This blog is amazingly a year old. And funnily enough when I started it I seemed to be posting about the same kinds of things. My first post was about the hell of half term, and my second about Trick or Treating.
Now let's get one thing straight here. I don't have a problem with Halloween per se. Though I was brought up a catholic, it wasn't banned in our house growing up. Indeed, we often had Halloween parties, with bobbing for apples, dressing up, and ghostly happenings.
I am also rather partial to Tim Burton's fabulously imaginative Nightmare before Christmas ( so are the kids - No 4 has spent most of this week singing, Halloween, Halloween, This is Halloween) - so it isn't the festival itself I have a problem with.
However, I do have a big big problem with the rampant commercialisation of Halloween and this stupid bloody notion of Trick or Treating drives me insane. It isn't OUR tradition I want to scream. Why do we have to follow the Yanks on this one??? (Well I suppose we followed them into Iraq, so why not?)
If you were reading last year, you may remember that no 2 gave me not inconsiderable grief last year when told she couldn't go out Trick or Treating (telling her that we consider it begging didn't go down too well). So this year to preempt matters I made it perfectly clear that we were NOT doing it.
Spouse sensibly thought we might need a fall back position, so we could at least offer them some Halloween fun, so he suggested them dressing up and face painting.
I also had another fall back, which is that nos 1&2 are planning to enter a Dr Who competition Blue Peter are running - they have to send in a video of themselves acting out a scene from Dr Who, and if they win, tantara they get to be in an episode of Dr Who. I am not unnaturally encouraging this aim - which mother wouldn't turn up the chance to chaperone their child just in order that they can drool over the thoroughly gorgeous David Tennant? Of course, the chances of them winning against the many thousands of children no doubt applying are about zero, but hey, it's worth a shot. Anyway, after the Torchwood debacle I figure Russell owes me...
Anyway, my fallback position was that they could do their videoing instead of Trick or Treating. Which worked really well until teatime, when no 2 started with, So why can't we go Trick or Treating.
Because we don't agree with it.
But why not?
Because we think it's like begging. Because we think it's dangerous. Because it's dark and cold and I can't be arsed...
But everyone else is doing it, came the inevitable wail, you are soooo unfair.
I know. I am the most majorly unfair parent on the planet. But I have to get my kicks somehow.
In the end, realising she was on a hiding to nothing, she sulkily agreed to paint her sisters' faces instead. And after tea, when no1 hit on the idea of decorating doughnuts with spooky faces, that seemed to knock the Trick or Treat rubbish on the head. Phew.
Here, I have to say one of the joys of having four children is they can create an instant party. Which is how it was, that come 6.30 last night, the kitchen floor was covered in flour (we played find the sweets in the flour), the family room was full of paper (Wrap the Mummy) and the children were soaking wet (bobbing for apples).
They went to bed far too late, all on a huge sugar rush, but huzzah! We didn't have to go out Trick or Treating and no one complained too much.
And, we only got bothered by two lots of trick or treaters, neither of which we knew, so they didn't feel too hard done by.
And do you know what? I reckoned they actually had a better time...
PS We still haven't done our filming (the scenes in question didn't call for a witch and a cat), so that's got to be put on hold now till Friday as we're busy tonight and tomorrow. No1 is too shy to let me film her (oh dear, I can't imagine how that will turn out) and doesn't know her lines anyway, but no 2 is already word perfect. Totally lifeless, but word perfect....
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
A Bloody Tale
In view of the interest that seemed to be generated in my bloody finger, I thought you might like to know that it runs in the family. So here, for your delectation and delight, is a tale from three years ago, when no 3 then aged three (it's all three to me) decided that putting an umbrella in your mouth was a really, really good idea... (Do look away if you are of a feeble disposition!)
No 4 who was then quite small, was asleep and as no 3 was happily pottering about in the hall, I decided to whizz upstairs to do some tidying.
Suddenly there was a bloodcurdling yell. Holy shit, what's she done? I thought, detecting a certain panicky note that sounded like something really really bad. I flew down the stairs to see no 3 kneeling on the floor, screaming her head off with an umbrella handle stuck firmly in her jaw. (And yes, the question, Whyyyyyy? does spring to mind) I gingerly tried to get it out, and failed. I could see she was bleeding, so applied a little more force, to considerably louder yells. A pool of black blood was welling up in her mouth, and I couldn't see what damage she'd done, but it looked pretty bad to me. I ran to get kitchen roll, repeating the mantra long drummed into me by Spouse that mouths bleed a lot and they heal quickly. As I applied the tissue, and the bleeding didn't appear to be stopping, I was trying to ignore the panicky messages flying to my brain, saying helpful things like: "Are there any arteries down there?" and "How long does it take a three year old to bleed to death?"
I eventually stemmed the flow, after what seemed like hours, and inspected the damage. There was a nice big tear in her bottom palate. It probably needed stitches, but by now it was 2.15 and in an hour I had to collect two children from school. I rang my neighbour who is a nurse, to seek her opnion. She was out. I rang my friend to get her to pick the girls up. She was also out. By this time, no3 was saying she felt sick (well I suppose you would if you had just swallowed a pint of your own blood), and was shaking like a leaf. Now I was panicking about anaphylactic shock. "Don't go to sleep whatever you do!" I admonished her, but cheered myself up by thinking that as she was still yelling loudly, it couldn't be too serious.
I managed to get another friend to pick the girls up, and flew to the hospital. No3 was in such a state by the time we arrived, I had to carry her, and try to stop no4 who had only recently learnt to walk from falling over. We got there eventually, and then (at this point let me sing paeons of praise to the NHS), were miraculously seen straight away, by a wonderful nurse who produced calpol and lollipops, and a rather gorgeous young medic, who cheerfully told me that though it was a good tear, it didn't need stitches. So all's well that ends well...
The next day on the way to school, I met one of my friends. "You were the talk of the playground yesterday," she informed me. "You have such an exciting life. Mine is so boring by comparison."
This kind of excitement I can do without.
But it is a testament to the fact that my life has finally moved on, that now it is more likely to be me providing the bloodfest...
No 4 who was then quite small, was asleep and as no 3 was happily pottering about in the hall, I decided to whizz upstairs to do some tidying.
Suddenly there was a bloodcurdling yell. Holy shit, what's she done? I thought, detecting a certain panicky note that sounded like something really really bad. I flew down the stairs to see no 3 kneeling on the floor, screaming her head off with an umbrella handle stuck firmly in her jaw. (And yes, the question, Whyyyyyy? does spring to mind) I gingerly tried to get it out, and failed. I could see she was bleeding, so applied a little more force, to considerably louder yells. A pool of black blood was welling up in her mouth, and I couldn't see what damage she'd done, but it looked pretty bad to me. I ran to get kitchen roll, repeating the mantra long drummed into me by Spouse that mouths bleed a lot and they heal quickly. As I applied the tissue, and the bleeding didn't appear to be stopping, I was trying to ignore the panicky messages flying to my brain, saying helpful things like: "Are there any arteries down there?" and "How long does it take a three year old to bleed to death?"
I eventually stemmed the flow, after what seemed like hours, and inspected the damage. There was a nice big tear in her bottom palate. It probably needed stitches, but by now it was 2.15 and in an hour I had to collect two children from school. I rang my neighbour who is a nurse, to seek her opnion. She was out. I rang my friend to get her to pick the girls up. She was also out. By this time, no3 was saying she felt sick (well I suppose you would if you had just swallowed a pint of your own blood), and was shaking like a leaf. Now I was panicking about anaphylactic shock. "Don't go to sleep whatever you do!" I admonished her, but cheered myself up by thinking that as she was still yelling loudly, it couldn't be too serious.
I managed to get another friend to pick the girls up, and flew to the hospital. No3 was in such a state by the time we arrived, I had to carry her, and try to stop no4 who had only recently learnt to walk from falling over. We got there eventually, and then (at this point let me sing paeons of praise to the NHS), were miraculously seen straight away, by a wonderful nurse who produced calpol and lollipops, and a rather gorgeous young medic, who cheerfully told me that though it was a good tear, it didn't need stitches. So all's well that ends well...
The next day on the way to school, I met one of my friends. "You were the talk of the playground yesterday," she informed me. "You have such an exciting life. Mine is so boring by comparison."
This kind of excitement I can do without.
But it is a testament to the fact that my life has finally moved on, that now it is more likely to be me providing the bloodfest...
Monday, October 30, 2006
The First Cut is the Deepest...
Among my many talents (and clearly someone who writes a blog as witty and entertaining as this is very very talented) is a great ability to be clumsy. So much so, that as a child if anything got dropped in our house, my siblings would turn round and chorus, Jane looked at us. Not unnaturally I have dedicated my picture book, The Clumsy Cow to them...
I tell you this to explain how it was that last week, when I was cutting some bread I managed to slice the top of my finger. No, I still don't know how I did it. And to add insult to injury the next day I managed to do it again to another finger.
Anyway finger no 1 bled like a stuck pig, and it took ages to stop the bleeding. Luckily I am not a wuss about these things (that's what comes of having a mother who is a nurse), but in the end I had to enlist Spouse's help to get a plaster on without bleeding to death.
After a few days I thought it had healed up, and forgot about it.
Until Saturday when we went out to sort out tedious domestic tasks. Spouse dumped me by the Insurance Agency we use to pay our buildings insurance while he went off to buy wood (as a man this is of course a vital part of his raison d'etre). Insurance duly having been paid, I toddled off to the bank to pay a cheque in before close of business. En route I inadvertently managed to knock my finger again.
I thought nothing of it (apart from Ouch!) until I noticed a small globule of blood forming on the top of the finger. Damn. I had no tissue on me, and I had given Spouse my last tenner.
I squeezed the finger tight, and held it up to no avail. Within seconds both hands were covered in blood, and I looked like I had just walked off the set of a Tarantino movie.
I dashed into Boots, and grabbed some antiseptic wipes, quick healing plasters and some spray on decoagulant (I didn't know such things existed, but boy was I grateful for them).
The woman in the shop to her eternal credit didn't call the police, but did offer assistance in the form of a tissue. She also offered first aid. Except it was denied by her boss. Apparently Boots staff can't do first aid on their customers. Obvious health and safety issues there...
Anyway, I was by now feeling like a total prat, and just wanted to get my plasters and get the hell out of there.
But oh no. My life can never be simple. I had to use my credit card having no money, and although I was spending the princely sum of £12, thanks to having made two expensive online purchases the previous day my card security was compromised and I found myself (still pouring blood) being ushered to the back of the shop where I held the phone as gingerly as I could and answered some security questions.
It could only happen to me.
By now an interested crowd had gathered around me, and I was feeling more stupid then I probably ever have in my entire life. So it was with great relief that my purchase could be made, and I was finally able to escape.
I used the antiseptic wipes to clean my hands, and managed to get the anti coagulant spray on to stop the bleeding. It was only when I went to put the plaster on I realised in my panic I hadn't bought proper plasters but spray on ones.
And I was too late for the bank.
Still on the upside, my finger has now stopped bleeding and should I commit a heinous crime I expect my finger print has now changed irrevocably and I should get away with it...
PS Caught episode 3 of Torchwood last night and at least there was no gratuitous sex. Captain Jack is turning out rather yummy too. But I think the kids would have been frightened of the ghosts, so it's still a no go for them. They'll just have to make do with watching Dr Who DVDs instead, though No 3 cried buckets at the end of the last episode at the thought of never seeing Rose again. I have a hunch we will see her again - perhaps making her way through the rift in Cardiff and doing a guest spot on Torchwood? Then again, that wouldn't cheer no 3 up, because she definitely won't be watching Torchwood for at least a decade....
Whereas I will. There are advantages to motherhood after all.
I tell you this to explain how it was that last week, when I was cutting some bread I managed to slice the top of my finger. No, I still don't know how I did it. And to add insult to injury the next day I managed to do it again to another finger.
Anyway finger no 1 bled like a stuck pig, and it took ages to stop the bleeding. Luckily I am not a wuss about these things (that's what comes of having a mother who is a nurse), but in the end I had to enlist Spouse's help to get a plaster on without bleeding to death.
After a few days I thought it had healed up, and forgot about it.
Until Saturday when we went out to sort out tedious domestic tasks. Spouse dumped me by the Insurance Agency we use to pay our buildings insurance while he went off to buy wood (as a man this is of course a vital part of his raison d'etre). Insurance duly having been paid, I toddled off to the bank to pay a cheque in before close of business. En route I inadvertently managed to knock my finger again.
I thought nothing of it (apart from Ouch!) until I noticed a small globule of blood forming on the top of the finger. Damn. I had no tissue on me, and I had given Spouse my last tenner.
I squeezed the finger tight, and held it up to no avail. Within seconds both hands were covered in blood, and I looked like I had just walked off the set of a Tarantino movie.
I dashed into Boots, and grabbed some antiseptic wipes, quick healing plasters and some spray on decoagulant (I didn't know such things existed, but boy was I grateful for them).
The woman in the shop to her eternal credit didn't call the police, but did offer assistance in the form of a tissue. She also offered first aid. Except it was denied by her boss. Apparently Boots staff can't do first aid on their customers. Obvious health and safety issues there...
Anyway, I was by now feeling like a total prat, and just wanted to get my plasters and get the hell out of there.
But oh no. My life can never be simple. I had to use my credit card having no money, and although I was spending the princely sum of £12, thanks to having made two expensive online purchases the previous day my card security was compromised and I found myself (still pouring blood) being ushered to the back of the shop where I held the phone as gingerly as I could and answered some security questions.
It could only happen to me.
By now an interested crowd had gathered around me, and I was feeling more stupid then I probably ever have in my entire life. So it was with great relief that my purchase could be made, and I was finally able to escape.
I used the antiseptic wipes to clean my hands, and managed to get the anti coagulant spray on to stop the bleeding. It was only when I went to put the plaster on I realised in my panic I hadn't bought proper plasters but spray on ones.
And I was too late for the bank.
Still on the upside, my finger has now stopped bleeding and should I commit a heinous crime I expect my finger print has now changed irrevocably and I should get away with it...
PS Caught episode 3 of Torchwood last night and at least there was no gratuitous sex. Captain Jack is turning out rather yummy too. But I think the kids would have been frightened of the ghosts, so it's still a no go for them. They'll just have to make do with watching Dr Who DVDs instead, though No 3 cried buckets at the end of the last episode at the thought of never seeing Rose again. I have a hunch we will see her again - perhaps making her way through the rift in Cardiff and doing a guest spot on Torchwood? Then again, that wouldn't cheer no 3 up, because she definitely won't be watching Torchwood for at least a decade....
Whereas I will. There are advantages to motherhood after all.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Talking of Torchwood
... As I mentioned it in passing yesterday. I am going to have a bit of a rant today. Why oh why did they make it for grown ups? No 1 is spitting mad that she can't watch it. I thought perhaps once we'd vetted it, we might let her, but on the evidence of the half of the show I watched, I don't think so.
If you were the other person in the country who didn't see it, the plot revolved around an alien who needed orgasmic energy (they must have had a laugh in their editorial meetings!) to sustain itself. Consequently it had infiltrated a girl who was going round shagging everyone. And turning them into little piles of dust afterwards (as you do) - a novel way of ending a relationship...
Not only that said nymphomaniac also got to snog the lead female (as I missed the beginning I'm not yet up to speed with all the characters yet) - which frankly was gratuitous as it turned out that the orgasmic energy thing only worked with blokes.
Now call me a reactionary old bat (it's ok I know what I am), but how much of this was strictly necessary? I can see that the makers of Dr Who might have got fed up with the inevitable restrictions from working on a show for kids. And I don't mind sex on tv if it advances the story, but quite frankly this didn't. They could easily have the alien feeding off another kind of energy - how about mobile phones for example? - or even as Spouse said they could have done the same thing with snogging. SF films are full of aliens who kiss the life force out of their prey - it could have worked here and still been suitable for small children.
The thing that really really peeves me about this, is that Dr Who is a fabulous intergenerational watching experience, and as a family we all sit down on a Saturday to watch it together (so far Robin of the Hood hasn't quite matched up) - and all the kids know about Torchwood. Russell T Davies and the Beeb must have known that they would want to watch it. It seems like shooting yourself in the foot to cut off half your audience like that. Never mind that up and down the country parents are cursing him for depriving their offspring.
I think that is an act of breathtaking arrogance to stamp on the dreams of half their audience like this. If it was another section of the population, think of the outcry. But kids? That's ok, they don't count. The fact that said kids will grow up to be potentially lifelong fans should be exercising the good folk at the Beeb. You stamp on their dreams at your peril.
No 1 is so cross she has even sent Russell Davies a letter about it, as she thinks this is majorly unfair.
And she is right.
I'm not going to let her know that simply by going to the website she can watch again... So it's actually going to be hard to prevent kids from watching it if we're not careful. (OK so she has parental controls on her account, but what's to prevent her logging onto mine and working it out. She's a savvy kid. I'm sure it won't take her long).
I am also sure there are parents who won't be as scrupulous about letting kids watch Torchwood as I am. But it really really isn't suitable.
And I think that is a great pity. Because with a little tweaking it could so easily be perfectly ok for Dr Who's younger fans, and I think it's shortchanging them to have left them out like this.
I will still be watching.
But I wish the kids could be sitting next to me when I do...
If you were the other person in the country who didn't see it, the plot revolved around an alien who needed orgasmic energy (they must have had a laugh in their editorial meetings!) to sustain itself. Consequently it had infiltrated a girl who was going round shagging everyone. And turning them into little piles of dust afterwards (as you do) - a novel way of ending a relationship...
Not only that said nymphomaniac also got to snog the lead female (as I missed the beginning I'm not yet up to speed with all the characters yet) - which frankly was gratuitous as it turned out that the orgasmic energy thing only worked with blokes.
Now call me a reactionary old bat (it's ok I know what I am), but how much of this was strictly necessary? I can see that the makers of Dr Who might have got fed up with the inevitable restrictions from working on a show for kids. And I don't mind sex on tv if it advances the story, but quite frankly this didn't. They could easily have the alien feeding off another kind of energy - how about mobile phones for example? - or even as Spouse said they could have done the same thing with snogging. SF films are full of aliens who kiss the life force out of their prey - it could have worked here and still been suitable for small children.
The thing that really really peeves me about this, is that Dr Who is a fabulous intergenerational watching experience, and as a family we all sit down on a Saturday to watch it together (so far Robin of the Hood hasn't quite matched up) - and all the kids know about Torchwood. Russell T Davies and the Beeb must have known that they would want to watch it. It seems like shooting yourself in the foot to cut off half your audience like that. Never mind that up and down the country parents are cursing him for depriving their offspring.
I think that is an act of breathtaking arrogance to stamp on the dreams of half their audience like this. If it was another section of the population, think of the outcry. But kids? That's ok, they don't count. The fact that said kids will grow up to be potentially lifelong fans should be exercising the good folk at the Beeb. You stamp on their dreams at your peril.
No 1 is so cross she has even sent Russell Davies a letter about it, as she thinks this is majorly unfair.
And she is right.
I'm not going to let her know that simply by going to the website she can watch again... So it's actually going to be hard to prevent kids from watching it if we're not careful. (OK so she has parental controls on her account, but what's to prevent her logging onto mine and working it out. She's a savvy kid. I'm sure it won't take her long).
I am also sure there are parents who won't be as scrupulous about letting kids watch Torchwood as I am. But it really really isn't suitable.
And I think that is a great pity. Because with a little tweaking it could so easily be perfectly ok for Dr Who's younger fans, and I think it's shortchanging them to have left them out like this.
I will still be watching.
But I wish the kids could be sitting next to me when I do...
Monday, October 23, 2006
Robin Hood, Robin Hood, Riding Through the Glen
After our debacle of a holiday in France/Germany this summer Spouse and I felt a little pampering was in order for half term. Sadly Spouse has used up all his holiday, so a little pampering was all it could be. However, something being better then nothing, I duly went online a few weeks back to search for that elusive thing - a weekend break in a hotel, that was a) affordable and b) practical for a family of six. A cunning friend put me on to Hilton Hotels who are running a series of breaks which amazingly fulfil both criteria. Not only that, but for the first time ever we got a family room with a connecting door ensuite (normally we're all cramped in together, which is why we don't often stay in hotels...).
So, the next dilemma was our destination. Given that the offspring are still severely anti castle following out last trip en famille, I had to discount Warwick, even though Spouse and I both really want to go there. I thought about Bath, but that too, is too full of old ruins to be very attractive. In the end, hearing via one of my writing friends that Nottingham Castle was holding a reenactment weekend featuring none other then Robin of the Hood (the tv version holding up fairly well in this house as a substitute for Dr Who), that seemed like as good a destination as any. I figured (rightly) that no 1, who is more anti castle then the rest, might be persuaded to go to one where she got to see jousting. I also had the ace up my sleeve that my sister and her offspring live not too far away and arranging for the cousins to be there, proved a master stroke.
My friend was slightly concerned that we would bring the rain with us - given that it was pouring here on Friday, I not unnaturally shared her concerns. However, fortunately the sun came out late on Friday afternoon. Spouse managed to get off early, we picked the sprogs up from school and off we set. Of course the M25 being what it is, we then sat in a traffic jam for the best part of two hours. But luckily we had Chris Evans' All Request Friday to keep us going. So that was all right then.
Getting into Nottingham itself was something of a trial, however. I had downloaded some instructions from one of those online mapping companies. Which is all well and good, but of course, they lack any kind of discretionary input, and you don't get any sensible instructions like, turn left after the second set of traffic lights. Instead we were looking for the slip road, before the roundabout and managed to miss it - not knowing precisely which roundabout the computer meant. I am never ever going to get sat nav...
Luckily our Road Atlas had a city plan of Nottingham. And I realised were heading along the south side of the square we needed to be on. Great, all we had to do was turn left and left again, and we should hit the road we were after.
Unluckily, we missed the tiny left turn we were after.
Luckily I could see if we kept going on the road we were on, we could get round the back of a shopping centre and hit the right road.
Unluckily, our map ran out round the back of said shopping centre, so we had to follow our noses to get to the right place.
Luckily we managed it and the road we were on was meant to turn into the road our hotel was on.
Unluckily it didn't. Or rather it did, but we weren't allowed to enter it.
Luckily I found another way round.
Unluckily, I forgot to tell Spouse to turn right at the correct moment.
By now we weren't speaking, and no 4 was desperate for the loo. After heading several miles in the opposite direction, we found our way again, reached the road we were after, only to discover we couldn't turn up it. Spouse managed to do an illegal U-turn, to get to the road we were after, and finally, hey presto we had arrived at our destination. Phew.
It's been over ten years since I was last in Nottingham and it's changed a bit...
Anyway, once that stress was over, everything else was great. The kids had a huge room and we had the bliss of one next door.We got a wonderful meal for nothing as part of our deal - and for once the kids got offered something more substantial and healthy then chicken nuggets and chips. Eat your heart out Jamie....
The next morning we had a huge breakfast, before going for a stroll. We were so excited by the sight of a Primarks (we don't have one near us) we had to go for a bit of shop. Which is how our children have all ended up with hooded jackets/puffa jackets. Oh dear. We have four little chavs now. But at least they were warm...
Then it was back to the hotel for a quick swim before meeting my bil, sister and their five sprogs at the castle.
The sun amazingly shone all day, so we were able to enjoy the jousting and other events around Robin Hood's life. The kids enjoyed cheering Robin and booing Guy of Gisborne and the sheriff - no 2 enjoyed it all so much she kept accosting all the actors, who must have been soooo glad that they came and stood by our section of the stands....
Hats off to the organisers. It was a great day out. And we were rewarded at the end of it by the sight of our offspring joining in a group of Dutch mediaeval singers who roped them in to play instruments. Between my sister and I we managed to provide about half the children...
I was also rewarded by meeting in the flesh my efriend, Elizabeth Chadwick, who had told me all about it. She was busy slaving over a cooking pot while we were enjoying ourselves, but it was great to meet her.
The two big ones went to stay the night with my sister, while we tried to persuade the little ones that the Sheriff of Nottingham had kept them prisoners till the morning, so they wouldn't feel left out. No 3 wasn't at all convinced by this and rumbled us as we got to the hotel. She had worked out that her sisters were with her cousins, but assumed they were all back at the hotel. Which of course they weren't. The inevitable It's Not Fair! scene ensued, before we managed to pacify her with the end of Robin Hood. Despite entertaining some misgivings about the series still, I did think the best line of the programme had to go to Keith Allen. When one of the character said I shot the sheriff, Keith appeared from the shadows to say, no you shot the deputy. Well it made me laugh...
No 3 was further satisfied with the promise of more swimming so by the time we got to my sister's yesterday she was completely pacified, so we didn't feel too guilty.
We had a lovely relaxing afternoon before heading off in the rain home. Sadly our journey was horribly slow, ensuring we missed the beginning of Torchwood, but, still. It was better then driving 150 miles and putting up a tent in the pouring rain....
Tuning into Wogan this morning I heard the very sad news of Paul Walters untimely death. Like thousands of people up and down the country I am sure I am not alone in mourning the loss of this wonderfully talented man. Mornings just won't be the same again. Hats off to the magnificent Terry Wogan and his team, for pulling off such a wonderfully moving tribute to Pauly without the slightest mawkishness, and much great humour. I'm sure he'd have loved it.
So, the next dilemma was our destination. Given that the offspring are still severely anti castle following out last trip en famille, I had to discount Warwick, even though Spouse and I both really want to go there. I thought about Bath, but that too, is too full of old ruins to be very attractive. In the end, hearing via one of my writing friends that Nottingham Castle was holding a reenactment weekend featuring none other then Robin of the Hood (the tv version holding up fairly well in this house as a substitute for Dr Who), that seemed like as good a destination as any. I figured (rightly) that no 1, who is more anti castle then the rest, might be persuaded to go to one where she got to see jousting. I also had the ace up my sleeve that my sister and her offspring live not too far away and arranging for the cousins to be there, proved a master stroke.
My friend was slightly concerned that we would bring the rain with us - given that it was pouring here on Friday, I not unnaturally shared her concerns. However, fortunately the sun came out late on Friday afternoon. Spouse managed to get off early, we picked the sprogs up from school and off we set. Of course the M25 being what it is, we then sat in a traffic jam for the best part of two hours. But luckily we had Chris Evans' All Request Friday to keep us going. So that was all right then.
Getting into Nottingham itself was something of a trial, however. I had downloaded some instructions from one of those online mapping companies. Which is all well and good, but of course, they lack any kind of discretionary input, and you don't get any sensible instructions like, turn left after the second set of traffic lights. Instead we were looking for the slip road, before the roundabout and managed to miss it - not knowing precisely which roundabout the computer meant. I am never ever going to get sat nav...
Luckily our Road Atlas had a city plan of Nottingham. And I realised were heading along the south side of the square we needed to be on. Great, all we had to do was turn left and left again, and we should hit the road we were after.
Unluckily, we missed the tiny left turn we were after.
Luckily I could see if we kept going on the road we were on, we could get round the back of a shopping centre and hit the right road.
Unluckily, our map ran out round the back of said shopping centre, so we had to follow our noses to get to the right place.
Luckily we managed it and the road we were on was meant to turn into the road our hotel was on.
Unluckily it didn't. Or rather it did, but we weren't allowed to enter it.
Luckily I found another way round.
Unluckily, I forgot to tell Spouse to turn right at the correct moment.
By now we weren't speaking, and no 4 was desperate for the loo. After heading several miles in the opposite direction, we found our way again, reached the road we were after, only to discover we couldn't turn up it. Spouse managed to do an illegal U-turn, to get to the road we were after, and finally, hey presto we had arrived at our destination. Phew.
It's been over ten years since I was last in Nottingham and it's changed a bit...
Anyway, once that stress was over, everything else was great. The kids had a huge room and we had the bliss of one next door.We got a wonderful meal for nothing as part of our deal - and for once the kids got offered something more substantial and healthy then chicken nuggets and chips. Eat your heart out Jamie....
The next morning we had a huge breakfast, before going for a stroll. We were so excited by the sight of a Primarks (we don't have one near us) we had to go for a bit of shop. Which is how our children have all ended up with hooded jackets/puffa jackets. Oh dear. We have four little chavs now. But at least they were warm...
Then it was back to the hotel for a quick swim before meeting my bil, sister and their five sprogs at the castle.
The sun amazingly shone all day, so we were able to enjoy the jousting and other events around Robin Hood's life. The kids enjoyed cheering Robin and booing Guy of Gisborne and the sheriff - no 2 enjoyed it all so much she kept accosting all the actors, who must have been soooo glad that they came and stood by our section of the stands....
Hats off to the organisers. It was a great day out. And we were rewarded at the end of it by the sight of our offspring joining in a group of Dutch mediaeval singers who roped them in to play instruments. Between my sister and I we managed to provide about half the children...
I was also rewarded by meeting in the flesh my efriend, Elizabeth Chadwick, who had told me all about it. She was busy slaving over a cooking pot while we were enjoying ourselves, but it was great to meet her.
The two big ones went to stay the night with my sister, while we tried to persuade the little ones that the Sheriff of Nottingham had kept them prisoners till the morning, so they wouldn't feel left out. No 3 wasn't at all convinced by this and rumbled us as we got to the hotel. She had worked out that her sisters were with her cousins, but assumed they were all back at the hotel. Which of course they weren't. The inevitable It's Not Fair! scene ensued, before we managed to pacify her with the end of Robin Hood. Despite entertaining some misgivings about the series still, I did think the best line of the programme had to go to Keith Allen. When one of the character said I shot the sheriff, Keith appeared from the shadows to say, no you shot the deputy. Well it made me laugh...
No 3 was further satisfied with the promise of more swimming so by the time we got to my sister's yesterday she was completely pacified, so we didn't feel too guilty.
We had a lovely relaxing afternoon before heading off in the rain home. Sadly our journey was horribly slow, ensuring we missed the beginning of Torchwood, but, still. It was better then driving 150 miles and putting up a tent in the pouring rain....
Tuning into Wogan this morning I heard the very sad news of Paul Walters untimely death. Like thousands of people up and down the country I am sure I am not alone in mourning the loss of this wonderfully talented man. Mornings just won't be the same again. Hats off to the magnificent Terry Wogan and his team, for pulling off such a wonderfully moving tribute to Pauly without the slightest mawkishness, and much great humour. I'm sure he'd have loved it.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
That Pesky Glass Ceiling
I'm not usually given to polemic on this blog, the purpose of which is entirely selfish. It allows me to let off steam about the madness of my everyday life and gives my writerly ego a boost when someone strays across it and kindly writes me an email. Every writer is at heart a huge egotist. We want people to read the pearls of our wisdom, otherwise there is No Point...
Anyway, as usual I digress.
I have been engaging in a friendly discussion with a good friend recently about the way parenthood affects the lives of women, and what happens to their careers when it does. We started off in the personal, but some of the things he said to me started to make me think of the problem in its wider context. And this week several things I have read in the paper made me think even harder.
The first was an article Mary Kenny wrote in The Daily Telegraph about the survey that Women's Hour did which seemed to suggest that the majority of twenty somethings were keen to settle down and have children, and women were turning their backs on highflying careers. Her response to this was that it proves that women are incapable of being leaders and cannot go against nature. The reason not enough of us have broken through the glass ceiling is because our nature prevents us. In effect - we just aren't up to it.
What????? Did I just miss something or did feminism never happen? I can think of a whole host of women who have succeeded in making it to the top: Anita Roddick, Cherie Blair, Margaret Thatcher, Helena Kennedy, to name but a few. I also take huge issue with her assertion that women are only interested in local politics/politics of the family. I'm sorry, Mary, but that just ain't true. Or certainly not for me anyway. If anything I've become more politicised since I've been at home with the sprogs. For a start I'm listening to the radio all day/or online so am always up to date with the news. And while I cheerfully admit my early morning listening eschews Today (too bloody miserable for words) in favour of El Tel (he cheers me up in the morning, ok?), courtesy of Messrs Mayo and Vine I usually get some good pithy analysis of what's going on in the world, so I have developed some healthy bolshy opinions as a result.
Apart from this inducing a coffee cup moment, there were aspects of her argument I agreed with. I have learnt the hard way you can't have it all, and certainly it is my experience that many many talented and brilliant women walk away from their careers to nurture their children. I am in the middle of a fascinating book by Professor Tim Spector who runs the Twins Unit at St Thomas' entitled, Your Genes Unzipped. I am clearly no expert on genetics, but from what I've read Mary Kenny is probably right, nature does come into it somewhere. Women are programmed to be nurturers and men are programmed to be hunter gatherers - society has changed, but our basic natures haven't. However, in the same book, Professor Spector also points out that it is a relatively new phenomenon for women to stay at home and raise their young, and there are plenty of societies where women did both and were treated as equal partners.
The second article I read (sorry also in the Torygraph. If I wasn't so lazy I would read more then one paper, but lack of time means I just read what Spouse brings home) - seemed to be saying something different. It claimed that scores of middle class professionals are delaying parenthood till they are financially settled, and that when they do get there, they spend a fortune on expensive techie equipment to keep tabs on their nannies at home. I did think the woman who had a webcam through which she could communicate with her nanny whenever she wanted had a point - it keeps her in touch and aware of problems at home without her having to dash back at the slightest crisis. She gets to see her children (if only via a technological link), the kids get to hear from Mummy in the day and the nanny has a back up if things go wrong.
However, if people are employing the technology to spy on their nannies then that is bonkers. If you can't bear to entrust your child to someone else then you shouldn't be at work. I have been enormously lucky with my childcare. My first childminder was someone I knew well, who happened to have a baby at the same time as I am. I went back to work comfortable in the knowledge that no1 was not only well cared for, she had a friend to play with too. In fact ten years later they are still best friends. I then had a wonderful nanny, who only left me last year when no 4 went to nursery. I am lucky enough to work from home, but even had I not, I would have trusted her implicitly. If I hadn't trusted either of them, I simply wouldn't have let them look after my children. Admittedly we can all get it wrong, but the majority of childminders and nannies are not child abusers - and I think instincts are a powerful thing. If you aren't sure, don't employ them would be my motto...
The third report I read this week is the quite staggering notion that teenage girls who are pregnant are smoking to keep their babies small, and ensure they have easy labours.
What???? Again another coffee cup moment. Actually, it turns out (well according to all the midwives who rang in the Jeremy Vine programme the other day) this one is as old as the hills. Teenage girls have apparently always done this. But surely we are talking about the Vicky Pollards of this world, here. Not all of them can be that stupid can they?
So there you have it the media stories of the week focussing on parenthood, all of which are ever so slightly contradictory.
1) Everyone is opting to settle down and have babies in their mid twenties, and women are forgoing a high flying career
2) Everyone is opting to have babies later and waiting till they are financially secure and women are carrying on with their high flying careers.
3) Everyone is actually saying sod that for a game of soldiers, I am having my babies when I'm young and smoking myself to death to retain my figure....
Hmmm.
All of that makes for a great story in the press, but I wonder really what the truth is.
Twenty years ago I was in the middle of my university degree, reading English at Liverpool University. Through a wonderful tutor I had embarked on a discovery of hitherto unknown women writers, and my sensibilities were being awoken to feminism. The further discovery that my grandmother had had a place at Liverpool also to read English, but been unable to take it up because her father didn't believe in education for women, set light a burning ambition in me, to make the most of what I had been given.
At 21 of course I wasn't thinking about any of this. Did I but know it I had already met my future husband and the father of my babies. But it was the last thing on our minds. I think we'd have both run a mile if anyone had shown us a crystal ball of the future. As it says in the song, we were much to young to consider that kind of thing and were concentrating on having fun instead.
Once real life hit and we were fending for ourselves in the big bad world, we were too busy paying off a mortgage and getting established in our careers to consider parenthood as something we were prepared to get into just yet.
My friend reckons parenthood was anathema to us, but the truth was more complicated then that.
We both always wanted children, but having watched a couple we knew as students get bogged down with babies far too young, we weren't at all inclined to follow them. Plus when we did get married (in our mid twenties - much younger then nearly all our university contemporaries) we indulged in a DIY project to end all DIY projects. Bringing a baby into the equation at that point, would have been quite frankly disastrous, both financially and physically. The house was full of dust for about three years. (So OK, not too dissimilar from our life in our current abode, which has been an ongoing DIY project for ten years, but at least we have more rooms to escape too).
I will admit to having a fear of domesticity (which thanks to my feminist readings were not totally unfounded) . I perceived (and I don't think I was too far off the mark in this) it as a trap. Women get to stay at home and have the babies, and men are still out there in the world doing the interesting stuff. (My friend here, I know will disagree - he thinks motherhood is where the power is at, and that all men do is strut around and puff about. ) I was also terrified of the prospect of labour. I blame a rather gruesome video I watched when I was at school in which I can remember the poor mother screaming her head off. I found the sight of the bloody crumpled baby appalling - anything less miraculous and beautiful I couldn't imagine - and I wasn't at all sure I ever wanted that to happen to me...
So when friends of ours started to have babies, I admit I did panic. I saw them enter a new phase in their lives and was desperately paddling against a current which seemed to be sweeping me over the edge of a precipice into a world where I was not yet prepared to go.
At the same time I was forging ahead with a career I loved. I was editing manuscripts by the time I was 26, which at the time was quite young to be an editor. I was having fun in a busy work environment, and wasn't yet ready to give up the freedoms it offered me.
I don't know how long I would have kept this up. Nature, as Mary Kenny rightly points out, will out. And I come from a large family, very much orientated towards children. My siblings were starting to have babies, as were my friends. My fears about childbirth, the responsibility of having children, my subsequent loss of freedom notwithstanding, eventually I was going to start thinking about it too.
In the end I was catapulted into my decision. Work stopped being fun and my father died rather suddenly just before my 30th birthday. All my reasons for not wanting children suddenly seemed superfluous. Within three months of my father's death I was pregnant. Looking back I can see this was not the most rational decision I have ever made, and I probably wasn't ready to be a mother. But then who is? And now I'm glad I didn't wait till my late thirties. I've been lucky enough to have four healthy babies - I don't know how different it might have been had I started out later. And without that catastrophic event pushing me over the precipice, whose to say I wouldn't have teetered on the edge until it was too late?
We might all be anxious about entering the state of parenthood, but I doubt one of us ever regrets it.
At this stage it never ever occurred to me (in fact it wasn't an issue at all as far as I was concerned), that I wouldn't go back to work. I had worked hard in publishing for ten years. Why should I give all that up to have a baby? Plus we had just taken on a new mortgage. We couldn't actually afford for me not to be at work.
Some months ago I posted about the joy of the day no 1 was born. Everything I wrote about it is true. But what I didn't write about was my subsequent feelings of failure and despondency in the months following her birth.
We all have huge expectations when we become parents. We wonder what our babies will look like. We assume we will love them. For women, we hope the labour will be short and easy. The truth of course is that, until it happens to us, we don't know how we will feel.
As I mentioned previously, my labour with no1 was long, protracted and extremely painful. (I thought I was being a wimp, until I had no 4, also induced, and discovered that one lot of prostin ups the anti - and with no 1 I had three). I was induced, had an episiotomy, forceps and stitches. It was a far cry from the lovely natural experience I had hoped for after my ante-natal NCT classes. When she came out (memories of that ghastly video resurfacing no doubt) I didn't actually want to hold her till she was cleaned up. In fact I didn't get to hold her straightaway anyway, as thanks to the length of the labour a paediatrician was on hand to check her out (I was too drugged up to appreciate the significance of this at the time, it is only now I go cold at the thought of what might have happened).
When I was eventually left alone in a room with her, I didn't know what to do. My baby started to cry and I couldn't reach her, the effects of the epidural having not worn off meant I couldn't walk. I had sent Spouse home as he needed to sleep, and the midwives had got busy and presumably forgotten that I needed to go back to the maternity ward. I was hungry and tired and when no 1 was eventually brought to me, she latched on hungrily, noisily and painfully to my breast. It was a thoroughly miserable experience.
I am no earth mother, and for me, breastfeeding was a nightmare. My nipples were sore and cracked, I leaked all over the place. I felt like a milk cow. It was ghastly. My sisters all relished the experience, but I couldn't wait to get my body back and it was with great relief that at six weeks no 1 happily took to a bottle and I could look forward to getting back to normal.
I was hopelessly naive of course. Normal had gone. My life as it had been was over, and a new one was just beginning. But I didn't realise that at the time.
I spent most of my maternity leave, longing to return to work. Although I semi enjoyed the baby, I was frustrated by the lack of responses I got from her - newborn babies are pretty boring frankly, and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying (in fact I think there is a huge culture of lying that goes on when women becomes mothers. No one, but no one wants to admit it isn't a perfect experience). I couldn't understand how my days were so unfocussed, and would pass in a daze of changing nappies and feeding. I longed to get back to my desk and have some kind of control.
And I was also harbouring a guilty secret. I didn't actually love my baby. Or at least not in the sense I imagined I would. Other people I knew spoke of a rush of mother love when they held their babies for the first time. It never happened to me. I was euphoric, but my main feeling was thank God that's over. I didn't even mind when they took her away from me. I had strong feelings of tenderness towards her, and felt a ferocious protectiveness, but love? I can honestly say I didn't love her. How can you love a blob?
What kind of a mother was I? Surely everyone loves their babies? I felt a failure. So I wanted to be back somewhere where I had been a success.
For me going back to work was therefore a huge relief. Spouse was the one who had a pang the first day he took no 1 to the childminder. Me? I was just pleased to get my life back.
Clearly, looking back I was suffering some kind of postnatal depression, but I think more then that, I was experiencing a disappointment that many first time mums feel. I grew in time to love my baby, but I also had to get to know her. I don't think there is anything wrong or unnatural in that. I can even pinpoint the exact moment I fell in love with her. She was nine months old and had just learnt to play peekaboo with a blanket. Spouse and I (who were in the middle of a totally nightmarish family crisis at the time) stood and looked at her for hours as she hid behind a blanket grinning and giggling, a little oasis of joy in the middle of much misery.
From that moment on, my feelings towards parenthood changed. I still resented the loss of my freedom (and ten years on I chafe at the fact that I can never just get up and go somewhere without reference to other people), but the truth was, my work life was not getting any better and having no1 at home to escape to was a blessed relief.
So when I fell pregnant with no 2 and work was becoming stressful beyond belief, I took the decision to bow out of the race I had been in so long. I hadn't even bumped the surface of the glass ceiling, and it took a long long time to get over a feeling that I hadn't achieved my full potential, but I also didn't want to miss out on my children growing up. We only get one shot at it, and I didn't want their memories to be of Mummy never being around. I can still remember the secure feeling I used to get when I walked through the door after a school day and my mother would be calmly sewing in a corner. I wanted to give that to my own offspring. (Not sure they get much calmness, but they do have me...)
Of course, as everything in life, this comes with a price. In order to be at home, I have had to say farewell to my glittering career. I have looked on enviously as others, younger, brighter, more ambitious then I have taken my place, then overshot me. I have chafed at doing tedious often poor paying freelance work (though of late fortunately that has improved), and been bored rigid by the drudgery of domesticity.
But for all that I have been blessed with the opportunity of watching my children grow, and much as I might bitch about it, I wouldn't have missed it for the world. And though I have been hanging onto my career by my fingernails, I have just about held on and now I can start looking outward again and think about facing the world once more. I've lost ten years it's true, but what I have gained has been incomparable.
So going back to Mary Kenny, maybe she is right. Maybe I didn't ever have what it takes to get to the top. But I think the truth is perhaps not so black and white. I was certainly ambitious enough and capable enough of getting much higher. But I have a feeling, even had I got there and forgone children, I would now be looking around and saying So What? I know plenty of men my age who think similarly. I also think, certainly in my industry, which is very female orientated, there is a huge brain drain that goes on once women start to have babies. Of the ten or so talented women I worked closely with a decade ago, only a couple still work full time in the industry, and they don't have children. That can't be a good thing, surely. The men get to the top in publishing by default, not because they are better then us. On the other hand, I do know career women who work crazy hours, hardly see their children, are knackered and stressed beyond belief in order to break through the elusive glass ceiling. And so many men I know complain about not seeing enough of their children. That is just plain bonkers.
Maybe the next generation have got it right and are focussing on the right things. We are genetically programmed to mate and procreate. Everything else is mere chaff. But then I look at all those teenagers and despair - do they not have any ambition or hope for doing something other then produce a child they can't afford to care for? After all any idiot can have a baby... That can't be right either.
The truth is out there, somewhere. But I suspect it is slightly more complicated then Ms Kenny would have us believe. My generation has been one of the first to have the choice about when we have our babies and how we deal with our careers when we do. We have in lots of ways got it very badly wrong, and maybe the younger generation is quite rightly stomping into tell us so. Maybe they will learn from our mistakes and get it right. Maybe.
Or maybe they'll just make mistakes all their own.
Anyway, as usual I digress.
I have been engaging in a friendly discussion with a good friend recently about the way parenthood affects the lives of women, and what happens to their careers when it does. We started off in the personal, but some of the things he said to me started to make me think of the problem in its wider context. And this week several things I have read in the paper made me think even harder.
The first was an article Mary Kenny wrote in The Daily Telegraph about the survey that Women's Hour did which seemed to suggest that the majority of twenty somethings were keen to settle down and have children, and women were turning their backs on highflying careers. Her response to this was that it proves that women are incapable of being leaders and cannot go against nature. The reason not enough of us have broken through the glass ceiling is because our nature prevents us. In effect - we just aren't up to it.
What????? Did I just miss something or did feminism never happen? I can think of a whole host of women who have succeeded in making it to the top: Anita Roddick, Cherie Blair, Margaret Thatcher, Helena Kennedy, to name but a few. I also take huge issue with her assertion that women are only interested in local politics/politics of the family. I'm sorry, Mary, but that just ain't true. Or certainly not for me anyway. If anything I've become more politicised since I've been at home with the sprogs. For a start I'm listening to the radio all day/or online so am always up to date with the news. And while I cheerfully admit my early morning listening eschews Today (too bloody miserable for words) in favour of El Tel (he cheers me up in the morning, ok?), courtesy of Messrs Mayo and Vine I usually get some good pithy analysis of what's going on in the world, so I have developed some healthy bolshy opinions as a result.
Apart from this inducing a coffee cup moment, there were aspects of her argument I agreed with. I have learnt the hard way you can't have it all, and certainly it is my experience that many many talented and brilliant women walk away from their careers to nurture their children. I am in the middle of a fascinating book by Professor Tim Spector who runs the Twins Unit at St Thomas' entitled, Your Genes Unzipped. I am clearly no expert on genetics, but from what I've read Mary Kenny is probably right, nature does come into it somewhere. Women are programmed to be nurturers and men are programmed to be hunter gatherers - society has changed, but our basic natures haven't. However, in the same book, Professor Spector also points out that it is a relatively new phenomenon for women to stay at home and raise their young, and there are plenty of societies where women did both and were treated as equal partners.
The second article I read (sorry also in the Torygraph. If I wasn't so lazy I would read more then one paper, but lack of time means I just read what Spouse brings home) - seemed to be saying something different. It claimed that scores of middle class professionals are delaying parenthood till they are financially settled, and that when they do get there, they spend a fortune on expensive techie equipment to keep tabs on their nannies at home. I did think the woman who had a webcam through which she could communicate with her nanny whenever she wanted had a point - it keeps her in touch and aware of problems at home without her having to dash back at the slightest crisis. She gets to see her children (if only via a technological link), the kids get to hear from Mummy in the day and the nanny has a back up if things go wrong.
However, if people are employing the technology to spy on their nannies then that is bonkers. If you can't bear to entrust your child to someone else then you shouldn't be at work. I have been enormously lucky with my childcare. My first childminder was someone I knew well, who happened to have a baby at the same time as I am. I went back to work comfortable in the knowledge that no1 was not only well cared for, she had a friend to play with too. In fact ten years later they are still best friends. I then had a wonderful nanny, who only left me last year when no 4 went to nursery. I am lucky enough to work from home, but even had I not, I would have trusted her implicitly. If I hadn't trusted either of them, I simply wouldn't have let them look after my children. Admittedly we can all get it wrong, but the majority of childminders and nannies are not child abusers - and I think instincts are a powerful thing. If you aren't sure, don't employ them would be my motto...
The third report I read this week is the quite staggering notion that teenage girls who are pregnant are smoking to keep their babies small, and ensure they have easy labours.
What???? Again another coffee cup moment. Actually, it turns out (well according to all the midwives who rang in the Jeremy Vine programme the other day) this one is as old as the hills. Teenage girls have apparently always done this. But surely we are talking about the Vicky Pollards of this world, here. Not all of them can be that stupid can they?
So there you have it the media stories of the week focussing on parenthood, all of which are ever so slightly contradictory.
1) Everyone is opting to settle down and have babies in their mid twenties, and women are forgoing a high flying career
2) Everyone is opting to have babies later and waiting till they are financially secure and women are carrying on with their high flying careers.
3) Everyone is actually saying sod that for a game of soldiers, I am having my babies when I'm young and smoking myself to death to retain my figure....
Hmmm.
All of that makes for a great story in the press, but I wonder really what the truth is.
Twenty years ago I was in the middle of my university degree, reading English at Liverpool University. Through a wonderful tutor I had embarked on a discovery of hitherto unknown women writers, and my sensibilities were being awoken to feminism. The further discovery that my grandmother had had a place at Liverpool also to read English, but been unable to take it up because her father didn't believe in education for women, set light a burning ambition in me, to make the most of what I had been given.
At 21 of course I wasn't thinking about any of this. Did I but know it I had already met my future husband and the father of my babies. But it was the last thing on our minds. I think we'd have both run a mile if anyone had shown us a crystal ball of the future. As it says in the song, we were much to young to consider that kind of thing and were concentrating on having fun instead.
Once real life hit and we were fending for ourselves in the big bad world, we were too busy paying off a mortgage and getting established in our careers to consider parenthood as something we were prepared to get into just yet.
My friend reckons parenthood was anathema to us, but the truth was more complicated then that.
We both always wanted children, but having watched a couple we knew as students get bogged down with babies far too young, we weren't at all inclined to follow them. Plus when we did get married (in our mid twenties - much younger then nearly all our university contemporaries) we indulged in a DIY project to end all DIY projects. Bringing a baby into the equation at that point, would have been quite frankly disastrous, both financially and physically. The house was full of dust for about three years. (So OK, not too dissimilar from our life in our current abode, which has been an ongoing DIY project for ten years, but at least we have more rooms to escape too).
I will admit to having a fear of domesticity (which thanks to my feminist readings were not totally unfounded) . I perceived (and I don't think I was too far off the mark in this) it as a trap. Women get to stay at home and have the babies, and men are still out there in the world doing the interesting stuff. (My friend here, I know will disagree - he thinks motherhood is where the power is at, and that all men do is strut around and puff about. ) I was also terrified of the prospect of labour. I blame a rather gruesome video I watched when I was at school in which I can remember the poor mother screaming her head off. I found the sight of the bloody crumpled baby appalling - anything less miraculous and beautiful I couldn't imagine - and I wasn't at all sure I ever wanted that to happen to me...
So when friends of ours started to have babies, I admit I did panic. I saw them enter a new phase in their lives and was desperately paddling against a current which seemed to be sweeping me over the edge of a precipice into a world where I was not yet prepared to go.
At the same time I was forging ahead with a career I loved. I was editing manuscripts by the time I was 26, which at the time was quite young to be an editor. I was having fun in a busy work environment, and wasn't yet ready to give up the freedoms it offered me.
I don't know how long I would have kept this up. Nature, as Mary Kenny rightly points out, will out. And I come from a large family, very much orientated towards children. My siblings were starting to have babies, as were my friends. My fears about childbirth, the responsibility of having children, my subsequent loss of freedom notwithstanding, eventually I was going to start thinking about it too.
In the end I was catapulted into my decision. Work stopped being fun and my father died rather suddenly just before my 30th birthday. All my reasons for not wanting children suddenly seemed superfluous. Within three months of my father's death I was pregnant. Looking back I can see this was not the most rational decision I have ever made, and I probably wasn't ready to be a mother. But then who is? And now I'm glad I didn't wait till my late thirties. I've been lucky enough to have four healthy babies - I don't know how different it might have been had I started out later. And without that catastrophic event pushing me over the precipice, whose to say I wouldn't have teetered on the edge until it was too late?
We might all be anxious about entering the state of parenthood, but I doubt one of us ever regrets it.
At this stage it never ever occurred to me (in fact it wasn't an issue at all as far as I was concerned), that I wouldn't go back to work. I had worked hard in publishing for ten years. Why should I give all that up to have a baby? Plus we had just taken on a new mortgage. We couldn't actually afford for me not to be at work.
Some months ago I posted about the joy of the day no 1 was born. Everything I wrote about it is true. But what I didn't write about was my subsequent feelings of failure and despondency in the months following her birth.
We all have huge expectations when we become parents. We wonder what our babies will look like. We assume we will love them. For women, we hope the labour will be short and easy. The truth of course is that, until it happens to us, we don't know how we will feel.
As I mentioned previously, my labour with no1 was long, protracted and extremely painful. (I thought I was being a wimp, until I had no 4, also induced, and discovered that one lot of prostin ups the anti - and with no 1 I had three). I was induced, had an episiotomy, forceps and stitches. It was a far cry from the lovely natural experience I had hoped for after my ante-natal NCT classes. When she came out (memories of that ghastly video resurfacing no doubt) I didn't actually want to hold her till she was cleaned up. In fact I didn't get to hold her straightaway anyway, as thanks to the length of the labour a paediatrician was on hand to check her out (I was too drugged up to appreciate the significance of this at the time, it is only now I go cold at the thought of what might have happened).
When I was eventually left alone in a room with her, I didn't know what to do. My baby started to cry and I couldn't reach her, the effects of the epidural having not worn off meant I couldn't walk. I had sent Spouse home as he needed to sleep, and the midwives had got busy and presumably forgotten that I needed to go back to the maternity ward. I was hungry and tired and when no 1 was eventually brought to me, she latched on hungrily, noisily and painfully to my breast. It was a thoroughly miserable experience.
I am no earth mother, and for me, breastfeeding was a nightmare. My nipples were sore and cracked, I leaked all over the place. I felt like a milk cow. It was ghastly. My sisters all relished the experience, but I couldn't wait to get my body back and it was with great relief that at six weeks no 1 happily took to a bottle and I could look forward to getting back to normal.
I was hopelessly naive of course. Normal had gone. My life as it had been was over, and a new one was just beginning. But I didn't realise that at the time.
I spent most of my maternity leave, longing to return to work. Although I semi enjoyed the baby, I was frustrated by the lack of responses I got from her - newborn babies are pretty boring frankly, and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying (in fact I think there is a huge culture of lying that goes on when women becomes mothers. No one, but no one wants to admit it isn't a perfect experience). I couldn't understand how my days were so unfocussed, and would pass in a daze of changing nappies and feeding. I longed to get back to my desk and have some kind of control.
And I was also harbouring a guilty secret. I didn't actually love my baby. Or at least not in the sense I imagined I would. Other people I knew spoke of a rush of mother love when they held their babies for the first time. It never happened to me. I was euphoric, but my main feeling was thank God that's over. I didn't even mind when they took her away from me. I had strong feelings of tenderness towards her, and felt a ferocious protectiveness, but love? I can honestly say I didn't love her. How can you love a blob?
What kind of a mother was I? Surely everyone loves their babies? I felt a failure. So I wanted to be back somewhere where I had been a success.
For me going back to work was therefore a huge relief. Spouse was the one who had a pang the first day he took no 1 to the childminder. Me? I was just pleased to get my life back.
Clearly, looking back I was suffering some kind of postnatal depression, but I think more then that, I was experiencing a disappointment that many first time mums feel. I grew in time to love my baby, but I also had to get to know her. I don't think there is anything wrong or unnatural in that. I can even pinpoint the exact moment I fell in love with her. She was nine months old and had just learnt to play peekaboo with a blanket. Spouse and I (who were in the middle of a totally nightmarish family crisis at the time) stood and looked at her for hours as she hid behind a blanket grinning and giggling, a little oasis of joy in the middle of much misery.
From that moment on, my feelings towards parenthood changed. I still resented the loss of my freedom (and ten years on I chafe at the fact that I can never just get up and go somewhere without reference to other people), but the truth was, my work life was not getting any better and having no1 at home to escape to was a blessed relief.
So when I fell pregnant with no 2 and work was becoming stressful beyond belief, I took the decision to bow out of the race I had been in so long. I hadn't even bumped the surface of the glass ceiling, and it took a long long time to get over a feeling that I hadn't achieved my full potential, but I also didn't want to miss out on my children growing up. We only get one shot at it, and I didn't want their memories to be of Mummy never being around. I can still remember the secure feeling I used to get when I walked through the door after a school day and my mother would be calmly sewing in a corner. I wanted to give that to my own offspring. (Not sure they get much calmness, but they do have me...)
Of course, as everything in life, this comes with a price. In order to be at home, I have had to say farewell to my glittering career. I have looked on enviously as others, younger, brighter, more ambitious then I have taken my place, then overshot me. I have chafed at doing tedious often poor paying freelance work (though of late fortunately that has improved), and been bored rigid by the drudgery of domesticity.
But for all that I have been blessed with the opportunity of watching my children grow, and much as I might bitch about it, I wouldn't have missed it for the world. And though I have been hanging onto my career by my fingernails, I have just about held on and now I can start looking outward again and think about facing the world once more. I've lost ten years it's true, but what I have gained has been incomparable.
So going back to Mary Kenny, maybe she is right. Maybe I didn't ever have what it takes to get to the top. But I think the truth is perhaps not so black and white. I was certainly ambitious enough and capable enough of getting much higher. But I have a feeling, even had I got there and forgone children, I would now be looking around and saying So What? I know plenty of men my age who think similarly. I also think, certainly in my industry, which is very female orientated, there is a huge brain drain that goes on once women start to have babies. Of the ten or so talented women I worked closely with a decade ago, only a couple still work full time in the industry, and they don't have children. That can't be a good thing, surely. The men get to the top in publishing by default, not because they are better then us. On the other hand, I do know career women who work crazy hours, hardly see their children, are knackered and stressed beyond belief in order to break through the elusive glass ceiling. And so many men I know complain about not seeing enough of their children. That is just plain bonkers.
Maybe the next generation have got it right and are focussing on the right things. We are genetically programmed to mate and procreate. Everything else is mere chaff. But then I look at all those teenagers and despair - do they not have any ambition or hope for doing something other then produce a child they can't afford to care for? After all any idiot can have a baby... That can't be right either.
The truth is out there, somewhere. But I suspect it is slightly more complicated then Ms Kenny would have us believe. My generation has been one of the first to have the choice about when we have our babies and how we deal with our careers when we do. We have in lots of ways got it very badly wrong, and maybe the younger generation is quite rightly stomping into tell us so. Maybe they will learn from our mistakes and get it right. Maybe.
Or maybe they'll just make mistakes all their own.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Oh to be in England, when time for choosing schools is here...
Now that I am getting used to my recent change of status as Mum Who Has All Her Children In School, I have to start thinking about my next move, which will be Mum of Daughter Going To Secondary School.
Oh yes. I have amazingly reached the point where we are looking at secondary schools for no 1.
I don't know how the system operates in other parts of the country, but round here it is plain daft.
For starters all the open days for new schools are happening now, and yet the forms have to be in on 20 October, which leaves little time for important decision making if you need it. And yet we don't find out the decision until March. Why they can't have open days at the end of the summer term (when let's face it bugger all is going on in schools), beats me. At least then you might have some time to weigh up your options. Though of course, the reality is you don't actually have any options much. The chances are your child will go to the school nearest you and that is that.
Actually, we're quite lucky in that regard. There is a very good girl's school nearby, for which we are in the catchment area. However, we are also (just) in the catchment for an exceptionally good grammar school, which though further away is a wonderful school and would offer wonderful opportunities for our daughter. I am not a keen hothousy kind of mum by any means, but no1 is a bright little button, and I feel she deserves a shot at going to the best school we can get her into (bearing in mind having four children completely precludes private education).
No1, however, has other ideas. All her friends are likely to go to the Other School (although we know of at least ten others trying for the one we want her to go to). The chances are most of them won't get in (800 odd girls apply for 120 places) - but we think no 1 has a reasonable chance to succeed and her fear is she gets in and no one else she knows will.
It is a reasonable worry, and I am not unsympathetic. In fact, I am very sympathetic, as I can understand for a ten year old this talk of change and moving on is very unsettling. The trouble is of course, she can't see, as we can, that the chances of her actually being with any of her friends in the Other School are also fairly minimal - there are eight forms and the school is so huge it is split into two so that it is quite likely no 1 will never see some of her friends at all. She also doesn't understand of course, that she will make new friends.
What she does understand is that her mum and dad are currently the meanest people on the planet for making her do this wretched exam, which she fully intends to fail.
Or at least that's what she told me the other day. Trouble is, she is probably clever enough to deliberately answer the wrong questions. And she is also quite like me in some ways - a subversive rebel who never openly questions authority. I can remember hating music and doing deliberately badly at it. It wouldn't surprise me if she did the same. Although, I'm rather hoping that she is enough of a goody two shoes (like I was) not to take her rebellion to those lengths.
Don't get me wrong, it certainly wouldn't be the end of the world if she didn't get into the school we're trying her for, but it would be a pity if she failed because she couldn't be arsed. And I can't say this is something we want to encourage.
In a bid to keep her onside, we took no2 round on the Open Day with us, as the school in question has rather fine sporting facilities, and we predicted (correctly) that no 2 would be wowed by the gym where there were gymnasts displaying their skills and the rather wonderful swimming pool they have (right on both counts). No1 despite her grumpiness was also taken by the chemistry labs where we saw testtubes being heated up and the biology labs where she got to look down microscopes at blood and bones etc. But as soon as we got home she burst into tears and said she didn't want to go. I did my best to cheer her up, but to no avail.
Yesterday I got her back from school and she was in floods again. You are so cruu-eeee--lll she sobbed. The only person making me unhappy is you. Great. Now I have big big guilt....
I tried in vain to explain about reaching your full potential/this being the opportunity of a lifetime, but to no avail. It all boils down to not being with your mates. Which lets face it, at ten is your biggest priority.
In the end, in desperation, I dug myself a really really big hole by saying I wouldn't make her do anything she didn't want to.
Big, big mistake.
The response is a not unnatural, Well don't make me do the test then....
Shit. That wasn't what I meant at all.
Thinking fast, I said, Aah, but it would be a pity to waste all that hard work now wouldn't it? (Against our better judgement, we have been going for some fairly lowkey tutoring since the Spring - only because I know she wouldn't sit past papers with me, and because no one bothers to teach her how to pass the exams at school. It's probably too elitist or something).
She did grumpily accede to this, but then started muttering, What if I pass and I don't want to go?
I fudged this as much as I could. My normal modus operandi is to be upfront and straight with my sprogs, as they are so good at detecting a lie anyway. But the problem we have is that, if we put the grammar school first and get offered a place we HAVE to take it. If she doesn't get in, then she goes to the Other School.
So I am now inhabiting a wierd Twilight Zone where I am putting a child in for an exam which I know she has the capacity to pass, worrying that a) she will deliberately fail and b) that she will get in, and hoping that c) she passes but doesn't get offered a place so she can go to the Other School and be happy, whilst really wanting d) her to pass the exam, get in and want to go....
I have a feeling one of us is going to be disappointed....
Oh yes. I have amazingly reached the point where we are looking at secondary schools for no 1.
I don't know how the system operates in other parts of the country, but round here it is plain daft.
For starters all the open days for new schools are happening now, and yet the forms have to be in on 20 October, which leaves little time for important decision making if you need it. And yet we don't find out the decision until March. Why they can't have open days at the end of the summer term (when let's face it bugger all is going on in schools), beats me. At least then you might have some time to weigh up your options. Though of course, the reality is you don't actually have any options much. The chances are your child will go to the school nearest you and that is that.
Actually, we're quite lucky in that regard. There is a very good girl's school nearby, for which we are in the catchment area. However, we are also (just) in the catchment for an exceptionally good grammar school, which though further away is a wonderful school and would offer wonderful opportunities for our daughter. I am not a keen hothousy kind of mum by any means, but no1 is a bright little button, and I feel she deserves a shot at going to the best school we can get her into (bearing in mind having four children completely precludes private education).
No1, however, has other ideas. All her friends are likely to go to the Other School (although we know of at least ten others trying for the one we want her to go to). The chances are most of them won't get in (800 odd girls apply for 120 places) - but we think no 1 has a reasonable chance to succeed and her fear is she gets in and no one else she knows will.
It is a reasonable worry, and I am not unsympathetic. In fact, I am very sympathetic, as I can understand for a ten year old this talk of change and moving on is very unsettling. The trouble is of course, she can't see, as we can, that the chances of her actually being with any of her friends in the Other School are also fairly minimal - there are eight forms and the school is so huge it is split into two so that it is quite likely no 1 will never see some of her friends at all. She also doesn't understand of course, that she will make new friends.
What she does understand is that her mum and dad are currently the meanest people on the planet for making her do this wretched exam, which she fully intends to fail.
Or at least that's what she told me the other day. Trouble is, she is probably clever enough to deliberately answer the wrong questions. And she is also quite like me in some ways - a subversive rebel who never openly questions authority. I can remember hating music and doing deliberately badly at it. It wouldn't surprise me if she did the same. Although, I'm rather hoping that she is enough of a goody two shoes (like I was) not to take her rebellion to those lengths.
Don't get me wrong, it certainly wouldn't be the end of the world if she didn't get into the school we're trying her for, but it would be a pity if she failed because she couldn't be arsed. And I can't say this is something we want to encourage.
In a bid to keep her onside, we took no2 round on the Open Day with us, as the school in question has rather fine sporting facilities, and we predicted (correctly) that no 2 would be wowed by the gym where there were gymnasts displaying their skills and the rather wonderful swimming pool they have (right on both counts). No1 despite her grumpiness was also taken by the chemistry labs where we saw testtubes being heated up and the biology labs where she got to look down microscopes at blood and bones etc. But as soon as we got home she burst into tears and said she didn't want to go. I did my best to cheer her up, but to no avail.
Yesterday I got her back from school and she was in floods again. You are so cruu-eeee--lll she sobbed. The only person making me unhappy is you. Great. Now I have big big guilt....
I tried in vain to explain about reaching your full potential/this being the opportunity of a lifetime, but to no avail. It all boils down to not being with your mates. Which lets face it, at ten is your biggest priority.
In the end, in desperation, I dug myself a really really big hole by saying I wouldn't make her do anything she didn't want to.
Big, big mistake.
The response is a not unnatural, Well don't make me do the test then....
Shit. That wasn't what I meant at all.
Thinking fast, I said, Aah, but it would be a pity to waste all that hard work now wouldn't it? (Against our better judgement, we have been going for some fairly lowkey tutoring since the Spring - only because I know she wouldn't sit past papers with me, and because no one bothers to teach her how to pass the exams at school. It's probably too elitist or something).
She did grumpily accede to this, but then started muttering, What if I pass and I don't want to go?
I fudged this as much as I could. My normal modus operandi is to be upfront and straight with my sprogs, as they are so good at detecting a lie anyway. But the problem we have is that, if we put the grammar school first and get offered a place we HAVE to take it. If she doesn't get in, then she goes to the Other School.
So I am now inhabiting a wierd Twilight Zone where I am putting a child in for an exam which I know she has the capacity to pass, worrying that a) she will deliberately fail and b) that she will get in, and hoping that c) she passes but doesn't get offered a place so she can go to the Other School and be happy, whilst really wanting d) her to pass the exam, get in and want to go....
I have a feeling one of us is going to be disappointed....
Friday, September 22, 2006
Teeth, Tennis and Tears...
There is a standing joke in our house that the plumber's wife always has leaky taps, whilst the dentist's wife never gets her teeth done.
When I was at work, the fact that I was married to a dentist always prevented me from asking for time off for dental appointments (crazy, but true) as I thought people might think I was pulling a fast one. So I used to fit in my dental appointments at the end of Spouse's Saturday morning sessions. Not very efficient, but at least I got to see him.
When no 1 arrived I was still working and appointments tended to be fitted in on Monday evenings when Spouse worked late. I used to drive to his surgery about 6.30 and his nurse would pull faces at the baby while Spouse ministered to my mouth.
As time passed and more offspring arrived this arrangement became somewhat less then practical. And so, er, I found myself forgetting to make appointments. After several years of not being able to have any treatment because of pregnancies etc I found myself sitting in Spouse's chair and having the humiliating experience of having FOUR fillings. Which is slightly embarrassing for the dentist's wife.
However, worse is yet to come. On and off since my last visit one of my upper teeth has been bothering me. It still responds to hot and cold (A Good Sign - the tooth isn't dead yet), but I have a sneaky suspicion that this tooth is on its way out and I am going to end up having a root treatment. The tooth in question has so much amalgam in it now there is probably more filling then tooth, so longterm the future is not looking rosy.
At Spouse's suggestion I have been swilling mouth wash and flossing like mad (the terrible terrible thing about sharing your abode with a dentist is he will insist on checking if you floss at night...) and the tooth periodically settles down, before flaring up again a few weeks later.
This hole in the head approach (carried out mainly because of the school holidays - I couldn't face the thought of having a root filling with all the offspring standing round fascinated) has just about worked up until now. But the other day I woke up to find there was pain in my whole face. Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear.... Though I'm not dentally minded, I have been living with a dentist long enough to know that I was exhibiting all the signs of an abscess. And the really great thing about living with a dentist is he can fit me in at short notice.
So it was that yesterday morning we took the sprogs to school together and then I went to his surgery and he had a quick rummage round my tooth. As he was fitting me in before his proper patients I only got five minutes natch (but then I am only a wife and Know My Place) - but it was enough to establish that Spouse doesn't think the tooth is dead yet (phew). He took an x-ray and when he has a moment I expect I will get told what is going on - probably in about six months or so when he and I can fit it in again....
In the meantime the offspring have been exercising my mind by being ill (nos3&4 came over all feeble and had Wednesday off - most inconveniently as I am halfway through a thorough clean of my bedroom and needed two sick children like a hole in the head) and no 1 came home from school having fallen over and hurt her hand. Oh no, not again...
Luckily it seemed to be a bad sprain and wasn't any more serious.
Or so we thought.
This being MY family nothing is ever straightforward.
Yesterday while nursing my sore tooth, I picked the sprogs up from school and took them to tennis.
First off I failed dismally in the good mummy stakes by forgetting to pick up my friend's daughter until reminded by a more efficient mummy in the playground. Whoops.
When no 1 walked out she was clutching her arm wrapped up in a sweatshirt. Someone had run into her in the playground and her arm was hurting more then ever. So tennis was out for her then...
We got to the tennis club and I had another look at her hand, which was looking pretty swollen. She also didn't have much lateral movement and was in a lot of pain. Sod, sod and double sod. It was going to need an x-ray.
Luckily the tennis club is right by the hospital. Unluckily I had to wait till the little ones had finished their lesson and I could hand over my charge to her mother.
We then move to crap mummy moment no 2.
As I gathered my offspring together I couldn't find no 3. One minute she had been playing with no 2 and then she was gone...
A frantic search revealed nothing, and I anxiously went back to the car thinking maybe she'd struck off on her own (no 3 is an independent soul and is actually six going on eighteen), but nope she wasn't there. Luckily my friends are all more efficient then I am and managed to find her hidden behind a bush.
Then it was off to casualty, which was hideously busy. I rang Spouse on the way in and he came to get the sprogs while I waited with no 1. And waited. And waited. And waited...
By 7pm we'd been there an hour and a half, no 1 hadn't eaten or drunk anything and was in huge amounts of pain. She is a stoical creature, but even she couldn't prevent the tears at that point (which were enough to prompt the very nice and overworked receptionist to remind the very nice and overworked triage nurse that were still there, but it was another twenty minutes before we were seen.) Said triage nurse got us into the system as quickly as she could and we eventually got an x-ray. By this time I was convinced that we had another greenstick. But thank the lord we escaped without one. No1 meanwhile had got used to the idea that her arm might be broken again (she's already done it once) and was somewhat disappointed that she wasn't going to get a coloured plaster.
So then it was back home for some tea and calpol (and a bandage, as no one thought to put one on her). En route I had my third bad mummy moment - we were crossing the car park and I stopped to let a car through the barrier. As it went through I started walking, completely forgetting the barrier was coming down... which it nearly did on our heads - ouch! To prevent my child from being decapitated I not unnaturally grabbed her and pulled her through, accidentally banging her arm as I did so. Double ouch!At which point all her stoicism deserted her, poor lamb, and she howled all the way to the car.
This morning she had recovered her sang froid, althought she is still in some pain.
However, her sisters decided it was payback time for not having had me around at bedtime last night.
So as I was trying to clear the breakfast things away/make packed lunches/write off games notes for no1 I heard an almighty screaming match going on upstairs. No 3 stormed down the stairs and flung herself sobbing on the sofa. No 2 had apparently caused this dramatic display by committing the heinous crime of using no 3's toothbrush (it's all down to teeth in our house). No 2 was meanwhile sobbing at the top of the stairs yelling, Well you took my t-shirt (so that's ok then) - the which crime took place last week and was entirely my fault as I picked the wrong one up and gave it to her.
No 4 meanwhile had a spat with no 1 who had appropriated her new toothbrush (Spouse had clearly been dispensing toothbrushes at bedtime last night) and no 1 was rolling her eyes and wondering why she has been condemned to live in this madhouse till she is eighteen.
Having calmed that spat down I ran back to finish the clearing away/lunchboxes/letters to teacher etc. before being interrupted by nos 2 & 4 having a spat because no 2 wanted to make faces in the mirror and no 2 who was brushing her hair not unnaturally was in the way. Both of them were in floods of tears, but neither would apologise. When I gave no 2 a cuddle to try and cheer her up, she sobbed loudly that a) she was feeling ill (oh no you don't - no 2 has big form for pulling sickies when she's ok, and I wasn't having it today) and b) none of her friends play with her at school - ever. The fact that she won't play the games they want to play is obviously irrelevant. It's a jungle out there.
By now we were seriously running late, no 4 didn't have her shoes on, no 3 had lost her cardigan and I still hadn't written the letter to the teacher, and everyone was shouting. Including me. In fact I was shouting loudest.
I shoved everyone in the car and no 4 then had a paddy because she wanted to sit next to no 2 who funnily enough didn't want to sit next to her. Everyone was screaming apart from no 1 who looked like she would rather be anywhere but here... Me too, me too.
At this point I totally lost the plot, screamed and swore like a demented banshee, and was met with a withering look from no 1 as if to say, Mother, how could you?
Ok, ok, it takes a ten year old to teach me self control. But really. I've had better starts to the day.
Thankfully, two seconds of listening to Terry Wogan's cheerful warbles was enough to restore my good humour, and all the sprogs had stopped crying before they went into school. Always a worry that - you never know what they will tell their teachers about cruel parents.
And at least now, I can relax until 3pm.
If only my tooth would stop hurting, my cup of happiness would be complete....
When I was at work, the fact that I was married to a dentist always prevented me from asking for time off for dental appointments (crazy, but true) as I thought people might think I was pulling a fast one. So I used to fit in my dental appointments at the end of Spouse's Saturday morning sessions. Not very efficient, but at least I got to see him.
When no 1 arrived I was still working and appointments tended to be fitted in on Monday evenings when Spouse worked late. I used to drive to his surgery about 6.30 and his nurse would pull faces at the baby while Spouse ministered to my mouth.
As time passed and more offspring arrived this arrangement became somewhat less then practical. And so, er, I found myself forgetting to make appointments. After several years of not being able to have any treatment because of pregnancies etc I found myself sitting in Spouse's chair and having the humiliating experience of having FOUR fillings. Which is slightly embarrassing for the dentist's wife.
However, worse is yet to come. On and off since my last visit one of my upper teeth has been bothering me. It still responds to hot and cold (A Good Sign - the tooth isn't dead yet), but I have a sneaky suspicion that this tooth is on its way out and I am going to end up having a root treatment. The tooth in question has so much amalgam in it now there is probably more filling then tooth, so longterm the future is not looking rosy.
At Spouse's suggestion I have been swilling mouth wash and flossing like mad (the terrible terrible thing about sharing your abode with a dentist is he will insist on checking if you floss at night...) and the tooth periodically settles down, before flaring up again a few weeks later.
This hole in the head approach (carried out mainly because of the school holidays - I couldn't face the thought of having a root filling with all the offspring standing round fascinated) has just about worked up until now. But the other day I woke up to find there was pain in my whole face. Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear.... Though I'm not dentally minded, I have been living with a dentist long enough to know that I was exhibiting all the signs of an abscess. And the really great thing about living with a dentist is he can fit me in at short notice.
So it was that yesterday morning we took the sprogs to school together and then I went to his surgery and he had a quick rummage round my tooth. As he was fitting me in before his proper patients I only got five minutes natch (but then I am only a wife and Know My Place) - but it was enough to establish that Spouse doesn't think the tooth is dead yet (phew). He took an x-ray and when he has a moment I expect I will get told what is going on - probably in about six months or so when he and I can fit it in again....
In the meantime the offspring have been exercising my mind by being ill (nos3&4 came over all feeble and had Wednesday off - most inconveniently as I am halfway through a thorough clean of my bedroom and needed two sick children like a hole in the head) and no 1 came home from school having fallen over and hurt her hand. Oh no, not again...
Luckily it seemed to be a bad sprain and wasn't any more serious.
Or so we thought.
This being MY family nothing is ever straightforward.
Yesterday while nursing my sore tooth, I picked the sprogs up from school and took them to tennis.
First off I failed dismally in the good mummy stakes by forgetting to pick up my friend's daughter until reminded by a more efficient mummy in the playground. Whoops.
When no 1 walked out she was clutching her arm wrapped up in a sweatshirt. Someone had run into her in the playground and her arm was hurting more then ever. So tennis was out for her then...
We got to the tennis club and I had another look at her hand, which was looking pretty swollen. She also didn't have much lateral movement and was in a lot of pain. Sod, sod and double sod. It was going to need an x-ray.
Luckily the tennis club is right by the hospital. Unluckily I had to wait till the little ones had finished their lesson and I could hand over my charge to her mother.
We then move to crap mummy moment no 2.
As I gathered my offspring together I couldn't find no 3. One minute she had been playing with no 2 and then she was gone...
A frantic search revealed nothing, and I anxiously went back to the car thinking maybe she'd struck off on her own (no 3 is an independent soul and is actually six going on eighteen), but nope she wasn't there. Luckily my friends are all more efficient then I am and managed to find her hidden behind a bush.
Then it was off to casualty, which was hideously busy. I rang Spouse on the way in and he came to get the sprogs while I waited with no 1. And waited. And waited. And waited...
By 7pm we'd been there an hour and a half, no 1 hadn't eaten or drunk anything and was in huge amounts of pain. She is a stoical creature, but even she couldn't prevent the tears at that point (which were enough to prompt the very nice and overworked receptionist to remind the very nice and overworked triage nurse that were still there, but it was another twenty minutes before we were seen.) Said triage nurse got us into the system as quickly as she could and we eventually got an x-ray. By this time I was convinced that we had another greenstick. But thank the lord we escaped without one. No1 meanwhile had got used to the idea that her arm might be broken again (she's already done it once) and was somewhat disappointed that she wasn't going to get a coloured plaster.
So then it was back home for some tea and calpol (and a bandage, as no one thought to put one on her). En route I had my third bad mummy moment - we were crossing the car park and I stopped to let a car through the barrier. As it went through I started walking, completely forgetting the barrier was coming down... which it nearly did on our heads - ouch! To prevent my child from being decapitated I not unnaturally grabbed her and pulled her through, accidentally banging her arm as I did so. Double ouch!At which point all her stoicism deserted her, poor lamb, and she howled all the way to the car.
This morning she had recovered her sang froid, althought she is still in some pain.
However, her sisters decided it was payback time for not having had me around at bedtime last night.
So as I was trying to clear the breakfast things away/make packed lunches/write off games notes for no1 I heard an almighty screaming match going on upstairs. No 3 stormed down the stairs and flung herself sobbing on the sofa. No 2 had apparently caused this dramatic display by committing the heinous crime of using no 3's toothbrush (it's all down to teeth in our house). No 2 was meanwhile sobbing at the top of the stairs yelling, Well you took my t-shirt (so that's ok then) - the which crime took place last week and was entirely my fault as I picked the wrong one up and gave it to her.
No 4 meanwhile had a spat with no 1 who had appropriated her new toothbrush (Spouse had clearly been dispensing toothbrushes at bedtime last night) and no 1 was rolling her eyes and wondering why she has been condemned to live in this madhouse till she is eighteen.
Having calmed that spat down I ran back to finish the clearing away/lunchboxes/letters to teacher etc. before being interrupted by nos 2 & 4 having a spat because no 2 wanted to make faces in the mirror and no 2 who was brushing her hair not unnaturally was in the way. Both of them were in floods of tears, but neither would apologise. When I gave no 2 a cuddle to try and cheer her up, she sobbed loudly that a) she was feeling ill (oh no you don't - no 2 has big form for pulling sickies when she's ok, and I wasn't having it today) and b) none of her friends play with her at school - ever. The fact that she won't play the games they want to play is obviously irrelevant. It's a jungle out there.
By now we were seriously running late, no 4 didn't have her shoes on, no 3 had lost her cardigan and I still hadn't written the letter to the teacher, and everyone was shouting. Including me. In fact I was shouting loudest.
I shoved everyone in the car and no 4 then had a paddy because she wanted to sit next to no 2 who funnily enough didn't want to sit next to her. Everyone was screaming apart from no 1 who looked like she would rather be anywhere but here... Me too, me too.
At this point I totally lost the plot, screamed and swore like a demented banshee, and was met with a withering look from no 1 as if to say, Mother, how could you?
Ok, ok, it takes a ten year old to teach me self control. But really. I've had better starts to the day.
Thankfully, two seconds of listening to Terry Wogan's cheerful warbles was enough to restore my good humour, and all the sprogs had stopped crying before they went into school. Always a worry that - you never know what they will tell their teachers about cruel parents.
And at least now, I can relax until 3pm.
If only my tooth would stop hurting, my cup of happiness would be complete....
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Oh Brave New World....
Well, today, finally I have reached the nirvana for which I have been longing for oooh, about ten years... Yup, my youngest child has finally made it into full time education, and I have my life back. Wooohooo!!!!!
Now don't get me wrong, I adore my offspring and there have even been moments that I've enjoyed since I set off in this parenting malarkey all that time ago, but having had four so close together, there was a long long time when I had NO time to myself at all. And when I felt I was living an awful kind of Groundhog Day existence where I was condemned to repeat the pattern of having a baby who turned into a toddler, and then producing another baby... This time two years ago I was at my wits end and couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel. And now, suddenly, miraculously I am here.
No 4 actually started school last week, but as I have had to pick her up at lunchtimes, it hasn't felt so very different. Today is my first full day of freedom. Oh boy oh boy.
So what, am I going to do?
Well...... the house is reasonably tidy as I have been attacking it every morning, but my plan starting from next week is to go through every room really thoroughly and chuck out anything we don't need, and clean everything from top to bottom...
I also intend to do some more training. Huzzah.
And of course I shall now have lots more opportunity to work... So my next novel might actually get finished in a year (at least that is what my longsuffering and loyal agent is evidently hoping!).
I can't actually envisage being any less busy then I am at the moment. But the glorious thing is that I can actually have some time uncluttered by children and their needs and demands, so maybe I will be a little less maniacal in the evening.
Hmm... and maybe pigs will fly.
The last week has been punctuated with huge rows and bust ups as the sprogs get back into routine and no 4 who is overtired irritates the hell out of them all.
Hopefully she will be so knackered by the end of a full day she will be too dazed to keep it up...
I have to confess I didn't shed so much as a tear when she walked through the door. She is happy to go and more then ready for it, I can enjoy some well earned free time, and maybe for the first time in ten years start to feel that I am on top of things on the domestic front.
Whether I shall feel so sanguine next year when no 1 heads off to secondary school remains to be seen... at the moment the thought of sending her into the big wide world on her own is giving me the heebie jeebies, but I guess I have to bite the bullet some time. And she too is more then ready for it. I watched her swimming lengths the other day on her own, which is a huge improvement for a child who used to be terrified of the water. She confidently headed off to the deep end, while I less confidently watched as she swam round other people and I angsted about her suddenly losing it and dropping like a stone to the bottom. I was even more stressed by watching her try to touch the bottom of the deep end, though I know that's what I used to do at her age, with no one watching. And in my day it was 12ft 6 in the deep end as opposed to 3ft now. She couldn't understand my concern at all, and thought I was an overanxious parent. I probably am, but I suppose it's the nature of the job.
Still, for now, she's just about under my control, and all my children are at school in the same place. So for the first time since I've been doing the school run I can go to and fro in peace.
It's been a long time a coming.
And boy am I going to enjoy it....
Now don't get me wrong, I adore my offspring and there have even been moments that I've enjoyed since I set off in this parenting malarkey all that time ago, but having had four so close together, there was a long long time when I had NO time to myself at all. And when I felt I was living an awful kind of Groundhog Day existence where I was condemned to repeat the pattern of having a baby who turned into a toddler, and then producing another baby... This time two years ago I was at my wits end and couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel. And now, suddenly, miraculously I am here.
No 4 actually started school last week, but as I have had to pick her up at lunchtimes, it hasn't felt so very different. Today is my first full day of freedom. Oh boy oh boy.
So what, am I going to do?
Well...... the house is reasonably tidy as I have been attacking it every morning, but my plan starting from next week is to go through every room really thoroughly and chuck out anything we don't need, and clean everything from top to bottom...
I also intend to do some more training. Huzzah.
And of course I shall now have lots more opportunity to work... So my next novel might actually get finished in a year (at least that is what my longsuffering and loyal agent is evidently hoping!).
I can't actually envisage being any less busy then I am at the moment. But the glorious thing is that I can actually have some time uncluttered by children and their needs and demands, so maybe I will be a little less maniacal in the evening.
Hmm... and maybe pigs will fly.
The last week has been punctuated with huge rows and bust ups as the sprogs get back into routine and no 4 who is overtired irritates the hell out of them all.
Hopefully she will be so knackered by the end of a full day she will be too dazed to keep it up...
I have to confess I didn't shed so much as a tear when she walked through the door. She is happy to go and more then ready for it, I can enjoy some well earned free time, and maybe for the first time in ten years start to feel that I am on top of things on the domestic front.
Whether I shall feel so sanguine next year when no 1 heads off to secondary school remains to be seen... at the moment the thought of sending her into the big wide world on her own is giving me the heebie jeebies, but I guess I have to bite the bullet some time. And she too is more then ready for it. I watched her swimming lengths the other day on her own, which is a huge improvement for a child who used to be terrified of the water. She confidently headed off to the deep end, while I less confidently watched as she swam round other people and I angsted about her suddenly losing it and dropping like a stone to the bottom. I was even more stressed by watching her try to touch the bottom of the deep end, though I know that's what I used to do at her age, with no one watching. And in my day it was 12ft 6 in the deep end as opposed to 3ft now. She couldn't understand my concern at all, and thought I was an overanxious parent. I probably am, but I suppose it's the nature of the job.
Still, for now, she's just about under my control, and all my children are at school in the same place. So for the first time since I've been doing the school run I can go to and fro in peace.
It's been a long time a coming.
And boy am I going to enjoy it....
Friday, September 08, 2006
We're All Going on a Summer Holiday
Part Three: Tiptoe Through the Poo Bits
I stood in the dark, in the pouring rain with mounting disbelief as my French friends pointed out that not only had our tent got a great rip in it, but the voleur had also grabbed one of our bags, the contents of which were now scattered about the ground. Damn. This was the bag which had all our paperwork in, I hoped to god it wasn't some refugee after a free boat ticket. This was also the bag we had used for the passports on the journey, but luckily Spouse had been carrying them around with him in his money belt. Luckier still, said money belt was in our section of the tent, as was mine - thankfully I had thought to pick it up from the middle section where I had carelessly left it earlier on. I realised I was being slightly reckless, but the campsite had seemed so peaceful it didn't dawn on me we could get broken into here. Ironically Spouse had been telling us about a similar incident which had happened to him in the south of France, but we all agreed the Loire was a less likely venue for such happenings.
Having ascertained that nothing was missing (there was a certain grim schadenfreude from realising that our burglar must have been somewhat thwarted by the contents of our bag - it was full of the children's puffers, my lipstick and nail polish remover, the cover of my mobile phone, the charger for my phone, but no phone itself. I do hope he was mighty pissed off) - our friendly informants told me there was an anglais next door to us who had also been robbed. Damn, that was our friend. I assured them I would let him know, and they went on their way before telling me that the thief had taken the bag from under the head of one of them as he slept. Phewee! You have to admire the nerve of the guy if nothing else...
I found our mate's bag and woke him up. The news for him was not so good - helas our friendly robber had made off with all his credit cards and his cash, and more worryingly his keys. Luckily, I found them underneath his car. By this time Spouse was up, and he asked me where our spare keys were. Damn, they were in the bag I had already been through, and I hadn't found them. There was no chance that the thief could make off with the cars as the campsite had a barrier, but he might decide to come back and take the dvd player (let's face it that would have been a disaster). After much searching during which we discovered, our friend's daughter's bag had been rifled and she had lost her mobile phone, the keys turned up, and after standing around in the pouring rain while he contacted the relevant credit card companies, we eventually repaired to bed. Spouse and I were now so twitchy we woke to every sound, and slept for the rest of the holiday with our moneybelts in our sleeping bags.
In the morning we tried to make light of the incident so as not to spook the children, and then as the only French speaker, I accompanied our friend to the police station, where it transpired our voleur had been through about seven other tents. He was eventually found out by a Dutch woman, who rather scarily heard breathing in her tent, and unzipped her sleeping compartment and came face to face with the bastard. Unfortunately she didn't see his face, and he dropped his knife and ran off, but the poor woman was pretty spooked (as was I when I got back to the campsite and discovered the inside of our friend's tent had been slashed right above where his younger daughter and no2 were sleeping - fortunately they thought this rather cool and didn't have the angst about it I did).
The French police station experience was a lot more stressful then the German hospital, as I was conscious that we should be as accurate as possible, but was about two steps behind the police officer who interviewed us. The bureacracy was unbelievable and we were there for hours. They were evidently bored rigid because on asking if we had witnessed anything suspicious and our confirming that there had been a rather odd bloke who appeared with his caravan rather late and was gone in the morning, they got very excited and decided he must be our voleur. Chances are he wasn't,but he had caught our attention the previous day, mainly because we were all appalled that he let his dog shit on the ground, ready for the next occupant. (We were feeling a bit sore about this kind of thing as people kept walking their dogs by the river and allowing them to go anywhere - a bit trying when the kids were wandering off down there. Mind you, little did we know that we hadn't seen anything yet...)
Eventually we got back to the campsite. The weather wasn't bright enough for the swimming we had promised the children, so we headed off for another castle at Usse - also known as the Sleeping Beauty castle, as Charles Perrault allegedly used it and it inspired him to write the story. It is not hard to see why - the turrets of the towers all look the part, and the wood was pretty magical. The children were not unnaturally entranced, though really there wasn't a lot to see (we were more excited by the dungeons we found later, but hey, you can't expect children to get thrilled by the things that thrill us...), so the trip was a reasonable success. By the time we got back to the camp, the sun had come out, so we all got in the pool, barring no 2, who stoically didn't seem to mind, and then we were able to have a barbie in reasonably good conditions. We actually sat comfortably outside for the first time in the holiday. Hell, we'd only been away for ten days. We had better weather in Poole, where it seemed to rain endlessly...
That night we none of us slept too well, I jerked awake to every sound and had dreams in which faceless men appeared with knives. I love camping, but for the first time I felt really vulnerable. No matter that I was sure the voleur was only after petty cash and was long gone, the fact that we had all slept through it and none of us heard a thing was unsettling to say the least...
Still I had learnt a valuable lesson - always keep your money belt with you and have your bags with the zips facing towards you (I had only done so as it was easier to get to them, but it also meant the voleur couldn't reach inside easily either). Our friend's idea is to hang everything up from the middle of the compartment, that way any potential thief actually has to come in and get you, which isn't so likely.
The next morning our friends left to go back home, but we visited one last chateau with them, before they left. The rain came down once more and we waved them off, rather wishing we were going with them. We dripped our way to a pizza restaurant, where miraculously for the first time someone actually understood what we were after and they provided two pizzas cut in half for the children, and they ate the lot. Then, as we got a sudden burst of sunshine we went to look around the chateau. No 3 suddenly announced she had a sore throat, and went all pale and wan on me. Great. Yet another invalid. So I sat with her and no 2 while Spouse and the others explored the grounds.
The chateau was called Azay le Rideau and was really interesting. I was excited to discover it had been owned by Francis I of Cloth of Gold fame, and tried to similarly excite no 1. Alas, she was all castled and historied out and really didn't want to know... Can't say I can blame her really. She used to like history. I do hope we haven't put her off. As we came out of the castle, we had another set to in the bloody gift shop with all of them demanding things which were either a) too expensive or b)weren't worth having. Spouse managed to get a couple of French history books, but the children left empty-handed and sulking, and the faustian pact had still not been sated.
On the way back to the campsite, Spouse decided to detour up the old castle keep, or Donjon, which was nearby. He had visited it alone a couple of days earlier and thought it was fairly derelict. The children by this time were rebelliously not wanting to go to another castle ever, so we wandered up to the gate and Spouse realised he had made a mistake. Not only was it not derelict, it was open and there was a man selling tickets at the gate. An Englishman as it turned out with an incredible story to tell. The Donjon is in fact the first stone keep in Europe, built by a chap known Fulke de Nerra, or the Black Falcon. Fulke was not a nice chap - he had his first wife burnt as a witch in order to marry the second, and did endless wicked deeds, but hey he went to the Holy Land four times on pilgrimage to make up for it, so that's ok then - but he was a remarkable man. In the late tenth century when he was operating most folk had wooden castles, which meant warfare was a seasonal occupation. You fought in the spring and summer, then went back home for the autumn and winter before resuming normal operations the following spring. Fulke, being pretty much surrounded by his more powerful enemies, the dukes of Blois, decided his best bet was to build a series of stone castles or keeps, the Donjon at Montbazon being the first in 991. He was thus able to build up his powerbase in the region leaving his heirs, the Anjevins a wonderful legacy, from which thanks to Henry II, the English people later benefited.
The castle is thus of huge importance, not just to French history, but to our own. But no one is interested in its upkeep. So its current owner, is restoring it himself at huge cost. If you want to know more, visit: http://www.donjon-montbazon.net - but I reckon a French version of Restoration deserves to be made for such an incredible project, and the owners deserve a knighthood at least...
Going back to the car we managed to get the kids interested - the notion that the man who owned the castle actually lived their really awakened their curiosity, and we had a happy half an hour wandering around. Feeling we couldn't leave without making some kind of donation, we allowed the children a toy at the gift shop, and hurrah, this time no 2 found something she liked, but dammit, no 3 didn't. So now no 2 was saying that she was still owed for not getting something in the first gift shop and no 3 was saying she was owed for not getting something in this one... I swear next time we go anywhere if they don't sodding well like anything they don't get anything AT ALL. EVER...
The following day we packed up and headed for the coast. We still had five days left, and we fancied finishing with a bit of beachy holiday. Surely, surely by now our luck would turn and so would the weather?
We had toyed with going to Normandy, but I figured that Pas de Calais might be better as it was only a quick slog up to Calais from there, and we had stayed there a few years earlier and at least knew there were some decent beaches. I tried to ring some campsites the day before we left, but for some reason couldn't get connected. Oh well, I thought, there were bound to be plenty, it wasn't such a long journey, and we should be up there around 4ish.
As if.
First off, packing up the tent of course took longer then expected. Secondly we were in mid pack, when some Dutch people whom we had been chatting to earlier in the week asked (for the second time) if Spouse could help jump start their car. On the previous occasion our friend has used his car, and Spouse was rather embarrassed that as we had only had our car for less then a month he didn't actually know where the battery was. Coupled with the battery was intense irritation, as we had sat incredulously staring over at their tent the previous night, as it was brightly lit, by their car's headlights. I know that I am not tecnnically minded as far as cars are concerned, but even I know that you don't leave your headlights on all night...
Jumpstarting the car set us back by half an hour, so it was gone eleven when we set off. I decided the best route to follow was to go straight through Tours and pick up the road to le Mans. It looked a little complicated on the map and proved even more complicated in practise, partly because the road signs I was following kept disappearing and suddenly we were heading east out of Tours towards Chenonceaux (a chateau I had rather hoped to visit because of its Catherine de Medici connections, but not today). Spouse who was still suffering badly with a sore throat was not impressed by my vain attempts to find the right road again, but after about an hour I managed it. Great. We had been driving for an hour and were about ten miles from where we started... We narrowly avoided missing the right road again, and soon were heading to le Mans where Spouse was most pleased to have the opportunity to drive down the Mulsanne Straight, or at least part of it.
However the next couple of hours were long and tedious as the roads were slower then anticipated. It was only somewhat belatedly that I picked up that running parallel to the road we were on was a spanking new peage - our map being c 1998 the peage didn't feature. Whoops we could have saved ourselves an hour.
Eventually we pitched up at Pas de Calais at about 6pm. We headed for le Crotoy first, but couldn't find the campsite we were looking for. Never mind, let's try Fort Mahon I said. In Fort Mahon the two sites mentioned were both full, so we headed further up the coast, via a few wrong turns as the roads mentioned in our guidebook seemed to bear little correspondence to our map...
After much grumping on both our parts, and a fruitless journey down a country lane, we eventually stumbled across two more campsites, which bore the dreaded words complet. Bugger, bugger, bugger. We then found ourselves following every camping site sign going, which is how we ended up in the middle of nowhere after seeing a sign for Camping Quatre Plages (four beaches) - a misnomer if ever there was one as the campsite in question was miles from a beach and had clearly been created from the owner's back garden.
By now marital relations were severely strained and our offspring were rapidly turning into four terrified rabbits. Which is how we came to drive into Berck Plage with a sense of increasing desperation. By now it was eight o'clock, everyone was hungry, we had to put up somewhere for the night. Having a choice of left or right, we followed a campsite to the right as it was at least near the beach. Big, big mistake, as it turned out, but the first signs were reasonably auspicious.
The campsite was not complet, it was wooded and at first glance seemed pleasant. I was still struggling with the French however, and as I alway find translating money when abroad (and have particular problems with euros - how freudian is that?), being two steps behind this time proved bloody disastrous. I had understood that the campsite was 38 euros a night(a mere snip after our much more reasonable 20 euros in the Loire), and foolishly said we were planning to stay five nights. She asked for some money and not completely understanding I assumed she wanted a deposit. Had I not been two steps behind the fact that she asked me for 190euros should have been enough to ring alarm bells, particularly as I didn't have enough cash on me. Pas de probleme says my cunning friend when I suggest going to ge some more money of Spouse, vous avez carte credit? Naturellement, I have a carte credit , and like a bloody idiot, I give it to her. (I am now panicking I will be a victim of identity theft). It was only when I got back to Spouse I realised that I had just paid for five days up front. Oh bollocks. Now we were stuck here. We could only hope that it was ok...
Our first impressions were soon dashed. We were taken on a rather wild tour of the site by Mr Campsite Owner before he deposited us at a pitch which seemed to be full of dogs. Oh great, I muttered, they'll have shat all over our pitch. Not only that we had an audience as a large (in more ways then one) French family were sitting at some tables opposite our pitch with a menagerie that included several fat children, three dogs and a kitten. For all I know they'd probably brought their sodding hamster.
Still, at least there was a play area. That should keep the kids occupied while we put the tent up. Spouse and I frenzied about trying to get it up as quickly as we could - not easy when marital relations were at Cold War type ice levels - and had just about done it when no 3 came hopping over in tears. She had taken her shoes off in the play area which was covered in sand, and also, as it so happened, some dog shit. Some bloody sod had let their dog crap all over the kids' play area. Cursing loudly I took her to the rather unsalubrious cleaning area which consisted of a few rather dirty outside sinks and taps from which cold water poured. Bloody hell. How much worse could it get. Fing and blinding without a care to my six year old's sensibilities I set about the grim task of cleaning her up, snarling at the others to bugger off when they came near me, before it dawned on me that no 3 who was sobbing all the while thought I was cross with her. Not at all. I was incandscent with rage that anyone could be so selfish to let something like that happen - and lest you think I was overreacting, I have a very good friend who lost her right eye to an infection caused by dog poo, and I was damned if that was going to happen to my daughter.
Eventually after using two lots of toilet roll and two flannels which got chucked, I had managed to get it all off. By now it was really late, and the kids were all starving and knackered. The town was only a stone's throw away so we walked out to get yet more pizza. I had never been anywhere like it. It was so tacky it made Blackpool look posh. In fact it was rather like going to Blackpool on a bad acid trip. And to make our cup of happiness complete, there was dog's shit on all the pavements. Doesn't anyone in France clean up after their dogs? I thought they invented the pooper scooper. I thought the French were supposed to be sophisticated, was no 1's response when we circumvented yet another pile of poop. Hmm, you do have a point there...
Still at least we got everyone fed before midnight. We went back to the campsite feeling glummer then at any point on our trip. We had discovered by this time that the toilets were grim beyond belief. They even had a female squattie, something I've never seen anywhere and the toilet they did have had no seat. So my daughters got a quick lesson in that age old technique perfected by drunk females in nightclubs everywhere of pissing when you stand up. You're never too young to learn...
By the morning no 1 was refusing to go near the toilets, it was raining again so we couldn't face breakfast on the campsite, so we headed for town and found a cafe which did hot chocolate and bring your own croissants, purchased bizarrely from the patisserie next door.
The rain held off enough for us to get on the beach, which was so windy we indulged in some kiteflying. At least Spouse and I did, the kids barely seemed interested - making sandcastles being more fun. As we went back for some lunch the rain came down once more. I've had enough, said Spouse, I want to go home. I did too, but I was also desperate to get some beach time Shall we see if it gets better tomorrow I said in desperation. Surely, surely our luck must change...
The afternoon seemed brighter, so I began to feel more hopeful, and we got back on the beach for a bit. But Spouse was desperate for the loo, and he and nos 1&2 disappeared for hours looking for one. Tripping through yet more dog's poo on their return Spouse came up with a song, to the tune of Tiptoe Through the Tulips, they all came back singing, Tiptoe through the poo bits, the Doggy Doo bits, in France. Never a truer word...
That evening we had an indifferent meal in an indifferent restaurant, the rain held off, but it was cold and windy. I lay awake that night listening to the wind roaring through the tent and hoping that we wouldn't be blown away. In the morning we got up to a grey and cloudy day, but at least it wasn't raining. Spouse bravely went off to have a cold shower in the grim toilet blocks - I couldn't face it I felt I'd end up filthier then when I started. I was beginning to fantasise about how to get everyone clean - my initial thought had been to get them in the sea and shower off on the beach, but the sea was miles out and there weren't any showers. We visited the municipal showers, but they looked grimmer then the ones on our campsite. Spouse had found a swimming pool, but it looked the kind of place where you might pick up legionnaire's disease.
Spouse had set up breakfast and I started pouring the kids cocopops. As they sat down to eat, the heavens opened again. By the time he came back they were sitting sheltering under the car, eating their breakfast. Sod this for a game of soldiers, I said, let's go home. I rang the travel company and for the mere sum of £7 we were able to exchange our tickets and go home that afternoon. Never have I parted with seven pounds more gladly. We packed up as quickly as we could - the tent was soaking but it couldn't be helped. The children were happily ensconced in front of a dvd and didn't seem in the slightest bit bothered about going home. We'd been away for a fortnight anyway. Enough was enough.
Nobody could face the toilets at the campsite, and despite my efforts with Mrs Campsite Owner to get our money back, it turned out of course that there were no refunds available. I complained about the dog shit and the filthy amenities and got a gallic shrug and Desolee, Madame. I'll give you desolee I thought, but decided I didn't want to compound our problems by committing murder and ending up on remand in a French prison...
We left Berck with happy hearts and set off for Calais. Ten minutes out no 1 announced she needed the toilet, and it took us nearly an hour to find one in a McDonalds outside Boulogne. Poor kid was red in the face and clearly in pain by the time we got there, but luckily there were no disasters. And ordering McDonalds in France proved somewhat easier then in Germany, where they got the order completely wrong.
We got to Calais in plenty of time and were able to get on the three o clock ferry. Just as we came into Dover the rain came down in sheets, but as we got in the car and headed for the M20 the sun came out. We looked back across the channel where a huge black cloud was louring like some ugly ogre, and breathed a sigh of relief. At least tonight we weren't going to be sleeping under canvas.
Boy was it good to be home.
I stood in the dark, in the pouring rain with mounting disbelief as my French friends pointed out that not only had our tent got a great rip in it, but the voleur had also grabbed one of our bags, the contents of which were now scattered about the ground. Damn. This was the bag which had all our paperwork in, I hoped to god it wasn't some refugee after a free boat ticket. This was also the bag we had used for the passports on the journey, but luckily Spouse had been carrying them around with him in his money belt. Luckier still, said money belt was in our section of the tent, as was mine - thankfully I had thought to pick it up from the middle section where I had carelessly left it earlier on. I realised I was being slightly reckless, but the campsite had seemed so peaceful it didn't dawn on me we could get broken into here. Ironically Spouse had been telling us about a similar incident which had happened to him in the south of France, but we all agreed the Loire was a less likely venue for such happenings.
Having ascertained that nothing was missing (there was a certain grim schadenfreude from realising that our burglar must have been somewhat thwarted by the contents of our bag - it was full of the children's puffers, my lipstick and nail polish remover, the cover of my mobile phone, the charger for my phone, but no phone itself. I do hope he was mighty pissed off) - our friendly informants told me there was an anglais next door to us who had also been robbed. Damn, that was our friend. I assured them I would let him know, and they went on their way before telling me that the thief had taken the bag from under the head of one of them as he slept. Phewee! You have to admire the nerve of the guy if nothing else...
I found our mate's bag and woke him up. The news for him was not so good - helas our friendly robber had made off with all his credit cards and his cash, and more worryingly his keys. Luckily, I found them underneath his car. By this time Spouse was up, and he asked me where our spare keys were. Damn, they were in the bag I had already been through, and I hadn't found them. There was no chance that the thief could make off with the cars as the campsite had a barrier, but he might decide to come back and take the dvd player (let's face it that would have been a disaster). After much searching during which we discovered, our friend's daughter's bag had been rifled and she had lost her mobile phone, the keys turned up, and after standing around in the pouring rain while he contacted the relevant credit card companies, we eventually repaired to bed. Spouse and I were now so twitchy we woke to every sound, and slept for the rest of the holiday with our moneybelts in our sleeping bags.
In the morning we tried to make light of the incident so as not to spook the children, and then as the only French speaker, I accompanied our friend to the police station, where it transpired our voleur had been through about seven other tents. He was eventually found out by a Dutch woman, who rather scarily heard breathing in her tent, and unzipped her sleeping compartment and came face to face with the bastard. Unfortunately she didn't see his face, and he dropped his knife and ran off, but the poor woman was pretty spooked (as was I when I got back to the campsite and discovered the inside of our friend's tent had been slashed right above where his younger daughter and no2 were sleeping - fortunately they thought this rather cool and didn't have the angst about it I did).
The French police station experience was a lot more stressful then the German hospital, as I was conscious that we should be as accurate as possible, but was about two steps behind the police officer who interviewed us. The bureacracy was unbelievable and we were there for hours. They were evidently bored rigid because on asking if we had witnessed anything suspicious and our confirming that there had been a rather odd bloke who appeared with his caravan rather late and was gone in the morning, they got very excited and decided he must be our voleur. Chances are he wasn't,but he had caught our attention the previous day, mainly because we were all appalled that he let his dog shit on the ground, ready for the next occupant. (We were feeling a bit sore about this kind of thing as people kept walking their dogs by the river and allowing them to go anywhere - a bit trying when the kids were wandering off down there. Mind you, little did we know that we hadn't seen anything yet...)
Eventually we got back to the campsite. The weather wasn't bright enough for the swimming we had promised the children, so we headed off for another castle at Usse - also known as the Sleeping Beauty castle, as Charles Perrault allegedly used it and it inspired him to write the story. It is not hard to see why - the turrets of the towers all look the part, and the wood was pretty magical. The children were not unnaturally entranced, though really there wasn't a lot to see (we were more excited by the dungeons we found later, but hey, you can't expect children to get thrilled by the things that thrill us...), so the trip was a reasonable success. By the time we got back to the camp, the sun had come out, so we all got in the pool, barring no 2, who stoically didn't seem to mind, and then we were able to have a barbie in reasonably good conditions. We actually sat comfortably outside for the first time in the holiday. Hell, we'd only been away for ten days. We had better weather in Poole, where it seemed to rain endlessly...
That night we none of us slept too well, I jerked awake to every sound and had dreams in which faceless men appeared with knives. I love camping, but for the first time I felt really vulnerable. No matter that I was sure the voleur was only after petty cash and was long gone, the fact that we had all slept through it and none of us heard a thing was unsettling to say the least...
Still I had learnt a valuable lesson - always keep your money belt with you and have your bags with the zips facing towards you (I had only done so as it was easier to get to them, but it also meant the voleur couldn't reach inside easily either). Our friend's idea is to hang everything up from the middle of the compartment, that way any potential thief actually has to come in and get you, which isn't so likely.
The next morning our friends left to go back home, but we visited one last chateau with them, before they left. The rain came down once more and we waved them off, rather wishing we were going with them. We dripped our way to a pizza restaurant, where miraculously for the first time someone actually understood what we were after and they provided two pizzas cut in half for the children, and they ate the lot. Then, as we got a sudden burst of sunshine we went to look around the chateau. No 3 suddenly announced she had a sore throat, and went all pale and wan on me. Great. Yet another invalid. So I sat with her and no 2 while Spouse and the others explored the grounds.
The chateau was called Azay le Rideau and was really interesting. I was excited to discover it had been owned by Francis I of Cloth of Gold fame, and tried to similarly excite no 1. Alas, she was all castled and historied out and really didn't want to know... Can't say I can blame her really. She used to like history. I do hope we haven't put her off. As we came out of the castle, we had another set to in the bloody gift shop with all of them demanding things which were either a) too expensive or b)weren't worth having. Spouse managed to get a couple of French history books, but the children left empty-handed and sulking, and the faustian pact had still not been sated.
On the way back to the campsite, Spouse decided to detour up the old castle keep, or Donjon, which was nearby. He had visited it alone a couple of days earlier and thought it was fairly derelict. The children by this time were rebelliously not wanting to go to another castle ever, so we wandered up to the gate and Spouse realised he had made a mistake. Not only was it not derelict, it was open and there was a man selling tickets at the gate. An Englishman as it turned out with an incredible story to tell. The Donjon is in fact the first stone keep in Europe, built by a chap known Fulke de Nerra, or the Black Falcon. Fulke was not a nice chap - he had his first wife burnt as a witch in order to marry the second, and did endless wicked deeds, but hey he went to the Holy Land four times on pilgrimage to make up for it, so that's ok then - but he was a remarkable man. In the late tenth century when he was operating most folk had wooden castles, which meant warfare was a seasonal occupation. You fought in the spring and summer, then went back home for the autumn and winter before resuming normal operations the following spring. Fulke, being pretty much surrounded by his more powerful enemies, the dukes of Blois, decided his best bet was to build a series of stone castles or keeps, the Donjon at Montbazon being the first in 991. He was thus able to build up his powerbase in the region leaving his heirs, the Anjevins a wonderful legacy, from which thanks to Henry II, the English people later benefited.
The castle is thus of huge importance, not just to French history, but to our own. But no one is interested in its upkeep. So its current owner, is restoring it himself at huge cost. If you want to know more, visit: http://www.donjon-montbazon.net - but I reckon a French version of Restoration deserves to be made for such an incredible project, and the owners deserve a knighthood at least...
Going back to the car we managed to get the kids interested - the notion that the man who owned the castle actually lived their really awakened their curiosity, and we had a happy half an hour wandering around. Feeling we couldn't leave without making some kind of donation, we allowed the children a toy at the gift shop, and hurrah, this time no 2 found something she liked, but dammit, no 3 didn't. So now no 2 was saying that she was still owed for not getting something in the first gift shop and no 3 was saying she was owed for not getting something in this one... I swear next time we go anywhere if they don't sodding well like anything they don't get anything AT ALL. EVER...
The following day we packed up and headed for the coast. We still had five days left, and we fancied finishing with a bit of beachy holiday. Surely, surely by now our luck would turn and so would the weather?
We had toyed with going to Normandy, but I figured that Pas de Calais might be better as it was only a quick slog up to Calais from there, and we had stayed there a few years earlier and at least knew there were some decent beaches. I tried to ring some campsites the day before we left, but for some reason couldn't get connected. Oh well, I thought, there were bound to be plenty, it wasn't such a long journey, and we should be up there around 4ish.
As if.
First off, packing up the tent of course took longer then expected. Secondly we were in mid pack, when some Dutch people whom we had been chatting to earlier in the week asked (for the second time) if Spouse could help jump start their car. On the previous occasion our friend has used his car, and Spouse was rather embarrassed that as we had only had our car for less then a month he didn't actually know where the battery was. Coupled with the battery was intense irritation, as we had sat incredulously staring over at their tent the previous night, as it was brightly lit, by their car's headlights. I know that I am not tecnnically minded as far as cars are concerned, but even I know that you don't leave your headlights on all night...
Jumpstarting the car set us back by half an hour, so it was gone eleven when we set off. I decided the best route to follow was to go straight through Tours and pick up the road to le Mans. It looked a little complicated on the map and proved even more complicated in practise, partly because the road signs I was following kept disappearing and suddenly we were heading east out of Tours towards Chenonceaux (a chateau I had rather hoped to visit because of its Catherine de Medici connections, but not today). Spouse who was still suffering badly with a sore throat was not impressed by my vain attempts to find the right road again, but after about an hour I managed it. Great. We had been driving for an hour and were about ten miles from where we started... We narrowly avoided missing the right road again, and soon were heading to le Mans where Spouse was most pleased to have the opportunity to drive down the Mulsanne Straight, or at least part of it.
However the next couple of hours were long and tedious as the roads were slower then anticipated. It was only somewhat belatedly that I picked up that running parallel to the road we were on was a spanking new peage - our map being c 1998 the peage didn't feature. Whoops we could have saved ourselves an hour.
Eventually we pitched up at Pas de Calais at about 6pm. We headed for le Crotoy first, but couldn't find the campsite we were looking for. Never mind, let's try Fort Mahon I said. In Fort Mahon the two sites mentioned were both full, so we headed further up the coast, via a few wrong turns as the roads mentioned in our guidebook seemed to bear little correspondence to our map...
After much grumping on both our parts, and a fruitless journey down a country lane, we eventually stumbled across two more campsites, which bore the dreaded words complet. Bugger, bugger, bugger. We then found ourselves following every camping site sign going, which is how we ended up in the middle of nowhere after seeing a sign for Camping Quatre Plages (four beaches) - a misnomer if ever there was one as the campsite in question was miles from a beach and had clearly been created from the owner's back garden.
By now marital relations were severely strained and our offspring were rapidly turning into four terrified rabbits. Which is how we came to drive into Berck Plage with a sense of increasing desperation. By now it was eight o'clock, everyone was hungry, we had to put up somewhere for the night. Having a choice of left or right, we followed a campsite to the right as it was at least near the beach. Big, big mistake, as it turned out, but the first signs were reasonably auspicious.
The campsite was not complet, it was wooded and at first glance seemed pleasant. I was still struggling with the French however, and as I alway find translating money when abroad (and have particular problems with euros - how freudian is that?), being two steps behind this time proved bloody disastrous. I had understood that the campsite was 38 euros a night(a mere snip after our much more reasonable 20 euros in the Loire), and foolishly said we were planning to stay five nights. She asked for some money and not completely understanding I assumed she wanted a deposit. Had I not been two steps behind the fact that she asked me for 190euros should have been enough to ring alarm bells, particularly as I didn't have enough cash on me. Pas de probleme says my cunning friend when I suggest going to ge some more money of Spouse, vous avez carte credit? Naturellement, I have a carte credit , and like a bloody idiot, I give it to her. (I am now panicking I will be a victim of identity theft). It was only when I got back to Spouse I realised that I had just paid for five days up front. Oh bollocks. Now we were stuck here. We could only hope that it was ok...
Our first impressions were soon dashed. We were taken on a rather wild tour of the site by Mr Campsite Owner before he deposited us at a pitch which seemed to be full of dogs. Oh great, I muttered, they'll have shat all over our pitch. Not only that we had an audience as a large (in more ways then one) French family were sitting at some tables opposite our pitch with a menagerie that included several fat children, three dogs and a kitten. For all I know they'd probably brought their sodding hamster.
Still, at least there was a play area. That should keep the kids occupied while we put the tent up. Spouse and I frenzied about trying to get it up as quickly as we could - not easy when marital relations were at Cold War type ice levels - and had just about done it when no 3 came hopping over in tears. She had taken her shoes off in the play area which was covered in sand, and also, as it so happened, some dog shit. Some bloody sod had let their dog crap all over the kids' play area. Cursing loudly I took her to the rather unsalubrious cleaning area which consisted of a few rather dirty outside sinks and taps from which cold water poured. Bloody hell. How much worse could it get. Fing and blinding without a care to my six year old's sensibilities I set about the grim task of cleaning her up, snarling at the others to bugger off when they came near me, before it dawned on me that no 3 who was sobbing all the while thought I was cross with her. Not at all. I was incandscent with rage that anyone could be so selfish to let something like that happen - and lest you think I was overreacting, I have a very good friend who lost her right eye to an infection caused by dog poo, and I was damned if that was going to happen to my daughter.
Eventually after using two lots of toilet roll and two flannels which got chucked, I had managed to get it all off. By now it was really late, and the kids were all starving and knackered. The town was only a stone's throw away so we walked out to get yet more pizza. I had never been anywhere like it. It was so tacky it made Blackpool look posh. In fact it was rather like going to Blackpool on a bad acid trip. And to make our cup of happiness complete, there was dog's shit on all the pavements. Doesn't anyone in France clean up after their dogs? I thought they invented the pooper scooper. I thought the French were supposed to be sophisticated, was no 1's response when we circumvented yet another pile of poop. Hmm, you do have a point there...
Still at least we got everyone fed before midnight. We went back to the campsite feeling glummer then at any point on our trip. We had discovered by this time that the toilets were grim beyond belief. They even had a female squattie, something I've never seen anywhere and the toilet they did have had no seat. So my daughters got a quick lesson in that age old technique perfected by drunk females in nightclubs everywhere of pissing when you stand up. You're never too young to learn...
By the morning no 1 was refusing to go near the toilets, it was raining again so we couldn't face breakfast on the campsite, so we headed for town and found a cafe which did hot chocolate and bring your own croissants, purchased bizarrely from the patisserie next door.
The rain held off enough for us to get on the beach, which was so windy we indulged in some kiteflying. At least Spouse and I did, the kids barely seemed interested - making sandcastles being more fun. As we went back for some lunch the rain came down once more. I've had enough, said Spouse, I want to go home. I did too, but I was also desperate to get some beach time Shall we see if it gets better tomorrow I said in desperation. Surely, surely our luck must change...
The afternoon seemed brighter, so I began to feel more hopeful, and we got back on the beach for a bit. But Spouse was desperate for the loo, and he and nos 1&2 disappeared for hours looking for one. Tripping through yet more dog's poo on their return Spouse came up with a song, to the tune of Tiptoe Through the Tulips, they all came back singing, Tiptoe through the poo bits, the Doggy Doo bits, in France. Never a truer word...
That evening we had an indifferent meal in an indifferent restaurant, the rain held off, but it was cold and windy. I lay awake that night listening to the wind roaring through the tent and hoping that we wouldn't be blown away. In the morning we got up to a grey and cloudy day, but at least it wasn't raining. Spouse bravely went off to have a cold shower in the grim toilet blocks - I couldn't face it I felt I'd end up filthier then when I started. I was beginning to fantasise about how to get everyone clean - my initial thought had been to get them in the sea and shower off on the beach, but the sea was miles out and there weren't any showers. We visited the municipal showers, but they looked grimmer then the ones on our campsite. Spouse had found a swimming pool, but it looked the kind of place where you might pick up legionnaire's disease.
Spouse had set up breakfast and I started pouring the kids cocopops. As they sat down to eat, the heavens opened again. By the time he came back they were sitting sheltering under the car, eating their breakfast. Sod this for a game of soldiers, I said, let's go home. I rang the travel company and for the mere sum of £7 we were able to exchange our tickets and go home that afternoon. Never have I parted with seven pounds more gladly. We packed up as quickly as we could - the tent was soaking but it couldn't be helped. The children were happily ensconced in front of a dvd and didn't seem in the slightest bit bothered about going home. We'd been away for a fortnight anyway. Enough was enough.
Nobody could face the toilets at the campsite, and despite my efforts with Mrs Campsite Owner to get our money back, it turned out of course that there were no refunds available. I complained about the dog shit and the filthy amenities and got a gallic shrug and Desolee, Madame. I'll give you desolee I thought, but decided I didn't want to compound our problems by committing murder and ending up on remand in a French prison...
We left Berck with happy hearts and set off for Calais. Ten minutes out no 1 announced she needed the toilet, and it took us nearly an hour to find one in a McDonalds outside Boulogne. Poor kid was red in the face and clearly in pain by the time we got there, but luckily there were no disasters. And ordering McDonalds in France proved somewhat easier then in Germany, where they got the order completely wrong.
We got to Calais in plenty of time and were able to get on the three o clock ferry. Just as we came into Dover the rain came down in sheets, but as we got in the car and headed for the M20 the sun came out. We looked back across the channel where a huge black cloud was louring like some ugly ogre, and breathed a sigh of relief. At least tonight we weren't going to be sleeping under canvas.
Boy was it good to be home.
We're All Going on a Summer Holiday
Part Two: Vive la France!
A little belatedly (I have been caught up with end of holiday/backtoschoolitis, of which more later), here is the next scintillating story of our summer holidays. Or the tale of how things got worse...
Actually, after our grim day in the caravan, the following day dawned a little brighter and we set off with high expectation on a trip to Neuschwanstein, one of several castles built by mad King Ludwig II of Bavaria in the nineteenth century - more commonly known for being the castle they used in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Spouse has always wanted to go there and though it was a two hour schlep we thought we couldn't come all the way to southern Germany without visiting. And having watched the film on the way through France the kids were reconciled to the fact that their irritatingly castle obsessed parents were going to take them to a slightly more unusual one.
The journey though long, passed without incident. It was only when we came into Hohenschwangau, the little town that sits below Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau castle (built by Ludwig's dad, Maximilian II), that things started to get a little on the stressful side. Our Rough Guide to Germany had promised that this was the most rampantly commercial place in Germany - I'd happily concur with that. In fact, barring Lourdes, I think it is possibly the most rampantly commercial place I've ever visited. So naturally, it is rather busy. And our first taste of quite how busy was the traffic jam we joined in Fussen, a little town to the south of Hohenschwangau. We had set off at 9.30 - Spouse wanting to get there as soon as possible - and arrived at Fussen just before 11.30. We then spent an hour queuing to go about three miles. When we finally hit Hohenschwangau itself, we were rewarded with spectacular views of both castles and a nightmarish trawl around the car parks, till we finally found somewhere to park. The weather had been a mixture of sun and showers on our journey, but as soon as we got out of the car the heavens opened (natch), and there was a mass chorus of I need the toilet, which was all very well, but not ones to miss a moneymaking opportunity the good folk of Hohenschwangau charge for the privilege, and our scrabble for change nearly had very dire consequences...
Nature thus satisfied, we set off for the tourist information office, which was uphill. Actually, pretty much everywhere in Hohenschwangau is uphill, so it is fortunate that my children are used to walking. The queues for the castle proving massive, I took the children into a restaurant to get some lunch. By now I was feeling quite confident in German (hey I've coped with a hospital, I can cope with anything) so I ordered pizza for them and what I thought was chicken breast for us. As it turned out my confidence was somewhat misplaced, as we ended up with chicken schnitzel, but you can't get it right all the time. Actually we got it wrong pretty much in every restaurant we went into, as I was always trying to ascertain quite how large the portions were so we didn't over order, but nine times out of ten I didn't make myself understood, or they pretended to ignore me and we ended up with twice as much food as the kids could eat. However, at least the very cheery waiter thoughtfully kept Spouse's aside till he had returned with the tickets. Presumably the queues outside his restaurant are pretty good for business...
On Spouse's return it transpired that the only way of seeing both castles was a guided tour. Our first was at 2.45, but we couldn't get into Neuschwanstein till about 5.45, which was rather later then we wanted, but given that the whole point of coming was to see it, we didn't have a lot of choice. The sun had been out when we were eating, but of course decided to pop behind a big black rain cloud once we got going, so we got everyone's kagoules back on (apart from mine as no 1 had left hers behind, so I just got wet), and set off up the hill to Hohenschwangau. It was a pretty quick stroll up to the top and after we had visited the king's rose garden (into which he would emerge from his rather over the top bathroom), we stood waiting for the tour, while the rain came down once more. Luckily, the rather wild thunderstorm that followed took place when we were inside the castle.
The tour itself was great - though rather ott for my tastes, you have to admire these Bavarian kings their vision. The grand dining room was huge, but apparently never used - this was Maximilian's hunting lodge, and he tended to keep his parties for his main residence. When Ludwig took over he dedicated a lot of the rooms to the Lohengrin myths and being Wagner's patron had a music room dedicated specially to him - apparently Wagner only came twice though, so the piano made specially for him and meant only to be played by him, was only used a handful of times. Ludwig spent seventeen years building Neuschwanstein, and every day looked at how the building was coming along through a telescope in the music room. He never finished the castle, being declared insane by his physician, and two days later both men were found dead in mysterious circumstances by Lake Starnberg. The story goes that they both committed suicide. Hmm, doesn't sound all that likely to me... Or that he was that mad. He apparently had a lot of political enemies, who appear to have got him in a very effective way. I felt quite sorry for him by the end. And boy do you have to admire his vision. While not to my taste, Neuschwanstein is still an incredible place and well worth a visit.
We still had time to kill when we had finished the tour, so as we were all wet and a bit cold we headed for a cafe for that German necessity, Kaffee and Kuchen or in the children's case Heisse Schokolade and Kuchen. No 1 was after black forest gateau, and we followed suit. Once again our language skills weren't enough to ascertain how large the portions were so the other three got masses of cake at vast expense, which none of them liked particularly...
Heading back up the hill, we decided we'd stroll to the top of the castle, rather then waiting in the rain with the crowds for a horse and trap (which no doubt cost a fortune anyway). And we were very glad we did. Despite the steepness of our climb, the views, particularly over the lakes, were spectacular. And though even I found it hardgoing at times, when we eventually got to the top, it was well worth it. Ludwig built a bridge over an incredibly steep gorge from where you can look back at the castle. I'm not normally too wussy about heights, but this was - high very very high. And springy. And there seemed to be rather a lot of people on it. Knowing the way our holiday was going, I wasn't at all sure we would get across and back unscathed, particularly as Spouse was suggesting we have a go at reaching the resonant frequency... Had I seen the view of the bridge you get from the castle I doubt I would have gone on it all...
The castle itself was a bit disappointing to me. It was built on a grand scale it's true, but so much of it is unfinished, there isn't a whole lot to see. And while I can admire the ambition of the King's courtroom, which is decorated in gold leaf and very splendid, it's a bit ornate for my tastes. However, the views from the castle itself are stunning and that was the highlight for me.
The kids of course loved it all, and though it transpired that only one staircase in the castle was actually used for the film, they couldn't get over the fact they had visited the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang castle - even if their legs were aching.
As we left, via the inevitable giftshop, my faustian pact with no 2 resurfaced as she started demanding the gift we hadn't bought her at Meersburg. The giftshop being full of really expensive tat, we promised something when we got back to the town. There were several giftshops on our way down, but they were all packing up, and offered yet more tat. By the time we got to the bottom of the hill, it was so late there wasn't a gift shop open and no2 was throwing a major sulk. Never mind, darling, I rashly promised, I'm sure we'll find something in France.
France was our destination for the following day. We had arranged to meet some friends there and camp together. However, being as we were so busy before we left, and being as Spouse was incredibly difficult to pin down and make the arrangements, and I was very distracted and got my dates muddled, our friends were coming to France a week earlier then I had realised. This meant that rather then go to our intended destination of the Loire in two days, we had to make it across in one. Oh thank the Lord for in car DVD players.
By dint of several emails sent via the internet cafe at our Bodensee campsite, followed up with phone calls via Spouse's mobile (mine had died and I couldn't recharge it) we managed to find a campsite between us to the south of Tours in a place called Montbazon. The distance from where we were was roughly 700km, which is a very very long way... And had we packed and set off early it would have been just about manageable. However, having promised to get up early and finish the packing as Spouse was driving, I managed to sleep in, and everything took much longer to sort out then we had bargained for. It is amazing how easy it is to unpack from a car, and how much harder to pack it all up again. Particularly as four children can scatter their belongings all over said car taking up all available neat little spaces for shoving that last vital object in place.
However, eventually we were ready and off we set for the next stage on our journey. The sun at this point proceeded to blaze forth with glory and for the first time since our arrival we could properly see the mountains in Switzerland. Grr....
We had planned to go via Germany to get to our destination, but taking a wrong turn, and discovering that Switzerland had motorways while our German route did not, we decided we'd go that way instead. Which may or may not have been a mistake, given that we don't know how long the German route would have taken. However, we were charged the privilege of 30 euros for driving on some frankly indifferent motorways and having no idea of the speed limit, and not fancying a trip to a Swiss police cell to cement our happy family holiday memories Spouse took it nice and slow.
As it turned out we didn't have a lot of choice with our speed, particularly when we got to Basle and discovered that the whole of the motorway system had been turned into one ginormous set of roadworks. Spouse, who doesn't have a great deal of faith in my map reading at the best of times (most unjustified I might add, as I don't often get us lost, and when I do, I usually get us out of trouble fairly quickly) wouldn't believe me when I told him we hadn't gone off the motorway. Well, we had, but we weren't on the wrong road. It's just to get to the road we wanted, we were diverted through tramlines, and down tiny tunnels which spiralled downwards in ever decreasing circles, getting lower and lower until we were in fear of the roofbox being ripped off...
It was only when we got to the French border and came right out onto the motorway that he actually admitted I hadn't led us wrong.
It was with great relief that we finally got onto the peage and started putting some miles behind us. By now though it was nearing four o clock and we had only put five squares of the map behind us - we had another nine to go and were getting slightly twitchy about what time we might arrive. The sun was still shining - dammit!- and we both felt frustrated that today of all days the rain hadn't set in again. But at least the kids weren't making too much fuss. An entire series of the original Dr Who seemed to help.
By seven o clock we were nearly at Orleans, but we were on a two lane motorway in which we encountered some of the most stressful driving I have ever witnessed. Namely cars whizzing in and out of the overtaking lane leaving the barest minimum gap, but all going at a speed at which you really didn't oughter be doing when you're behaving like that. I was white knuckled all the way, but Spouse's coping mechanism was to make jolly little jokes. Sadly I didn't feel like laughing.
We rang our friend at Orleans to say we were about an hour away, but in reality it turned in to nearly two as the motorway disappeared here, and though the road was good, it wasn't that good. Still, at least we had lost the maniacal overtakers.
We eventually arrived at the campsite at about 9.30, and it was time for me to shift gear and switch my brain into French mode. Which, after a week of German and years of no practice in French took some doing I can tell you. Still, I understood sufficiently where we needed to park our tent, and that we had an electronic key to open up the barrier, which was all I really needed for now.
We put up the tent while the children ran down to the river, conveniently behind our camping spot, and wonderfully idyllic. By this time it was getting dark, and Spouse was desperate for some liquid refreshment. Sadly in our haste to get to the campsite we hadn't purchased any alcohol en route, the cafe attached to the campsite had just shut and we were left sipping cans of warm beer. Time for bed, said Zebedee, rather grumpily, tomorrow had to be a better day.
Tomorrow, as it happens, was. Or at least to start with...
The rain held off long enough for us to visit Chinon - a wonderful ruin where Henry II made his court. It was amazing, and all the more spectacular for me, as I had recently read Elizabeth Chadwick's The Greatest Knight, which makes mention of the place, and thanks to her brilliant descriptions I could really picture how a mediaeval castle might be.
The highlight though was discovering that Jacques de Molay, the last Templar Grand Master was actually imprisoned there and had inscribed his name on the dungeon wall. I know diddly squat about the Templars, but they are one of Spouse's passions (and well before The Da Vinci Code made them trendy) and he had told me Jacques dramatic story. Imprisoned by Philip IV of France (basically to steal all the Templars' money) and accused of heresy, Jacques spent some eighteen years in prison before his eventual death at the stake. He apparently cursed both Philip and Clement V and promised they would both be dead in a year, which they were. So it was very exciting to discover that he had actually been imprisoned here... another frisson of touching real history moment.
As was the discovery that Joan of Arc also had her first meeting with the Dauphin here (and you realise what a damned long way she travelled - Reims isn't exactly a stroll away). There was a whole tower dedicated to Joan which was fascinating, although a little tricky to ge the gist of what was going on, as most of the information was in French.
The sprogs by now were getting all castled out, so we wandered down to the town and got some lunch at a pleasant little cafe in the square. I do love the way the Europeans, particuarly the French do cafe culture. Whenever we try it in England it is never quite the same. And it's not just the weather - we just aren't relaxed enough for it. Me, I could sit all day and watch the world go by at a cafe, but Spouse finds it too tedious for words.
We headed back home intending to have a barbie that evening, but by now the weather had changed, and though we managed a quick swim in the pool, the rain was soon coming down in droves. We did manage our barbie, but ate it under the tent door which serves as a porch when propped up on sticks. Spouse and I were now beginning to feel as though the weather gods had really got it in for us, and went to bed feeling glummer then ever. The rain continued to pour down, and I woke intermittently through the night, fretting about the proximity of the river and ever mindful of the dire warnings all over the campsite that in the event of flooding we would be roused by a siren and would have to leave all our belongings behind.
So it was with some anxiety that I woke at around four to the sound of a siren in the distance. Thinking I had imagined it, I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. There it was again. And there appeared to be several people talking outside our tent in excited French.
Bugger off! was Spouse's grumpy response, and would have been mine probably but I heard them say, Anglais? Oui, I replied. Voleurs! Voleurs! Came the urgent reply. I leapt out of bed, shoved on some shoes and emerged from the tent into the dark teeming rain, to be met by two Frenchmen who were pointing at my tent. Someone had slashed the door.
Oh shit. We'd been burgled.
(to be continued...)
A little belatedly (I have been caught up with end of holiday/backtoschoolitis, of which more later), here is the next scintillating story of our summer holidays. Or the tale of how things got worse...
Actually, after our grim day in the caravan, the following day dawned a little brighter and we set off with high expectation on a trip to Neuschwanstein, one of several castles built by mad King Ludwig II of Bavaria in the nineteenth century - more commonly known for being the castle they used in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Spouse has always wanted to go there and though it was a two hour schlep we thought we couldn't come all the way to southern Germany without visiting. And having watched the film on the way through France the kids were reconciled to the fact that their irritatingly castle obsessed parents were going to take them to a slightly more unusual one.
The journey though long, passed without incident. It was only when we came into Hohenschwangau, the little town that sits below Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau castle (built by Ludwig's dad, Maximilian II), that things started to get a little on the stressful side. Our Rough Guide to Germany had promised that this was the most rampantly commercial place in Germany - I'd happily concur with that. In fact, barring Lourdes, I think it is possibly the most rampantly commercial place I've ever visited. So naturally, it is rather busy. And our first taste of quite how busy was the traffic jam we joined in Fussen, a little town to the south of Hohenschwangau. We had set off at 9.30 - Spouse wanting to get there as soon as possible - and arrived at Fussen just before 11.30. We then spent an hour queuing to go about three miles. When we finally hit Hohenschwangau itself, we were rewarded with spectacular views of both castles and a nightmarish trawl around the car parks, till we finally found somewhere to park. The weather had been a mixture of sun and showers on our journey, but as soon as we got out of the car the heavens opened (natch), and there was a mass chorus of I need the toilet, which was all very well, but not ones to miss a moneymaking opportunity the good folk of Hohenschwangau charge for the privilege, and our scrabble for change nearly had very dire consequences...
Nature thus satisfied, we set off for the tourist information office, which was uphill. Actually, pretty much everywhere in Hohenschwangau is uphill, so it is fortunate that my children are used to walking. The queues for the castle proving massive, I took the children into a restaurant to get some lunch. By now I was feeling quite confident in German (hey I've coped with a hospital, I can cope with anything) so I ordered pizza for them and what I thought was chicken breast for us. As it turned out my confidence was somewhat misplaced, as we ended up with chicken schnitzel, but you can't get it right all the time. Actually we got it wrong pretty much in every restaurant we went into, as I was always trying to ascertain quite how large the portions were so we didn't over order, but nine times out of ten I didn't make myself understood, or they pretended to ignore me and we ended up with twice as much food as the kids could eat. However, at least the very cheery waiter thoughtfully kept Spouse's aside till he had returned with the tickets. Presumably the queues outside his restaurant are pretty good for business...
On Spouse's return it transpired that the only way of seeing both castles was a guided tour. Our first was at 2.45, but we couldn't get into Neuschwanstein till about 5.45, which was rather later then we wanted, but given that the whole point of coming was to see it, we didn't have a lot of choice. The sun had been out when we were eating, but of course decided to pop behind a big black rain cloud once we got going, so we got everyone's kagoules back on (apart from mine as no 1 had left hers behind, so I just got wet), and set off up the hill to Hohenschwangau. It was a pretty quick stroll up to the top and after we had visited the king's rose garden (into which he would emerge from his rather over the top bathroom), we stood waiting for the tour, while the rain came down once more. Luckily, the rather wild thunderstorm that followed took place when we were inside the castle.
The tour itself was great - though rather ott for my tastes, you have to admire these Bavarian kings their vision. The grand dining room was huge, but apparently never used - this was Maximilian's hunting lodge, and he tended to keep his parties for his main residence. When Ludwig took over he dedicated a lot of the rooms to the Lohengrin myths and being Wagner's patron had a music room dedicated specially to him - apparently Wagner only came twice though, so the piano made specially for him and meant only to be played by him, was only used a handful of times. Ludwig spent seventeen years building Neuschwanstein, and every day looked at how the building was coming along through a telescope in the music room. He never finished the castle, being declared insane by his physician, and two days later both men were found dead in mysterious circumstances by Lake Starnberg. The story goes that they both committed suicide. Hmm, doesn't sound all that likely to me... Or that he was that mad. He apparently had a lot of political enemies, who appear to have got him in a very effective way. I felt quite sorry for him by the end. And boy do you have to admire his vision. While not to my taste, Neuschwanstein is still an incredible place and well worth a visit.
We still had time to kill when we had finished the tour, so as we were all wet and a bit cold we headed for a cafe for that German necessity, Kaffee and Kuchen or in the children's case Heisse Schokolade and Kuchen. No 1 was after black forest gateau, and we followed suit. Once again our language skills weren't enough to ascertain how large the portions were so the other three got masses of cake at vast expense, which none of them liked particularly...
Heading back up the hill, we decided we'd stroll to the top of the castle, rather then waiting in the rain with the crowds for a horse and trap (which no doubt cost a fortune anyway). And we were very glad we did. Despite the steepness of our climb, the views, particularly over the lakes, were spectacular. And though even I found it hardgoing at times, when we eventually got to the top, it was well worth it. Ludwig built a bridge over an incredibly steep gorge from where you can look back at the castle. I'm not normally too wussy about heights, but this was - high very very high. And springy. And there seemed to be rather a lot of people on it. Knowing the way our holiday was going, I wasn't at all sure we would get across and back unscathed, particularly as Spouse was suggesting we have a go at reaching the resonant frequency... Had I seen the view of the bridge you get from the castle I doubt I would have gone on it all...
The castle itself was a bit disappointing to me. It was built on a grand scale it's true, but so much of it is unfinished, there isn't a whole lot to see. And while I can admire the ambition of the King's courtroom, which is decorated in gold leaf and very splendid, it's a bit ornate for my tastes. However, the views from the castle itself are stunning and that was the highlight for me.
The kids of course loved it all, and though it transpired that only one staircase in the castle was actually used for the film, they couldn't get over the fact they had visited the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang castle - even if their legs were aching.
As we left, via the inevitable giftshop, my faustian pact with no 2 resurfaced as she started demanding the gift we hadn't bought her at Meersburg. The giftshop being full of really expensive tat, we promised something when we got back to the town. There were several giftshops on our way down, but they were all packing up, and offered yet more tat. By the time we got to the bottom of the hill, it was so late there wasn't a gift shop open and no2 was throwing a major sulk. Never mind, darling, I rashly promised, I'm sure we'll find something in France.
France was our destination for the following day. We had arranged to meet some friends there and camp together. However, being as we were so busy before we left, and being as Spouse was incredibly difficult to pin down and make the arrangements, and I was very distracted and got my dates muddled, our friends were coming to France a week earlier then I had realised. This meant that rather then go to our intended destination of the Loire in two days, we had to make it across in one. Oh thank the Lord for in car DVD players.
By dint of several emails sent via the internet cafe at our Bodensee campsite, followed up with phone calls via Spouse's mobile (mine had died and I couldn't recharge it) we managed to find a campsite between us to the south of Tours in a place called Montbazon. The distance from where we were was roughly 700km, which is a very very long way... And had we packed and set off early it would have been just about manageable. However, having promised to get up early and finish the packing as Spouse was driving, I managed to sleep in, and everything took much longer to sort out then we had bargained for. It is amazing how easy it is to unpack from a car, and how much harder to pack it all up again. Particularly as four children can scatter their belongings all over said car taking up all available neat little spaces for shoving that last vital object in place.
However, eventually we were ready and off we set for the next stage on our journey. The sun at this point proceeded to blaze forth with glory and for the first time since our arrival we could properly see the mountains in Switzerland. Grr....
We had planned to go via Germany to get to our destination, but taking a wrong turn, and discovering that Switzerland had motorways while our German route did not, we decided we'd go that way instead. Which may or may not have been a mistake, given that we don't know how long the German route would have taken. However, we were charged the privilege of 30 euros for driving on some frankly indifferent motorways and having no idea of the speed limit, and not fancying a trip to a Swiss police cell to cement our happy family holiday memories Spouse took it nice and slow.
As it turned out we didn't have a lot of choice with our speed, particularly when we got to Basle and discovered that the whole of the motorway system had been turned into one ginormous set of roadworks. Spouse, who doesn't have a great deal of faith in my map reading at the best of times (most unjustified I might add, as I don't often get us lost, and when I do, I usually get us out of trouble fairly quickly) wouldn't believe me when I told him we hadn't gone off the motorway. Well, we had, but we weren't on the wrong road. It's just to get to the road we wanted, we were diverted through tramlines, and down tiny tunnels which spiralled downwards in ever decreasing circles, getting lower and lower until we were in fear of the roofbox being ripped off...
It was only when we got to the French border and came right out onto the motorway that he actually admitted I hadn't led us wrong.
It was with great relief that we finally got onto the peage and started putting some miles behind us. By now though it was nearing four o clock and we had only put five squares of the map behind us - we had another nine to go and were getting slightly twitchy about what time we might arrive. The sun was still shining - dammit!- and we both felt frustrated that today of all days the rain hadn't set in again. But at least the kids weren't making too much fuss. An entire series of the original Dr Who seemed to help.
By seven o clock we were nearly at Orleans, but we were on a two lane motorway in which we encountered some of the most stressful driving I have ever witnessed. Namely cars whizzing in and out of the overtaking lane leaving the barest minimum gap, but all going at a speed at which you really didn't oughter be doing when you're behaving like that. I was white knuckled all the way, but Spouse's coping mechanism was to make jolly little jokes. Sadly I didn't feel like laughing.
We rang our friend at Orleans to say we were about an hour away, but in reality it turned in to nearly two as the motorway disappeared here, and though the road was good, it wasn't that good. Still, at least we had lost the maniacal overtakers.
We eventually arrived at the campsite at about 9.30, and it was time for me to shift gear and switch my brain into French mode. Which, after a week of German and years of no practice in French took some doing I can tell you. Still, I understood sufficiently where we needed to park our tent, and that we had an electronic key to open up the barrier, which was all I really needed for now.
We put up the tent while the children ran down to the river, conveniently behind our camping spot, and wonderfully idyllic. By this time it was getting dark, and Spouse was desperate for some liquid refreshment. Sadly in our haste to get to the campsite we hadn't purchased any alcohol en route, the cafe attached to the campsite had just shut and we were left sipping cans of warm beer. Time for bed, said Zebedee, rather grumpily, tomorrow had to be a better day.
Tomorrow, as it happens, was. Or at least to start with...
The rain held off long enough for us to visit Chinon - a wonderful ruin where Henry II made his court. It was amazing, and all the more spectacular for me, as I had recently read Elizabeth Chadwick's The Greatest Knight, which makes mention of the place, and thanks to her brilliant descriptions I could really picture how a mediaeval castle might be.
The highlight though was discovering that Jacques de Molay, the last Templar Grand Master was actually imprisoned there and had inscribed his name on the dungeon wall. I know diddly squat about the Templars, but they are one of Spouse's passions (and well before The Da Vinci Code made them trendy) and he had told me Jacques dramatic story. Imprisoned by Philip IV of France (basically to steal all the Templars' money) and accused of heresy, Jacques spent some eighteen years in prison before his eventual death at the stake. He apparently cursed both Philip and Clement V and promised they would both be dead in a year, which they were. So it was very exciting to discover that he had actually been imprisoned here... another frisson of touching real history moment.
As was the discovery that Joan of Arc also had her first meeting with the Dauphin here (and you realise what a damned long way she travelled - Reims isn't exactly a stroll away). There was a whole tower dedicated to Joan which was fascinating, although a little tricky to ge the gist of what was going on, as most of the information was in French.
The sprogs by now were getting all castled out, so we wandered down to the town and got some lunch at a pleasant little cafe in the square. I do love the way the Europeans, particuarly the French do cafe culture. Whenever we try it in England it is never quite the same. And it's not just the weather - we just aren't relaxed enough for it. Me, I could sit all day and watch the world go by at a cafe, but Spouse finds it too tedious for words.
We headed back home intending to have a barbie that evening, but by now the weather had changed, and though we managed a quick swim in the pool, the rain was soon coming down in droves. We did manage our barbie, but ate it under the tent door which serves as a porch when propped up on sticks. Spouse and I were now beginning to feel as though the weather gods had really got it in for us, and went to bed feeling glummer then ever. The rain continued to pour down, and I woke intermittently through the night, fretting about the proximity of the river and ever mindful of the dire warnings all over the campsite that in the event of flooding we would be roused by a siren and would have to leave all our belongings behind.
So it was with some anxiety that I woke at around four to the sound of a siren in the distance. Thinking I had imagined it, I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. There it was again. And there appeared to be several people talking outside our tent in excited French.
Bugger off! was Spouse's grumpy response, and would have been mine probably but I heard them say, Anglais? Oui, I replied. Voleurs! Voleurs! Came the urgent reply. I leapt out of bed, shoved on some shoes and emerged from the tent into the dark teeming rain, to be met by two Frenchmen who were pointing at my tent. Someone had slashed the door.
Oh shit. We'd been burgled.
(to be continued...)
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