the M25, a wood on the way to Oakshott which I thought was fairly secluded till I realised I was bang opposite a cottage that I somehow had failed to notice, and various discreet bushes on my many and varied routes in the environs of home. Added to which I had the further complication of women's things this month (sorry boys... look away if this gets too gruesome) - and am likely to have this happening for the marathon itself.
In anticipation of this I have managed to purchase some industrial size tampons,and on my way round develop a master plan in case of emergencies involving an empty raisin box for disposing purposes (amazing what years of dealing with small children does to your innovative skills!). Fortunately it didn't come to that,so hoping the industrial style tampons will do the trick come race day. Thinking it most unfair that men don't have these problems, but then again I haven't suffered from nipple rub ... yet ... so it could be worse.
Anyway - I set off very slowly and go to Leatherhead in 1hour 10 mins. So far so good. I stopped for a drink and some raisins (well I might have needed the empty packet...) and then went for the next five mile section, which took me via Oakshott, Stoke D'abernon and Fetcham via several incredibly windy longroads and more hills then I care to mention. The one coming into Fetcham was particularly killing. But my next five miles was achieved in an hour. Yay! I'm upping the pace. Maybe I am getting the hang of this. Then it was on to Bookham revelling in the fact that it was only three miles - up another long hill with huge houses bearing tacky names like Robin's Wood, and Mon Repos and large lawns - everywhere in this part of Surrey looks the sodding same, I could have been on the road to Oakshott for all I knew.
Bookham came in a blissfully quick thirty minutes though, and I was pleased to discover that the High Street was very short as predicted on the map - unlike most of the roads I run down which seem twice as long as I think they're going to be. Feeling rather knackered by this time, I walked out of Bookham, as I really couldn't face yet another hill.
Then I found myself on a major road with no sign of the roundabout I was searching for, and no pavement, so I ran on grass, with my back to the traffic (very dumb I know, but I couldn't find anywhere to cross). I eventually arrived at thepoint I was hoping to reach, but it was one roundabout down from where Ithought I would be, so I had two more hills to negotiate until I reached thenirvana that is the roundabout at Leatherhead which means I am on the home straight.
By this time every part of my body is not just aching, it feels as if I am about to fall apart. You couldn't even call the movements I am making jogging anymore. I'm doing a kind of slowshoe shufffle, except it's not at all slick. I probably look as though I about to keel over at any moment - I certainly feel like it. So I am heartened to meet two chaps coming in the opposite direction who look somewhat worse then I do. Hmm, wonder if they've run seventeen miles...
Anyway I made it through Ashtead in an hour and ten minutes, but by then I am in agony. So I walk most of the way back from there, and finally make it home in 4hours 35 mins. Current prediction for the marathon on that time is about 6 hours. Oh dear. However, I did run up about ten hills, and am hoping that as the marathon is flat I might be able to limp in in around five hours. BUT importantly, I now feel it is not only achievable,but I will do it. No probs... And I am rather proud to think last year I couldn't even run a mile. And now I've done twenty....
Friday, March 31, 2006
The Trouble with Pets
The children have decided they want a dog. Spouse also wants one. To be fair, Spouse has always wanted one, but deferred in the past to my paralysing terror of dogs. We did have a deal that I'd get a baby, and he'd get a dog, but four years after the last baby, we haven't got to the dog part yet. Our latest idea is to wait till the kids are big enough to take it out on their own. I have just got my offspring out of nappies, I'm not thrilled at the prospect of potty training a dog. Or looking after it for that matter. I mean, who else is going to?
To be honest, my children are so wussy around animals, I'm surprised they've even shown an interest in our canine friends. They spent a week in Spain a couple of years ago being terrified of our best friends' maniacal dog. Why they want one of their own beats me. And it isn't even as if they've taken much notice of the pet we do have: Georgie, a little hamster.
Georgie came to us a year ago by way of our ex-nanny. She has several pets, and one of them, a parakeet kept attacking Georgie, so she asked us if we'd have him. Thinking it would be Good For The Kids To Have A Pet, I agreed.
Which only goes to show how stupid you can be. I only have myself to blame. I am about the only person who pays any attention to Georgie. (Apart from no 4 who occasionally pokes her finger in his cage, and wonders why she gets bitten. It's a wonder we haven't lost him.) I'm certainly the only one who cleans him out. This is partly because of course, being a hamster, he generally comes out at night when the sprogs are asleep. So, though on the one hand he is a low maintenance pet, so quite good for kids, he is also a non-appearance pet so they get easily bored.
I have to say having never really had a pet as a kid (my mother used to say she had enough animals in the house, she didn't need anymore - I can now see exactly where she is coming from), I've actually got quite attached to Georgie. Spouse and I often talk to him in the evening when he comes snuffling his way out when we're watching the ten o'clock news. It is of course quite ridiculous to be so sentimentally attached to a hamster. Especially as he was ten months when we got him, we've had him a year and hamsters average two...
So every time I look into his cage it is with some trepidation - especially as there are days when I am so busy I never even notice him. I know one day I will look in there and he will be lying flat out with his little feet sticking in the air.
What I feel sure of is that Georgie is probably not so happy with his lot. I am always forgetting to clean him out - viz, this week I am guiltily trying to remember when I last did it. As the children show no interest in doing so either, he has to put up with it. He is probably mighty pissed off that he left his previous comfy home, and came to this hell where this useless woman forgets to feed you, neglects to clean you and four year olds poke their fingers into your cage, while no one else plays a blind bit of notice of you.
But to be quite honest, I am quite happy for it to stay this way. As annoying as it is to have to clean him out, the longer the children ignore our pet and neglect his day to day care, the longer I can hold out on the dog thing. When they learn to look after their hamster, then they might get a dog...
Can we have a dog? They cry. Over my dead body is the phrase that springs to mind, but I think it's more likely to be over Georgie's....
To be honest, my children are so wussy around animals, I'm surprised they've even shown an interest in our canine friends. They spent a week in Spain a couple of years ago being terrified of our best friends' maniacal dog. Why they want one of their own beats me. And it isn't even as if they've taken much notice of the pet we do have: Georgie, a little hamster.
Georgie came to us a year ago by way of our ex-nanny. She has several pets, and one of them, a parakeet kept attacking Georgie, so she asked us if we'd have him. Thinking it would be Good For The Kids To Have A Pet, I agreed.
Which only goes to show how stupid you can be. I only have myself to blame. I am about the only person who pays any attention to Georgie. (Apart from no 4 who occasionally pokes her finger in his cage, and wonders why she gets bitten. It's a wonder we haven't lost him.) I'm certainly the only one who cleans him out. This is partly because of course, being a hamster, he generally comes out at night when the sprogs are asleep. So, though on the one hand he is a low maintenance pet, so quite good for kids, he is also a non-appearance pet so they get easily bored.
I have to say having never really had a pet as a kid (my mother used to say she had enough animals in the house, she didn't need anymore - I can now see exactly where she is coming from), I've actually got quite attached to Georgie. Spouse and I often talk to him in the evening when he comes snuffling his way out when we're watching the ten o'clock news. It is of course quite ridiculous to be so sentimentally attached to a hamster. Especially as he was ten months when we got him, we've had him a year and hamsters average two...
So every time I look into his cage it is with some trepidation - especially as there are days when I am so busy I never even notice him. I know one day I will look in there and he will be lying flat out with his little feet sticking in the air.
What I feel sure of is that Georgie is probably not so happy with his lot. I am always forgetting to clean him out - viz, this week I am guiltily trying to remember when I last did it. As the children show no interest in doing so either, he has to put up with it. He is probably mighty pissed off that he left his previous comfy home, and came to this hell where this useless woman forgets to feed you, neglects to clean you and four year olds poke their fingers into your cage, while no one else plays a blind bit of notice of you.
But to be quite honest, I am quite happy for it to stay this way. As annoying as it is to have to clean him out, the longer the children ignore our pet and neglect his day to day care, the longer I can hold out on the dog thing. When they learn to look after their hamster, then they might get a dog...
Can we have a dog? They cry. Over my dead body is the phrase that springs to mind, but I think it's more likely to be over Georgie's....
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Norman Kember
Although this is not a political blog, I cannot let the fantastic news that Norman Kember has been released go unmentioned. My brother in law Chris Cole, Director of Friendship of Reconciliation has been campaigning hard for the last four months along with many others to secure Norman's safe release. We are all delighted that the outcome has been happy. But please spare a thought for the family of Tom Fox who are facing a much harsher reality.
For more about the work that FoR do please visit: http://www.for.org.uk
For more about the work that FoR do please visit: http://www.for.org.uk
Monday, March 20, 2006
How Does Your Garden Grow?
Given that it is only March and Thames Water are proposing a hosepipe ban in April (a bit rich when most of the water in their pipes seems to be pissing down our road for months on end with nobody doing anything about it), Spouse and are looking at the possibility of the garden not growing at all this year.
This is a pity as amateur enthusiasts that we are, we are vaguely getting the hang of growing our own veg, and now that I have worked out that you should be really really ruthless about thinning carrots and parsnips, was rather looking forward to having some decent size carrots this year, rather then the weedy variety I produced last year.
It having been so cold the last few weeks has also proved a bugger in the garden. Our daffs are usually out by now, but they keep poking their heads up, and then going Nah, think I'll leave it... and I can't help feeling we're going to get through spring with most of them staying resolutely shut.
As it's been too cold to produce anything in the greenhouse, I assiduously planted: brocoli, onions, peppers, aubergines, tomatoes and cucumbers a couple of weeks ago, when I had to give up as I ran out of compost. They have been happily growing in the conservatory since.
This weekend being slightly sunny, Spouse having bought some more, I spent several happy hours with the sprogs sowing further seeds. But given that they were all crowding round at one point, and dropping seeds anywhere and everywhere, the likelihood of my second sowings actually reaching any kind of fruition are probably limited...
I now have every available windowsill in the conservatory covered in seed trays, which along with a bucket of frogspawn (an experiment by Spouse - he wants to see if they hatch quicker indoors then in the pond), means that the conservatory, which is half finished and therefore the children's play area of choice is in danger of becoming a mudbath, or home to hundreds of frogs... Neither of which prospect fills me with joy...
However the upside is, if we get any frogs, they'll eat the slugs without us resorting to Evil Slug Pellets which destroy everything in their path. To be fair to Spouse, we have tried upside down citrus fruit - we got ants - and pints of beer, to no avail, and he does get the environmentally friendly kind. But I'm all for having an eco garden, so if the frogs can do it, bring on the frogs, say I.
All of this is of course academic if we have no water as we won't have any plants for the slugs to eat.
Which is why in addition to the four water butts we also have, Spouse spent much of yesterday constructing a watering system in the greenhouse which is fed by a bucket to catch rainwater outside, and he then spent several hours pouring over the instructions in Saturday's Telegraph to build your own resevoir. Maybe we should just use the coldframes instead of growing stuff in them...
But drought or no drought. It does your heart good to get in the open and get your hands dirty. The fruits of our labours this weekend meant we now have half the vegetable patch dug over, so we can get sowing next weekend, I've cleared the strawberry beds which were in a shocking state, and I've also managed to get some pansies and primula in my pots, so that after months of drab greyness, I have some colour back in my garden.
Now I just have to sit back and pray for rain...
If you are interested in a more eco friendly way of life, I can recommend Imperfectly Natural Woman -Getting Life Right the Natural Way by Janey Lee Grace of Radio 2 fame. To find out more about it you can visit:http://www.imperfectlynaturalwoman.co.uk
This is a pity as amateur enthusiasts that we are, we are vaguely getting the hang of growing our own veg, and now that I have worked out that you should be really really ruthless about thinning carrots and parsnips, was rather looking forward to having some decent size carrots this year, rather then the weedy variety I produced last year.
It having been so cold the last few weeks has also proved a bugger in the garden. Our daffs are usually out by now, but they keep poking their heads up, and then going Nah, think I'll leave it... and I can't help feeling we're going to get through spring with most of them staying resolutely shut.
As it's been too cold to produce anything in the greenhouse, I assiduously planted: brocoli, onions, peppers, aubergines, tomatoes and cucumbers a couple of weeks ago, when I had to give up as I ran out of compost. They have been happily growing in the conservatory since.
This weekend being slightly sunny, Spouse having bought some more, I spent several happy hours with the sprogs sowing further seeds. But given that they were all crowding round at one point, and dropping seeds anywhere and everywhere, the likelihood of my second sowings actually reaching any kind of fruition are probably limited...
I now have every available windowsill in the conservatory covered in seed trays, which along with a bucket of frogspawn (an experiment by Spouse - he wants to see if they hatch quicker indoors then in the pond), means that the conservatory, which is half finished and therefore the children's play area of choice is in danger of becoming a mudbath, or home to hundreds of frogs... Neither of which prospect fills me with joy...
However the upside is, if we get any frogs, they'll eat the slugs without us resorting to Evil Slug Pellets which destroy everything in their path. To be fair to Spouse, we have tried upside down citrus fruit - we got ants - and pints of beer, to no avail, and he does get the environmentally friendly kind. But I'm all for having an eco garden, so if the frogs can do it, bring on the frogs, say I.
All of this is of course academic if we have no water as we won't have any plants for the slugs to eat.
Which is why in addition to the four water butts we also have, Spouse spent much of yesterday constructing a watering system in the greenhouse which is fed by a bucket to catch rainwater outside, and he then spent several hours pouring over the instructions in Saturday's Telegraph to build your own resevoir. Maybe we should just use the coldframes instead of growing stuff in them...
But drought or no drought. It does your heart good to get in the open and get your hands dirty. The fruits of our labours this weekend meant we now have half the vegetable patch dug over, so we can get sowing next weekend, I've cleared the strawberry beds which were in a shocking state, and I've also managed to get some pansies and primula in my pots, so that after months of drab greyness, I have some colour back in my garden.
Now I just have to sit back and pray for rain...
If you are interested in a more eco friendly way of life, I can recommend Imperfectly Natural Woman -Getting Life Right the Natural Way by Janey Lee Grace of Radio 2 fame. To find out more about it you can visit:http://www.imperfectlynaturalwoman.co.uk
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Running Away From Home
It goes without saying that someone who refers to herself as a maniac mum doesn't consider herself to be the best mother in the world. But this week I was given notice that I was a really really bad one.
At seven pm on Wednesday night, when her big sisters were out at Brownies and it was actually time for bed, no 3 announced that I had given her no choice: she was running away from home. My crime? Turning the tv off and telling her it was bedtime. The resulting tantrum ended in her running upstairs and going to her cupboard and packing a suitcase.
This isn't the first time one of my children has tried to run away (you see? I am a really bad mother). No2 has also had a go, for reasons which escape me now. She too, packed a suitcase and headed off down the stairs with it. On that occasion I tried to bluff it out, by saying ok, off you go. Unfortunately no2 double bluffed me and promptly opened the front door and headed out of it. At which point I had to drag her back inside, and lock the top bolt.
With this in mind, and considerate of the fact that it was after dark, I decided the best option this time was to try and keep no3 in her bedroom. I found her sobbing dramatically as she packed, wailing, "I don't really know if I should do this, but I have to."
"But where are you going to go?" I asked.
"I don't know," she hiccuped, "but I can't stay here."
No clearly not. Why would you stay with a demon mother who turns televisions off willy nilly. There must be some other nirvana where mums do what they are supposed to and let children stay up all night, watching tv and eating junk food. Shame no3 got lumbered with me...
She then hit something of a dilemma. She had packed so many of her clothes, she couldn't fit her toys in the suitcase. With a look of grim determination, she got out a back pack and promptly shoved her cuddlies in it. If she was going to be cast out by her evil mother into an unyieldingly cruel world, at least she would have something to snuggle up to.
"It'll be dark outside," I pointed out.
"I know," another hiccuping sob, and a set determined look. She then wanted to know if she could take a sleeping bag. And when it was pointed out to her she couldn't carry it all, some of her resolve started to crumble.
By now her sisters were back from Brownies, and no 2 was taking a sisterly, Been There Done That interest in proceedings.
"You'll need money," she says."You'll have to take five pounds from Mum's purse." Great a kleptomaniac in the house as well as a runaway. My bad mother points are mounting up here.
I pointed out that this was stealing.
"Is it?" no2, was interested to discover this, as clearly because it is me, she thinks I owe her.
Er, yes. Just because it's your mum, you still shouldn't take money out of her purse.
Spouse took this moment to come home, at which no 3 went into a blind panic. If I am a bad mother, apparently the thought of her dad discovering her trying to runaway from home is even more terrifying then having to leave your rotten mum in the first place.
She started flinging clothes back in a drawer, in between throwing herself into my arms sobbing. "I think this is a bad idea."
"I do, too," I say. "Here, let me help you."
Phew, crisis averted, Bad Mummy clearly not as scary as Nasty Daddy. For once my personal maternalometer rating seems higher then normal...
At seven pm on Wednesday night, when her big sisters were out at Brownies and it was actually time for bed, no 3 announced that I had given her no choice: she was running away from home. My crime? Turning the tv off and telling her it was bedtime. The resulting tantrum ended in her running upstairs and going to her cupboard and packing a suitcase.
This isn't the first time one of my children has tried to run away (you see? I am a really bad mother). No2 has also had a go, for reasons which escape me now. She too, packed a suitcase and headed off down the stairs with it. On that occasion I tried to bluff it out, by saying ok, off you go. Unfortunately no2 double bluffed me and promptly opened the front door and headed out of it. At which point I had to drag her back inside, and lock the top bolt.
With this in mind, and considerate of the fact that it was after dark, I decided the best option this time was to try and keep no3 in her bedroom. I found her sobbing dramatically as she packed, wailing, "I don't really know if I should do this, but I have to."
"But where are you going to go?" I asked.
"I don't know," she hiccuped, "but I can't stay here."
No clearly not. Why would you stay with a demon mother who turns televisions off willy nilly. There must be some other nirvana where mums do what they are supposed to and let children stay up all night, watching tv and eating junk food. Shame no3 got lumbered with me...
She then hit something of a dilemma. She had packed so many of her clothes, she couldn't fit her toys in the suitcase. With a look of grim determination, she got out a back pack and promptly shoved her cuddlies in it. If she was going to be cast out by her evil mother into an unyieldingly cruel world, at least she would have something to snuggle up to.
"It'll be dark outside," I pointed out.
"I know," another hiccuping sob, and a set determined look. She then wanted to know if she could take a sleeping bag. And when it was pointed out to her she couldn't carry it all, some of her resolve started to crumble.
By now her sisters were back from Brownies, and no 2 was taking a sisterly, Been There Done That interest in proceedings.
"You'll need money," she says."You'll have to take five pounds from Mum's purse." Great a kleptomaniac in the house as well as a runaway. My bad mother points are mounting up here.
I pointed out that this was stealing.
"Is it?" no2, was interested to discover this, as clearly because it is me, she thinks I owe her.
Er, yes. Just because it's your mum, you still shouldn't take money out of her purse.
Spouse took this moment to come home, at which no 3 went into a blind panic. If I am a bad mother, apparently the thought of her dad discovering her trying to runaway from home is even more terrifying then having to leave your rotten mum in the first place.
She started flinging clothes back in a drawer, in between throwing herself into my arms sobbing. "I think this is a bad idea."
"I do, too," I say. "Here, let me help you."
Phew, crisis averted, Bad Mummy clearly not as scary as Nasty Daddy. For once my personal maternalometer rating seems higher then normal...
Saturday, March 18, 2006
A November to Remember
by Taryn Mckeiver
"Every medical student should have a copy of this book" Lynn Faulds Wood
I lived my life over and over again on my raft. I felt safe, on my raft, completely safe. In my dreams I could steal myself away from cancer and all of my fears, I wasn't yet ready to face them...
Every so often a book comes along that makes you really sit up and take notice. A November to Remember, is such a book.
At the age of thirty, happily married with five young children, life couldn't have looked better for Taryn McKeiver.
Until the night she was rushed into hospital, in excruciating pain, and her world collapsed.
Taryn had bowel cancer - the most taboo of all cancers. And over the next two years she was to embark on the most painful and heartbreaking journey you can imagine.
With the support of her husband, Nick, Taryn was determined she wouldn't be beaten, as she clawed her way back to a life she thought lost to her forever.
Told with devastating honesty, and wry humour, A November to Remember is the hugely inspirational story of the courage and determination of an extraordinary woman battling to survive...
Published on 30 March 2006 by
Burrow Publishing,
PO Box 141,
Ashtead,
Surrey KT21 9AN
ISBN 0-9552495-0-3
Trade Paperback
Price£9.99 $17.99 e14.99
216 x 138mm
256pp
Orders via: Bertrams, Gardners, Amazon
Or visit:www.anovembertoremember.co.uk>
for further information contact: sales@anovembertoremember.co.uk
by Taryn Mckeiver
"Every medical student should have a copy of this book" Lynn Faulds Wood
I lived my life over and over again on my raft. I felt safe, on my raft, completely safe. In my dreams I could steal myself away from cancer and all of my fears, I wasn't yet ready to face them...
Every so often a book comes along that makes you really sit up and take notice. A November to Remember, is such a book.
At the age of thirty, happily married with five young children, life couldn't have looked better for Taryn McKeiver.
Until the night she was rushed into hospital, in excruciating pain, and her world collapsed.
Taryn had bowel cancer - the most taboo of all cancers. And over the next two years she was to embark on the most painful and heartbreaking journey you can imagine.
With the support of her husband, Nick, Taryn was determined she wouldn't be beaten, as she clawed her way back to a life she thought lost to her forever.
Told with devastating honesty, and wry humour, A November to Remember is the hugely inspirational story of the courage and determination of an extraordinary woman battling to survive...
Published on 30 March 2006 by
Burrow Publishing,
PO Box 141,
Ashtead,
Surrey KT21 9AN
ISBN 0-9552495-0-3
Trade Paperback
Price£9.99 $17.99 e14.99
216 x 138mm
256pp
Orders via: Bertrams, Gardners, Amazon
Or visit:
for further information contact: sales@anovembertoremember.co.uk
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
A November to Remember
Generally the tone of this blog is lighthearted and not meant to be taken seriously. But in my day job as well as fending for my offspring I also edit books.
I have recently edited a book which is probably the most important book I have ever worked on.
It is called A November to Remember by my friend Taryn Mckeiver and is about her battle with the most taboo of all cancers - bowel cancer. We are self publishing it and hope to have copies by the end of this month. The book has a foreword by Lynn Faulds Wood who says this book will change the way people think about bowel cancer. And Taryn is donating part of the profits to Lynns Bowel Cancer Campaign.
In the meantime Taryn has just published a website at:www.anovembertoremember.co.uk">you can visit which is an incredibly honest assessment of how she has dealt with the horrific hand Fate dealt her.
It is by no means all gloom and doom either, as Taryn has me crying one minute and laughing another.
She is an amazing person, and this is an amazing book. It is both her and my wish that the book can raise awareness of this dreadful disease, and hopefully save lives.
If you have visited my blog, please take time out to visit Taryn's website too, whether or not you know anyone who has bowel cancer/have suffered from it yourself. It is not an exaggeration to say the information you will find there may one day save your life.
I have recently edited a book which is probably the most important book I have ever worked on.
It is called A November to Remember by my friend Taryn Mckeiver and is about her battle with the most taboo of all cancers - bowel cancer. We are self publishing it and hope to have copies by the end of this month. The book has a foreword by Lynn Faulds Wood who says this book will change the way people think about bowel cancer. And Taryn is donating part of the profits to Lynns Bowel Cancer Campaign.
In the meantime Taryn has just published a website at:
It is by no means all gloom and doom either, as Taryn has me crying one minute and laughing another.
She is an amazing person, and this is an amazing book. It is both her and my wish that the book can raise awareness of this dreadful disease, and hopefully save lives.
If you have visited my blog, please take time out to visit Taryn's website too, whether or not you know anyone who has bowel cancer/have suffered from it yourself. It is not an exaggeration to say the information you will find there may one day save your life.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Wetting the Baby's Head
It has long struck me as completely unfair that when a baby is born, the person who has done all the work, is totally knackered and is now going to be up half the night gets left out of the party, while everyone else has a ball.
When no 1 was born nearly ten years ago, we were still very much in a babyless/be wild mindset, and so were most of our friends. Spouse did get to the pub the day she came, when frankly I was so out of it I couldn't have cared less, but hadn't really had a proper celebration. He more then made up for it the night before I came home which happened to be a Friday. It therefore seemed entirely incumbent upon him to invite a few mates to come back after pub closing and have a drink. My mother was coming in the morning, and Spouse had promised her he would be up and the house tidy. As if.
Everyone was from the sounds of it in very high spirits, (probably due to the volume of high spirits they had consumed) and much fun was had by all. In the course of said fun a sofa got broken, much alcohol got spilt and I dread to think what state the lounge was in by the time Spouse had shoved the funsters out of the door. Needless to say he wasn't up when my mother returned, and when I rang to politely enquire why he hadn't pitched up at the hospital as promised, it was to discover that he had only just crawled out of his pit. My miraculous mother then blitzed the house, so when I returned with baby in tow, all was calm and rational. I meanwhile was left to reflect that while he was having fun, I was breastfeeding. A somewhat less then reasonable exchange I felt...
Next time around the baby was born after pub closing time (good move, Mummy), and I got home the next day, so wetting the baby's head was a somewhat more sober affair.
With no 3 it is all such a blur I can't quite remember what happened, although I seem to remember sending Spouse to the pub at about 9pm the night before she came, on the basis that I had to be there, he didn't, and the wretched baby was taking so long to come he at least may as well enjoy himself. So the baby's head was wet even before it was born...
No 4 however, was a different story, being as she came on the same day as our pyrotechnic builder's mate's son. He was born somewhat earlier in the day, and we heard about it from the midwife, who was all agog about the behaviour of one of the dads who'd gone out to the pub in the middle of the labour. It wasn't our mate? we asked. Yes it was, how on earth did we know? Oooh, I don't know, lucky guess, perhaps?
Given that it is a fairly rare occurrence to be able to go and celebrate the birth of your fourth daughter, and even rarer occurrence to do it with a mate who is also celebrating the birth of his son, it seemed only right and proper to send Spouse straight from the hospital to the pub. The midwife's eyes nearly went through the ceiling when I suggested if the baby came before ten Spouse would still have time to get there. As it happened she arrived at 10.20, so after hobbling to the shower, I sent him on his way, as quickly as I could. He had to ring up to order his pints, but get there he did, and departed somewhat later, and less soberly then when he entered.
With each baby, by the time I wasn't breastfeeding/was feeling like a drink/getting some sleep, the moments of euphoria had all but departed, so I have always felt slightly cheated that I never really got to raise a glass properly to my offspring's arrival.
So it was with great joy that I was able to do so for the arrival of my great niece, who came into the world earlier this week.
Spouse and I went to the hospital to see her, both enjoying the moment of it not being us this time... and were greeted with the rather unusual sight of my bil cradling his new grandaughter, looking more then slightly bemused. Neither Spouse or bil are particularly baby-orientated but it was highly amusing to watch some latent caveman protective tendency coming out in them, as they seemed to be more besotted then we girlies were. (Mind you, we girlies know what it's all about and they really really don't).
After the baby was duly admired, we went home to pick up the big ones from Brownies and report back to mil on the beauty of her new great-grandchild. And then it was down to the serious stuff, and we all raised a glass or two (or three) to welcome the new arrival, which was all fine and dandy, but probably not the best move in the middle of the week.
It was only when I woke up late the next morning with a very sore head, and in a rush to get the offspring to school, that I finally came to realise that perhaps this wetting the baby's head thing isn't all it's cracked up to be...
For Ruth and Imogen, with lovexxx
When no 1 was born nearly ten years ago, we were still very much in a babyless/be wild mindset, and so were most of our friends. Spouse did get to the pub the day she came, when frankly I was so out of it I couldn't have cared less, but hadn't really had a proper celebration. He more then made up for it the night before I came home which happened to be a Friday. It therefore seemed entirely incumbent upon him to invite a few mates to come back after pub closing and have a drink. My mother was coming in the morning, and Spouse had promised her he would be up and the house tidy. As if.
Everyone was from the sounds of it in very high spirits, (probably due to the volume of high spirits they had consumed) and much fun was had by all. In the course of said fun a sofa got broken, much alcohol got spilt and I dread to think what state the lounge was in by the time Spouse had shoved the funsters out of the door. Needless to say he wasn't up when my mother returned, and when I rang to politely enquire why he hadn't pitched up at the hospital as promised, it was to discover that he had only just crawled out of his pit. My miraculous mother then blitzed the house, so when I returned with baby in tow, all was calm and rational. I meanwhile was left to reflect that while he was having fun, I was breastfeeding. A somewhat less then reasonable exchange I felt...
Next time around the baby was born after pub closing time (good move, Mummy), and I got home the next day, so wetting the baby's head was a somewhat more sober affair.
With no 3 it is all such a blur I can't quite remember what happened, although I seem to remember sending Spouse to the pub at about 9pm the night before she came, on the basis that I had to be there, he didn't, and the wretched baby was taking so long to come he at least may as well enjoy himself. So the baby's head was wet even before it was born...
No 4 however, was a different story, being as she came on the same day as our pyrotechnic builder's mate's son. He was born somewhat earlier in the day, and we heard about it from the midwife, who was all agog about the behaviour of one of the dads who'd gone out to the pub in the middle of the labour. It wasn't our mate? we asked. Yes it was, how on earth did we know? Oooh, I don't know, lucky guess, perhaps?
Given that it is a fairly rare occurrence to be able to go and celebrate the birth of your fourth daughter, and even rarer occurrence to do it with a mate who is also celebrating the birth of his son, it seemed only right and proper to send Spouse straight from the hospital to the pub. The midwife's eyes nearly went through the ceiling when I suggested if the baby came before ten Spouse would still have time to get there. As it happened she arrived at 10.20, so after hobbling to the shower, I sent him on his way, as quickly as I could. He had to ring up to order his pints, but get there he did, and departed somewhat later, and less soberly then when he entered.
With each baby, by the time I wasn't breastfeeding/was feeling like a drink/getting some sleep, the moments of euphoria had all but departed, so I have always felt slightly cheated that I never really got to raise a glass properly to my offspring's arrival.
So it was with great joy that I was able to do so for the arrival of my great niece, who came into the world earlier this week.
Spouse and I went to the hospital to see her, both enjoying the moment of it not being us this time... and were greeted with the rather unusual sight of my bil cradling his new grandaughter, looking more then slightly bemused. Neither Spouse or bil are particularly baby-orientated but it was highly amusing to watch some latent caveman protective tendency coming out in them, as they seemed to be more besotted then we girlies were. (Mind you, we girlies know what it's all about and they really really don't).
After the baby was duly admired, we went home to pick up the big ones from Brownies and report back to mil on the beauty of her new great-grandchild. And then it was down to the serious stuff, and we all raised a glass or two (or three) to welcome the new arrival, which was all fine and dandy, but probably not the best move in the middle of the week.
It was only when I woke up late the next morning with a very sore head, and in a rush to get the offspring to school, that I finally came to realise that perhaps this wetting the baby's head thing isn't all it's cracked up to be...
For Ruth and Imogen, with lovexxx
Monday, March 06, 2006
Magical Leek Soup
No I haven't gone into Narnia, but I have decided to do something about my weight. Given that it is now four years since the last of my offspring arrived, I no longer have an excuse as to why I am a stone heavier then I was ten years ago before I set off on this mad mother thing.
I'm not a big fan of diets, as I really think they are a no brainer, but over the last couple of years I have tried the Carol Vorderman detox diet, which I was crap at as I got bored. Last summer I also bought a GI diet book - having read at the end of my marathon training last year that Steve Redgrave followed a GI diet when training for the Olympics. What's good enough for Steve... isn't really good enough for me as I get so fed up following diet plans, and never have the right ingredients in.
So the other week when I was in Wottakers purchasing last minute pressies for the old man for his birthday (actually very last minute, I am ashamed to say the tables have turned and I was actually out on his birthday buying him presents, oh dear) and there was a 3 for 2 offer and I was scrabbling for a third book, a title just leapt off the bookshelves begging to be bought. It was called French Women Don't Get Fat, and I had read about it somewhere. The author apparently advocates chocolate, champagne and sex as part of a sensible diet and way of keeping thin. Hmm, sounds like my kind of diet, that...
Actually, what it appears to amount to is a French version of A Little Bit Of What You Fancy Does You Good and Everything in Moderation - two precepts with which I was brought up, which have rather gone out of the window of late. I do agree with her wholeheartedly about cooking proper food every day, eating fresh when possible and cutting down portion sizes, but helas, am unlikely to find a wonderful vegetable market outside my door, so can't buy fresh veg every day. I also can't see myself discussing ad infinitum the relative merits of different veg as she also suggests, but I'm with her In Principle.
Which is how I found myself embarking on a detox programme to end all detoxes. She advises reprogramming your brain to do something called recasting where you chuck out all the offenders in your daily diet (in my case the chocolate crap that I end up buying for the kids, and my very bad habit of finishing what they don't). Prior to recasting you have a "tough weekend" where you eat nothing but leek soup - or actually you drink the water leeks are cooked in every two to three hours and when it is meal time you eat leeks in olive oil. She assures me this will be so tasty it won't feel tough at all. Now I like leeks as much as the next person, and we have just celebrated St David's Day, so what the hell, I thought I'd give it ago. I am already an alcohol free zone as I foolishly decided that I would give it up for Lent in a desperate attempt to reduce my intake, so in for a penny in for a pound...
Sat started with the usual mayhem of ballet runs et al - made more complicated now as no 3 has just done a ballet exam and her lesson is at 9 am, no 1 is doing extra tuition (because as the appallingly pushy parents we are we are hoping she sits an exam for a rather good local school in the autumn - she otoh wishes to go the more local one with all her friends - guilty mum, qui moi?), so also does that at 9am. No 2 had her first reconciliation rehearsal at 11.15, and no 1 was back at the Fame School for 1.30. So I was out and about most of the morning. I therefore had time to force one mug of leek juice down my unyielding lips, because despite the author's assertions it really was pretty foul, before I had to leave. I managed, nobly to resist the siren calls of tea and toast at the local cafe, and then shot into town in between ballet lessons to buy some more leeks (I had dug up all the pathetic attempts we have grown in the garden, and I didn't have enough for the weekend).
I rushed back home shoved the leeks on, only to discover that Spouse had bought some too. Blimey I could have magical leek soup forever at this rate. He snorted in disbelief when he saw me eating the bowl of leeks I had prepared earlier, while the rest of the family feasted on white bread (very very bad for GI, I pointed out smugly), ham and salad. By this time I was feeling a bit peculiar. I wasn't sure if it was by dint of the leeks, my lack of sleep on Friday night, or the fact that I had a stinking cold. But refreshed, invigorated I certainly didn't feel. Rather the opposite in fact. By the middle of Saturday afternoon I cracked and ate a couple of slices of rye bread (Good GI, so that felt like I wasn't cheating too much), but managed to stagger through the rest of the day on leeks alone.
By Sunday morning the thought of leeks for breakfast was certainly beginning to pall. So I stayed in bed rather then have breakfast. That worked.
I had to get up sometime, though, so got downstairs to discover children in reasonable state of pandemonium. No one had had breakfast, and only two out of four were dressed. Spouse meanwhile was at the gym, and when he returned feasted on yet more lovely, gorgeous, crusty looking white bread, which was starting to call me siren-like. Hell, I hadn't been at this fasting business for twenty four hours and I'm hallucinating about bread. I am so not cut out for dieting. I don't possess the No I Can't Have That Gene, and I'm definitely not a French woman (in size or thought...)
I managed to get to about 2pm and then cracked. We'd run out of rye bread, so the white it was, which probably negated all the effect of my previous starvation. By 4pm I was thoroughly sick of leek water, and had a cup of tea when my mil arrived. Meanwhile I was preparing a lamb roast, and baking goodies for the children for the week, in attempt to prove to myself I am not a slave to food. I must have been a masochist in a former life...
My French friend advocates a small piece of meat and two veg for dinner that evening -never had food tasted so delicious. She also claims we often eat when we are thirsty so suggests drinking water when you think you're hungry. That didn't work at all for me, by bedtime I was ravenous. But at least I've sort of detoxed.
Today was meant to be a day of restraint, and of learning to banish my key offenders. But it was also the day I was planning to go the London Book Fair, where it is damn nigh impossible to eat healthily. However as we were late getting up and no4 wasn't well, I was running around headless chicken like till Spouse took the three eldest off in the car. So breakfast consisted of a slice of toast. So far, so good.
Mil had kindly offered to have the poorly one, but two minutes before I was to drop her off, I managed to knock a perfume bottle on to her finger, giving her a nasty bruise and blood blister under the nail. Feeling really heartless, I took my sobbing child to my mother in law's somewhat later then intended. Shades of my last bad mother moment when I went up to London for the evening only to end up in Casualty with a very wheezy baby, sprang to mind, but I had appointments to keep and Dammit! I only get out about once a year. So I went and when I rang later she seemed fine... Guilt assuaged for now...
The Book Fair was slightly surreal as it was combined with a Beautician's Conference. It was easy to spot the difference. Publishers marched around, wearing black or beige, carrying coffee, lugging briefcases and looking Self Important, whereas, beauticians had an average age of 17, wore crop tops, tracksuits and trainers, and sported unseasonably (and in most cases, unreasonably, considering the size of them - why am I worried about my weight?) large amounts of midriff.
Excel where LBF now finds its home evidently couldn't cope with this influx of people so at lunchtime a friend and I hunted in vain for anything to eat. Oh well, I thought perhaps I'll skip lunch (something not recommended by our French friend). However, when I nearly fainted through lack of food, I decided perhaps I had better eat something and managed to grab a houmous wrap from a shop with a marginally smaller queue. So, healthy eating was still on the up. I had failed dismally on the drinking front though, as I was two cups of coffee worse off then normal, and hadn't drunk the requisite amount of water. And by three o'clock, I was absolutely starving, which is why I succumbed and bought the kitkat which was crying out for my attention. (This is getting serious, now kitkats are talking to me....)
After my meetings were over I headed off home and spent an hour or so picking up offspring. No3, conveniently was brought home, but when I went to pick up no 4 from mil's she not so conveniently had gone to sleep. So I went to get the two biggest from their best friends' house, from whence I emerged half an hour later having promised no 2 and her best friend that when they have completed their bestselling book, I will send it to all my publishing mates... they will be so grateful.
Then it was back to mil's to pick up a rather sleepy and damp no 4, whose finger was still throbbing and looking worse then ever (Oh Guilt, thy name is Mother!). No3 hadn't eaten, so I shoved some food down her neck, while Spouse who had just got back transported grobags into the garden (it being nearly Spring we are in the process of getting our own crops going). And then I chased them all into bed. I haven't had anything to eat yet, but I know one thing for sure. French women might be thin, but I am never going to lose weight while I stay at home. Today (barring my failure with the kitkat) I hardly ate a thing. If I went out to work I reckon my stubborn stone would be gone in a month. But on the other hand, I also reckon what is left of my sanity would be out of the window. I have enough chaos in my life without having to pick up all the pieces at the end of a working day.
I just have to face it, magical leek soup nothwishtanding, that extra stone is here to stay...
I'm not a big fan of diets, as I really think they are a no brainer, but over the last couple of years I have tried the Carol Vorderman detox diet, which I was crap at as I got bored. Last summer I also bought a GI diet book - having read at the end of my marathon training last year that Steve Redgrave followed a GI diet when training for the Olympics. What's good enough for Steve... isn't really good enough for me as I get so fed up following diet plans, and never have the right ingredients in.
So the other week when I was in Wottakers purchasing last minute pressies for the old man for his birthday (actually very last minute, I am ashamed to say the tables have turned and I was actually out on his birthday buying him presents, oh dear) and there was a 3 for 2 offer and I was scrabbling for a third book, a title just leapt off the bookshelves begging to be bought. It was called French Women Don't Get Fat, and I had read about it somewhere. The author apparently advocates chocolate, champagne and sex as part of a sensible diet and way of keeping thin. Hmm, sounds like my kind of diet, that...
Actually, what it appears to amount to is a French version of A Little Bit Of What You Fancy Does You Good and Everything in Moderation - two precepts with which I was brought up, which have rather gone out of the window of late. I do agree with her wholeheartedly about cooking proper food every day, eating fresh when possible and cutting down portion sizes, but helas, am unlikely to find a wonderful vegetable market outside my door, so can't buy fresh veg every day. I also can't see myself discussing ad infinitum the relative merits of different veg as she also suggests, but I'm with her In Principle.
Which is how I found myself embarking on a detox programme to end all detoxes. She advises reprogramming your brain to do something called recasting where you chuck out all the offenders in your daily diet (in my case the chocolate crap that I end up buying for the kids, and my very bad habit of finishing what they don't). Prior to recasting you have a "tough weekend" where you eat nothing but leek soup - or actually you drink the water leeks are cooked in every two to three hours and when it is meal time you eat leeks in olive oil. She assures me this will be so tasty it won't feel tough at all. Now I like leeks as much as the next person, and we have just celebrated St David's Day, so what the hell, I thought I'd give it ago. I am already an alcohol free zone as I foolishly decided that I would give it up for Lent in a desperate attempt to reduce my intake, so in for a penny in for a pound...
Sat started with the usual mayhem of ballet runs et al - made more complicated now as no 3 has just done a ballet exam and her lesson is at 9 am, no 1 is doing extra tuition (because as the appallingly pushy parents we are we are hoping she sits an exam for a rather good local school in the autumn - she otoh wishes to go the more local one with all her friends - guilty mum, qui moi?), so also does that at 9am. No 2 had her first reconciliation rehearsal at 11.15, and no 1 was back at the Fame School for 1.30. So I was out and about most of the morning. I therefore had time to force one mug of leek juice down my unyielding lips, because despite the author's assertions it really was pretty foul, before I had to leave. I managed, nobly to resist the siren calls of tea and toast at the local cafe, and then shot into town in between ballet lessons to buy some more leeks (I had dug up all the pathetic attempts we have grown in the garden, and I didn't have enough for the weekend).
I rushed back home shoved the leeks on, only to discover that Spouse had bought some too. Blimey I could have magical leek soup forever at this rate. He snorted in disbelief when he saw me eating the bowl of leeks I had prepared earlier, while the rest of the family feasted on white bread (very very bad for GI, I pointed out smugly), ham and salad. By this time I was feeling a bit peculiar. I wasn't sure if it was by dint of the leeks, my lack of sleep on Friday night, or the fact that I had a stinking cold. But refreshed, invigorated I certainly didn't feel. Rather the opposite in fact. By the middle of Saturday afternoon I cracked and ate a couple of slices of rye bread (Good GI, so that felt like I wasn't cheating too much), but managed to stagger through the rest of the day on leeks alone.
By Sunday morning the thought of leeks for breakfast was certainly beginning to pall. So I stayed in bed rather then have breakfast. That worked.
I had to get up sometime, though, so got downstairs to discover children in reasonable state of pandemonium. No one had had breakfast, and only two out of four were dressed. Spouse meanwhile was at the gym, and when he returned feasted on yet more lovely, gorgeous, crusty looking white bread, which was starting to call me siren-like. Hell, I hadn't been at this fasting business for twenty four hours and I'm hallucinating about bread. I am so not cut out for dieting. I don't possess the No I Can't Have That Gene, and I'm definitely not a French woman (in size or thought...)
I managed to get to about 2pm and then cracked. We'd run out of rye bread, so the white it was, which probably negated all the effect of my previous starvation. By 4pm I was thoroughly sick of leek water, and had a cup of tea when my mil arrived. Meanwhile I was preparing a lamb roast, and baking goodies for the children for the week, in attempt to prove to myself I am not a slave to food. I must have been a masochist in a former life...
My French friend advocates a small piece of meat and two veg for dinner that evening -never had food tasted so delicious. She also claims we often eat when we are thirsty so suggests drinking water when you think you're hungry. That didn't work at all for me, by bedtime I was ravenous. But at least I've sort of detoxed.
Today was meant to be a day of restraint, and of learning to banish my key offenders. But it was also the day I was planning to go the London Book Fair, where it is damn nigh impossible to eat healthily. However as we were late getting up and no4 wasn't well, I was running around headless chicken like till Spouse took the three eldest off in the car. So breakfast consisted of a slice of toast. So far, so good.
Mil had kindly offered to have the poorly one, but two minutes before I was to drop her off, I managed to knock a perfume bottle on to her finger, giving her a nasty bruise and blood blister under the nail. Feeling really heartless, I took my sobbing child to my mother in law's somewhat later then intended. Shades of my last bad mother moment when I went up to London for the evening only to end up in Casualty with a very wheezy baby, sprang to mind, but I had appointments to keep and Dammit! I only get out about once a year. So I went and when I rang later she seemed fine... Guilt assuaged for now...
The Book Fair was slightly surreal as it was combined with a Beautician's Conference. It was easy to spot the difference. Publishers marched around, wearing black or beige, carrying coffee, lugging briefcases and looking Self Important, whereas, beauticians had an average age of 17, wore crop tops, tracksuits and trainers, and sported unseasonably (and in most cases, unreasonably, considering the size of them - why am I worried about my weight?) large amounts of midriff.
Excel where LBF now finds its home evidently couldn't cope with this influx of people so at lunchtime a friend and I hunted in vain for anything to eat. Oh well, I thought perhaps I'll skip lunch (something not recommended by our French friend). However, when I nearly fainted through lack of food, I decided perhaps I had better eat something and managed to grab a houmous wrap from a shop with a marginally smaller queue. So, healthy eating was still on the up. I had failed dismally on the drinking front though, as I was two cups of coffee worse off then normal, and hadn't drunk the requisite amount of water. And by three o'clock, I was absolutely starving, which is why I succumbed and bought the kitkat which was crying out for my attention. (This is getting serious, now kitkats are talking to me....)
After my meetings were over I headed off home and spent an hour or so picking up offspring. No3, conveniently was brought home, but when I went to pick up no 4 from mil's she not so conveniently had gone to sleep. So I went to get the two biggest from their best friends' house, from whence I emerged half an hour later having promised no 2 and her best friend that when they have completed their bestselling book, I will send it to all my publishing mates... they will be so grateful.
Then it was back to mil's to pick up a rather sleepy and damp no 4, whose finger was still throbbing and looking worse then ever (Oh Guilt, thy name is Mother!). No3 hadn't eaten, so I shoved some food down her neck, while Spouse who had just got back transported grobags into the garden (it being nearly Spring we are in the process of getting our own crops going). And then I chased them all into bed. I haven't had anything to eat yet, but I know one thing for sure. French women might be thin, but I am never going to lose weight while I stay at home. Today (barring my failure with the kitkat) I hardly ate a thing. If I went out to work I reckon my stubborn stone would be gone in a month. But on the other hand, I also reckon what is left of my sanity would be out of the window. I have enough chaos in my life without having to pick up all the pieces at the end of a working day.
I just have to face it, magical leek soup nothwishtanding, that extra stone is here to stay...
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