I have mentioned on and off that I have been writing a romantic novel, and it is with great relief that I have finally finished it. I have been attempting to write novels for the last eight years, but between childrearing, freelancing, running marathons etc, writing always gets a back seat. So I tend to write in spurts, and my poor heroine has spent most of the last two years being left languishing all over the place - either the hero's about to her kiss her and she's standing there waiting, or he's just disappeared off on holiday without a by your leave and it's taken me six months to get back and sort them both out.
Actually, considering everything else that's been going on, I suppose two years in the telling isn't too bad. Goodness, I might be able to manage a book every six months if I had the time... OTOH, knowing me, procastinator extraordinaire that I am, if I had more time, I would probably wittle it away somehow and end up taking longer.
I set myself a rather knotty problem with this book as well. I took my inspiration from some allotments at the back of our house, and it's where my hero and heroine meet and spend most of their time. I also took inspiration from Radio 2 which I have on constantly, so a kind of recurring theme is that the radio is like a friend in the kitchen.
I started off heavily using radio references, but cut them back because as in all contemporary fiction, things date so quickly. And I nearly came very badly unstuck as my heroine was dancing to the Cruisin' tracks on Drivetime at one point (something I used to do when I was cooking the tea), and then to my consternation the wonderful Johnny Walker left and Chris Evans took over, and Cruisin' was axed. As my heroine dancing in the kitchen was a fairly pivotal moment for her making up with the hero again, I was loth to lose it. But luckily Chris Evans has come up trumps with You Choose the Tracks on Friday evenings. Phew...
Another difficulty I had was that I've always found music really inspiring and helpful in the creative process something common to lots of my writing friends. One in particular, Elizabeth Chadwick uses rock music to great effect when writing her wonderful mediaeval historical novels. (For a great explanation of how she does it go to: http://livingthehistoryelizabethchadwick.blogspot.com/2006/05/greatest-knight-soundtrack.html)
I decided for this novel I wanted to use six songs to reflect the themes of each section of the book.
The first was easy. Forever Autumn by Justin Hayward. My heroine arrives in a new town, heart battered and bruised by the death of her partner in a bike accident. She thinks she can never love again, and that for her it will always be forever autumn. It was relatively easy to work in references to golden leaves/walking in the woods etc (quoting verbatim from songs is very costly and to be avoided), but getting across her sense of loss/generating the emotion the song provokes in me was much harder, and I have no idea if I have succeeded or not.
The second part is entitled Such A Winter's Day. My heroine has now met the hero and several other characters, and California Dreaming is the theme tune here. My hero is being pulled back to his past lover who has gone out to California, while being attracted to the heroine, but will it always be a winter's day for her? She meanwhile has developed a chink in her armour, and is starting to see the sunlight poking through. For the first time since I've been a writer, my characters took control at this point and insisted on kissing each other at the end of the section, which wasn't quite what I had in mind for them.
Part three is called Soak up the Sun, from a Sheryl Crowe song of the same name. The hero/heroine have a misunderstanding as he disappears off skiing without telling her, just at the point where she has decided Sheryl is right and she should lighten up. The point when they make up is when he finds her dancing to Sheryl Crowe in the kitchen. There is such a brilliant line about not having what you want, but wanting what you've got which is perfect for my heroine's tentative steps towards her new life.
Part four is based on a Texas song, Here Comes the Summer's Son, and again, it was listening to a specific line (about reconsidering before the lover takes the singer's heart, and opening a door and going through) that just naturally slotted in to what I was thinking for my heroine. She is on the verge of entrusting her fledgling new heart to the hero, and then his ex pitches up out of the blue and causes trouble. By the end of this section, the hero and heroine are at odds, as she thinks she can't trust him.
Part five - is possibly the least successful, so I may change it. This was again because my characters didn't do things the way I wanted them to. I needed a major character, who the heroine is very close to, firstly to be ill (as a means of bringing the hero and heroine back together again) and then die, but he persistently refused to die till part six! The song I've chosen is Sing by Travis. The singer talks about the love he brings meaning nothing, unless she sings. He also talks about her being so low/crying etc and it seemed to me about those times when however much you love someone, you can't help them when they are in pain. My heroine isn't quite into the height of her suffering here, so I may have to rethink it!
Part Six's theme is Fix You, a wonderful achingly haunting tune from Coldplay. My character dies here instead, and my heroine takes it as a sign that everyone she loves dies/leaves her and so she runs away from the hero, who has taken the view that life is too short and they should get married. He wants to fix her, take her pain away, but can do nothing. Until the end of course, when (using the song again) he guides her by candlelight to where he is waiting for her, and finally she can let go of her past.
It was damned hard work trying to convey the emotions I was after, and I have no idea whether or not it's worked, but at least I've done it. And now it's with my agent and I have to bite my nails till I find out if this will be another one to bite the dust or not...
Still, while I'm waiting I am thinking out the plot of my next book: about a dentist who gets sued by a Z list celebrity. (No prizes for guessing where that inspiration came from - though the suing bit I got out of listening to the Jeremy Vine show - yes, yes, I know, I am sadly obsessed with Radio 2, but I need something to keep me out of trouble).
And I have my first theme tune already: The Miracle of Love by the Eurythmics, for when my hero and heroine get it together for the first time. I have a whole scene playing out in my head, like watching a film at the moment.
Sometimes, it is so great being a writer. Even an unpublished one....
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Little Creatures
Some months ago, if you were paying attention, you may remember me waxing lyrical about the joys of growing our own veg. That was of course before we had a heatwave, a hosepipe ban and I got tied up with end of term itis.
As a result Spouse has nobly been watering our produce for months now, by dint of connecting four waterbutts in a line he has managed in the main to keep on top of things but it has been hard going at times. There has been many an evening when he has emerged from the bottom of the garden, black with grime and dust, muttering imprecations against Thames Water, snails, slugs and yours truly for being the inspiration behind the garden, but never doing any of the work. The latter part is true, but the trouble is when I get involved in the garden, everything else goes to pot.
Witness the other week, when I decided that as it was so hot and we can't have the paddling pool out, I would water the garden by dint of getting the kids to have a water fight in the vegetable patch. So I got them all lined up in their swimming cossies and they spent a happy hour chucking buckets of water at each other. Not much got watered, but at least they were cool. I then spent another hour or so watering everything properly, before I realised everyone was now so filthy that they had to go in the bath, and the louse problem is still so huge I then had to nit check heads. I also picked three lettuces which were about to seed, and lots of fruit. So by the time Spouse arrived home, I was still in the middle of tea, the sink was full of lettuce and all hell was breaking loose.
Not least, because now the fruits of his labours are coming good, I am discovering the downside to growing your own, is that you inevitably bring some friends in from the garden with you. I am not generally squeamish about little creatures, but there's something about soaking the raspberries and watching the insects swimming for their lives, not waving but drowning, that fills me with horror. I was equally aghast, when I turned round to wash the lettuce and nearly jumped out of my skin to see a snail sitting on the tap looking at me. I found a caterpillar making a break for it across the cooker the other day, having had a narrow escape from Death by Drowning in Boiling Broccoli.
Not only that, but thanks to the headlice problem, I have to do a daily check of the little creatures living in my children's heads. There too, I am not too wussy till a get a big one...
On the other hand, the upside of all this gardening malarkey means we have been dining of our own lettuce for weeks, we have managed to grow heaps of broccoli which I am blanching and freezing as quick as we can pick it, so we should have a steady supply in the winter, and for the first time ever we seem to have produced some reasonable carrots. Our potatoes are nearly ready for digging, our beetroot is about to be pickled, and the tomatoes are bursting forth with ripeness. We have made blackcurrant and plum jam, and I have loads of raspberries and loganberries frozen for use in the winter. When I was younger I would have sneered at such industry, but I have to confess, while I doubt I'll ever be a full blown member of the WI, I do find something immensely satisfying about cooking with food we've grown ourselves, especially as it tastes so good.
All I need now is a few chickens and a pig....
As a result Spouse has nobly been watering our produce for months now, by dint of connecting four waterbutts in a line he has managed in the main to keep on top of things but it has been hard going at times. There has been many an evening when he has emerged from the bottom of the garden, black with grime and dust, muttering imprecations against Thames Water, snails, slugs and yours truly for being the inspiration behind the garden, but never doing any of the work. The latter part is true, but the trouble is when I get involved in the garden, everything else goes to pot.
Witness the other week, when I decided that as it was so hot and we can't have the paddling pool out, I would water the garden by dint of getting the kids to have a water fight in the vegetable patch. So I got them all lined up in their swimming cossies and they spent a happy hour chucking buckets of water at each other. Not much got watered, but at least they were cool. I then spent another hour or so watering everything properly, before I realised everyone was now so filthy that they had to go in the bath, and the louse problem is still so huge I then had to nit check heads. I also picked three lettuces which were about to seed, and lots of fruit. So by the time Spouse arrived home, I was still in the middle of tea, the sink was full of lettuce and all hell was breaking loose.
Not least, because now the fruits of his labours are coming good, I am discovering the downside to growing your own, is that you inevitably bring some friends in from the garden with you. I am not generally squeamish about little creatures, but there's something about soaking the raspberries and watching the insects swimming for their lives, not waving but drowning, that fills me with horror. I was equally aghast, when I turned round to wash the lettuce and nearly jumped out of my skin to see a snail sitting on the tap looking at me. I found a caterpillar making a break for it across the cooker the other day, having had a narrow escape from Death by Drowning in Boiling Broccoli.
Not only that, but thanks to the headlice problem, I have to do a daily check of the little creatures living in my children's heads. There too, I am not too wussy till a get a big one...
On the other hand, the upside of all this gardening malarkey means we have been dining of our own lettuce for weeks, we have managed to grow heaps of broccoli which I am blanching and freezing as quick as we can pick it, so we should have a steady supply in the winter, and for the first time ever we seem to have produced some reasonable carrots. Our potatoes are nearly ready for digging, our beetroot is about to be pickled, and the tomatoes are bursting forth with ripeness. We have made blackcurrant and plum jam, and I have loads of raspberries and loganberries frozen for use in the winter. When I was younger I would have sneered at such industry, but I have to confess, while I doubt I'll ever be a full blown member of the WI, I do find something immensely satisfying about cooking with food we've grown ourselves, especially as it tastes so good.
All I need now is a few chickens and a pig....
Friday, July 07, 2006
Remembering 7/7
This blog is usually quite light-hearted, but I felt I couldn't let today pass without some comment.
This time a year ago I was on a school trip with no 2. We had set off to a nature reserve not far from home, and the talk among the mums was of how fantastic it was that we had won the Olympics.
I had forgotten to take my mobile and had made rather a complicated arrangement with my then nanny to pick no 4 up from nursery. Wanting to check that she had got into the house ok, I rang home at 11.30, which was the first I heard about the trouble in London. I can't say I was surprised - something was bound to happen sooner or later, and I think it is only by the grace of the security services that we haven't had more attacks - but I was shocked. I have lived in London most of my life, growing up with the threat of terrorism from the IRA, but this, this felt different. Bombs in the underground must be everyone's worst nightmare, and a year on, all I can think is how lucky it was that more people weren't killed, although, of course, every person who died is one too many.
My nanny's second words were, You're sister's ok. As the sister in question lives in Derbyshire and I hadn't known she was even in London, so it was a bit of a shock. It took me all day to track her down, but at least I knew she was safe.
I was the first to hear about the bombs, so discreetly told the teacher who rang the school. At lunchtime the adults huddled together in subdued groups, ringing husbands to check where they were. Living so close to London, everyone had someone who could potentially be caught up in the day's events. But fortunately, we were all among the lucky ones.
On 9/11 I watched the whole thing unfold, which was horrid and ghastly, but at least I knew what was happening. Being stuck in a wood with a bunch of seven year olds and knowing nothing was worse.
We got back to the playground eventually, by which time I was clocking all the people I could possibly think of who could have been in London that day, and thankfully, I saw most of them at school. I couldn't believe what difference a day could make. We had been so elated about the Olympics and now people were shocked, frightened, worried.
Even on the very fringes - my sister was at Liverpool Street and chucked off a mainline train just before one of the bombs went off - it was a scary and terrifying experience. And unfortunately, though my instincts are usually to stick two fingers up at the cowardly bastards who do this kind of thing, I did find myself avoiding London last summer. Had I been working there I would have had to go in, but risk my children? I don't think so.
A year on, and we seem no nearer to solving the problems that seem to breed this kind of unreasoning brutality. Sometimes I wonder if we ever will.
But we should always remember those who died, and work towards building bridges in our communities, so the actions of the few don't scar the lives of the many. And so that the victims haven't died in vain.
This time a year ago I was on a school trip with no 2. We had set off to a nature reserve not far from home, and the talk among the mums was of how fantastic it was that we had won the Olympics.
I had forgotten to take my mobile and had made rather a complicated arrangement with my then nanny to pick no 4 up from nursery. Wanting to check that she had got into the house ok, I rang home at 11.30, which was the first I heard about the trouble in London. I can't say I was surprised - something was bound to happen sooner or later, and I think it is only by the grace of the security services that we haven't had more attacks - but I was shocked. I have lived in London most of my life, growing up with the threat of terrorism from the IRA, but this, this felt different. Bombs in the underground must be everyone's worst nightmare, and a year on, all I can think is how lucky it was that more people weren't killed, although, of course, every person who died is one too many.
My nanny's second words were, You're sister's ok. As the sister in question lives in Derbyshire and I hadn't known she was even in London, so it was a bit of a shock. It took me all day to track her down, but at least I knew she was safe.
I was the first to hear about the bombs, so discreetly told the teacher who rang the school. At lunchtime the adults huddled together in subdued groups, ringing husbands to check where they were. Living so close to London, everyone had someone who could potentially be caught up in the day's events. But fortunately, we were all among the lucky ones.
On 9/11 I watched the whole thing unfold, which was horrid and ghastly, but at least I knew what was happening. Being stuck in a wood with a bunch of seven year olds and knowing nothing was worse.
We got back to the playground eventually, by which time I was clocking all the people I could possibly think of who could have been in London that day, and thankfully, I saw most of them at school. I couldn't believe what difference a day could make. We had been so elated about the Olympics and now people were shocked, frightened, worried.
Even on the very fringes - my sister was at Liverpool Street and chucked off a mainline train just before one of the bombs went off - it was a scary and terrifying experience. And unfortunately, though my instincts are usually to stick two fingers up at the cowardly bastards who do this kind of thing, I did find myself avoiding London last summer. Had I been working there I would have had to go in, but risk my children? I don't think so.
A year on, and we seem no nearer to solving the problems that seem to breed this kind of unreasoning brutality. Sometimes I wonder if we ever will.
But we should always remember those who died, and work towards building bridges in our communities, so the actions of the few don't scar the lives of the many. And so that the victims haven't died in vain.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Summer Term Blues
If you're paying attention (and let's face it, why wouldn't you?), you might have noticed that my posts have been a bit sporadic of late. The reason for this is doublefold, I have been in the process of finishing my wip. And finally - two years after I started, I have got there. Allotted Time is done and dusted. Well, sort of. I have lots of revisons to do before sending it to my agent, but I should get it off this week.
The second reason, and really the more overwhelming one is that this is the summer term. And life has just been - well - mad...
After half term I thought I had seven lovely weeks in which to plough through all the work I have to get through before the summer holidays, including aforementioned novel. Seven glorious weeks, to work I thought. I couldn't wait. It was going to be fabulous.
As if.
Week 1 was my own fault, as I made the mistake of launching my book then, and it took over rather.
Week 2 I was still busy post-launch, plus overtaken by sudden inertia and suddenly Week 3 was upon me.
Week 3 I lost a day to a prior engagement made eons ago back in the mists of time when I thought that I had a long lazy summer to look forward to. I also got hit by a stinking cold/cough which wiped me out.
However the good news was I got a weekend off, as Spouse took the sprogs camping and I had a blissful day at the Sanctuary with my mad twin, which was my birthday present from last year. Our birthday is fast approaching and we hadn't got round to organising it before. I wonder why not...
Week 4 is when it started to get interesting. No 3 had Sports Day on the Monday - which was also her birthday. Was mightily relieved when a downpour meant it was cancelled and I had time to get on and make her birthday cake etc. However, this meant that Sports Day was now on Tuesday, at lunchtime necessitating a half day's work for me. 1pm seems a daft time to have Sports Day to me, particularly in the heat we've been having of late, and no 3 was flaking most of the way round. Not least because her team was pretty rubbish (always the way with my offpsring), and they lost every event.
Sports Day at her school is severely non-competitive. Two opposing teams, split into groups of ten go round the field in opposite directions, attempting ten events. Each group that wins gets ten points and the loser gets five. Miraculously, year after year even when one team is storming ahead, there is a draw at the end. We were fully expecting the same this year, but the other team (who by all accounts were well in the lead) won by 5 points. Hmm, a fix methinks???
At the end I severely disgraced myself by jumping up and down like a looney as no 3's team just managed to win their last event, much to the amusement of a mum I didn't know (I do now though - the shame) who has evidently labelled me as Competitive Mum of the Year. Just as well Spouse wasn't there, he would have been mortified.
On Friday I had to remember to pack a packed lunch for no 3 as she was going to Hever Castle. I should have attended her birthday assembly at school, but no 2 had a class assembly which I had to go to instead. I therefore rearranged no 3's birthday assembly for the following week only to discover that no 4 was doing a play at 9.30... aagh.
As we were getting ready for school no 1 wanted to know if she could have a friend back to play. Given that I was preparing both for No 3's birthday party the next day and I had to get up at 7 to get to Guildford to be interviewed on Southern Counties Radio, the answer was a resounding no. Which was just as well as five minutes later another mum rang me to ask what time the school quiz finished. What school quiz? The one they're doing after school today....
Saturday was just about one of the maddest days of my life. I got up at 7 with a raging hangover, and feeling knackered as the heat had meant I hadn't slept. I don't know why anyone wants to be famous, if it means getting up this time on a Saturday, muttered Spouse. I drove down to Guildford and did my piece (huge thanks due here to the wonderful Sally James and Fred Marden who made me feel very at home and gave me a lovely plug for my book), before setting off home at breakneck speed to ice a mermaid cake. Nothing like keeping your feet on the ground...
Then it was the usual ballet run mania. I escaped home at 11.30am - in a monumental piece of bad planning I had originally arranged the party in the middle of the footie, so had to pull it forward to 1pm. Which if you have children you will know is horribly early for a party, particularly when you've organised a radio interview the same day...
I was still writing clues for the treasure hunt (the theme was pirates and mermaids) as people arrived, but it all seemed to go well. You know it's a success when at the end of the party the four pirates have to be physically manhandled off the fort/climbing frame...
Then it was a case of knuckling down to watch the football. I couldn't stand the tension so went upstairs to find things to do. One of the things I found to do was time to read an email my brother had sent round predicting Beckham would get injured, and Rooney would get sent off. Which is of course just what happened next. I am sure he cursed the match. You heard it here first.
No 1 who had been soooo certain we were going to win belatedly worked out what I had been telling her since the start, it's always a roller coaster with England and the downs are usually more frequent then the ups... We watched the penalty shoot out in disbelief (I mean, that Portugese guy, saving goals???? It could only happen to England...) I know they played crap most of the time, but that second half was valiant and it always makes penalties seem even more unfair.
Poo, said No 1 when it was over, and I couldn't disagree. OTOH, watching the remaining matches has been curiously restful...
Week5
I was out on Monday because of the twins day, and supposed to be playing tennis on Wednesday. (I know I shouldn't really organise things I want to do). Fortunately, as I have so much to do, it rained, so tennis was off, but it meant I got to finish my allotments. Finally, after two years. Now I've done it I think it's a pile of crap, but am hoping my agent might think otherwise. What is certain Spouse is never going to look at it unless I have a contract and a copy in my little sticky paw!
On Tuesday, I remembered belatedly it was no 3's Open Day. I could arrive early if I liked to pick her up (highly inconvenient as I was trying to work) - so I thought I'd whizz in at about 2.45, have a quick shufti round her class and then go and get no 4. It was only when I arrived, that I discovered there was a quiz to do, which involved visiting every single class. Now, as I have been going back and forth from the school for the last six years, there ain't a lot to discover about it, my only interest in going is to look at my daughter's work, and to please her obviously... So I ended up leaving her there, rushing off to get no 4 and then coming back and very bad temperedly doing the quiz...
On Thursday I foolishly offered to help with a pedestrian training day for year 3. No 2 was desperate for me to come and I never do anything like that, so I said yes. Oh dear oh dear. I had wanted to have a swim (the triathlon training is slowly improving, but I really need to get in the pool), but then discovered I needed to be at school at 9.20. I didn't escape till 11am, which left just enough time to get to the bank before nursery pick up.
Training was total nightmare. Getting eight year olds focussed on answering the questions you want them to answer rather then telling you everything they know (randomly) about road safety being somewhat trickier then envisaged. Also the idea was to get them to take responsibility for crossing the roads (not much pressure there, then). As the roads round their school are really hazardous (so much so when this scheme was first set up the person running it said she couldn't find anywhere safe to cross the road!), getting them to even get to the middle of an island took forever. Consequently a walk of say ten minutes took nearly an hour, and my tolerance levels were rock bottom by the end, I can tell you.
After lunch I took no 4 to tennis, before picking the others up and going back to the club where nos 1 & 3 then have their lessons. This is followed by no 1 going out to Guides till 8.30. I got everyone in the bath while she was out and then did the dreaded nit check. I am usually scrupulous about this, but of late have been a bit lax. Which is of course why I have just had a lesson in why you should never ever take your eye off the ball...
I found some eggs in no 3's hair, several small live ones in no4's and about 100 in no 2's... Aaggh! It's going to take me forever to get rid of them. Turns out no 2 has been sitting next to the class equivalent of Nitty Nora for the last few weeks - a fact I only picked up on yesterday when I went in her class...
By ten pm the children were all deloused and in bed and I was itchy as hell.
On Friday I went into no 3's assembly to watch her blow out candles on the cake they bring out for the purpose. Usually they do this first, so I was planning a quick escape and meeting a couple of other mums who had to be in the Junior school for their children's assembly. I should have been out by 9.15, if it hadn't been for the deputy head changing the order of events. I watched in desperation as child after child came up to display their good work and the clock was ticking unremittingly towards 9.30. In desperation I asked her to interrupt the praise fest, and managed to finally escape by 9.25. I raced across the playground, realised my friends had already gone and ran up the hill just as the children were about to go on stage - phew!
The show was a triumph of ambition over sense. You have to hand it to the nursery leader, she doesn't let a little thing like the fact she has a bunch of 3/4 year olds stop her from going for broke. The theme of the show was the jungle, so we had groups of tigers/monkeys/snakes/elephants etc. and a small band of explorers who had a phenomenal amount of words to remember. No4 was a tiger, and also had some lines, which I was amazed to hear her deliver loudly. She actually seemed to do rather a lot (which makes a change - normally I sit through the tedium for my child to pop up for two minutes) - dancing/singing with the other tigers/playing the drums/and having one little solo bit where she had to brush her teeth. The funniest thing about the show, though, was not the children, but the nursery leader, who enthusiastically encouraged them from the back, leaping up and down and pulling all manner of funny faces as she tried to get them to stick with the programme. It would have been worth videoing her alone...
We still have two and a half weeks to go and I have to endure two more sports days and give a talk to no 3's class about making books. Not only that, I seem to be met daily with requests for things I don't have: cardboard boxes, silver foil, cotton wool - all to make piles of crap that I will have to find space for at the end of term. Some day I would really love to swap places with some of the teachers, then they might have a slight clue as to what they are asking of us mums...
I don't know why people moan about the summer holidays - quite frankly, I can't wait....
The second reason, and really the more overwhelming one is that this is the summer term. And life has just been - well - mad...
After half term I thought I had seven lovely weeks in which to plough through all the work I have to get through before the summer holidays, including aforementioned novel. Seven glorious weeks, to work I thought. I couldn't wait. It was going to be fabulous.
As if.
Week 1 was my own fault, as I made the mistake of launching my book then, and it took over rather.
Week 2 I was still busy post-launch, plus overtaken by sudden inertia and suddenly Week 3 was upon me.
Week 3 I lost a day to a prior engagement made eons ago back in the mists of time when I thought that I had a long lazy summer to look forward to. I also got hit by a stinking cold/cough which wiped me out.
However the good news was I got a weekend off, as Spouse took the sprogs camping and I had a blissful day at the Sanctuary with my mad twin, which was my birthday present from last year. Our birthday is fast approaching and we hadn't got round to organising it before. I wonder why not...
Week 4 is when it started to get interesting. No 3 had Sports Day on the Monday - which was also her birthday. Was mightily relieved when a downpour meant it was cancelled and I had time to get on and make her birthday cake etc. However, this meant that Sports Day was now on Tuesday, at lunchtime necessitating a half day's work for me. 1pm seems a daft time to have Sports Day to me, particularly in the heat we've been having of late, and no 3 was flaking most of the way round. Not least because her team was pretty rubbish (always the way with my offpsring), and they lost every event.
Sports Day at her school is severely non-competitive. Two opposing teams, split into groups of ten go round the field in opposite directions, attempting ten events. Each group that wins gets ten points and the loser gets five. Miraculously, year after year even when one team is storming ahead, there is a draw at the end. We were fully expecting the same this year, but the other team (who by all accounts were well in the lead) won by 5 points. Hmm, a fix methinks???
At the end I severely disgraced myself by jumping up and down like a looney as no 3's team just managed to win their last event, much to the amusement of a mum I didn't know (I do now though - the shame) who has evidently labelled me as Competitive Mum of the Year. Just as well Spouse wasn't there, he would have been mortified.
On Friday I had to remember to pack a packed lunch for no 3 as she was going to Hever Castle. I should have attended her birthday assembly at school, but no 2 had a class assembly which I had to go to instead. I therefore rearranged no 3's birthday assembly for the following week only to discover that no 4 was doing a play at 9.30... aagh.
As we were getting ready for school no 1 wanted to know if she could have a friend back to play. Given that I was preparing both for No 3's birthday party the next day and I had to get up at 7 to get to Guildford to be interviewed on Southern Counties Radio, the answer was a resounding no. Which was just as well as five minutes later another mum rang me to ask what time the school quiz finished. What school quiz? The one they're doing after school today....
Saturday was just about one of the maddest days of my life. I got up at 7 with a raging hangover, and feeling knackered as the heat had meant I hadn't slept. I don't know why anyone wants to be famous, if it means getting up this time on a Saturday, muttered Spouse. I drove down to Guildford and did my piece (huge thanks due here to the wonderful Sally James and Fred Marden who made me feel very at home and gave me a lovely plug for my book), before setting off home at breakneck speed to ice a mermaid cake. Nothing like keeping your feet on the ground...
Then it was the usual ballet run mania. I escaped home at 11.30am - in a monumental piece of bad planning I had originally arranged the party in the middle of the footie, so had to pull it forward to 1pm. Which if you have children you will know is horribly early for a party, particularly when you've organised a radio interview the same day...
I was still writing clues for the treasure hunt (the theme was pirates and mermaids) as people arrived, but it all seemed to go well. You know it's a success when at the end of the party the four pirates have to be physically manhandled off the fort/climbing frame...
Then it was a case of knuckling down to watch the football. I couldn't stand the tension so went upstairs to find things to do. One of the things I found to do was time to read an email my brother had sent round predicting Beckham would get injured, and Rooney would get sent off. Which is of course just what happened next. I am sure he cursed the match. You heard it here first.
No 1 who had been soooo certain we were going to win belatedly worked out what I had been telling her since the start, it's always a roller coaster with England and the downs are usually more frequent then the ups... We watched the penalty shoot out in disbelief (I mean, that Portugese guy, saving goals???? It could only happen to England...) I know they played crap most of the time, but that second half was valiant and it always makes penalties seem even more unfair.
Poo, said No 1 when it was over, and I couldn't disagree. OTOH, watching the remaining matches has been curiously restful...
Week5
I was out on Monday because of the twins day, and supposed to be playing tennis on Wednesday. (I know I shouldn't really organise things I want to do). Fortunately, as I have so much to do, it rained, so tennis was off, but it meant I got to finish my allotments. Finally, after two years. Now I've done it I think it's a pile of crap, but am hoping my agent might think otherwise. What is certain Spouse is never going to look at it unless I have a contract and a copy in my little sticky paw!
On Tuesday, I remembered belatedly it was no 3's Open Day. I could arrive early if I liked to pick her up (highly inconvenient as I was trying to work) - so I thought I'd whizz in at about 2.45, have a quick shufti round her class and then go and get no 4. It was only when I arrived, that I discovered there was a quiz to do, which involved visiting every single class. Now, as I have been going back and forth from the school for the last six years, there ain't a lot to discover about it, my only interest in going is to look at my daughter's work, and to please her obviously... So I ended up leaving her there, rushing off to get no 4 and then coming back and very bad temperedly doing the quiz...
On Thursday I foolishly offered to help with a pedestrian training day for year 3. No 2 was desperate for me to come and I never do anything like that, so I said yes. Oh dear oh dear. I had wanted to have a swim (the triathlon training is slowly improving, but I really need to get in the pool), but then discovered I needed to be at school at 9.20. I didn't escape till 11am, which left just enough time to get to the bank before nursery pick up.
Training was total nightmare. Getting eight year olds focussed on answering the questions you want them to answer rather then telling you everything they know (randomly) about road safety being somewhat trickier then envisaged. Also the idea was to get them to take responsibility for crossing the roads (not much pressure there, then). As the roads round their school are really hazardous (so much so when this scheme was first set up the person running it said she couldn't find anywhere safe to cross the road!), getting them to even get to the middle of an island took forever. Consequently a walk of say ten minutes took nearly an hour, and my tolerance levels were rock bottom by the end, I can tell you.
After lunch I took no 4 to tennis, before picking the others up and going back to the club where nos 1 & 3 then have their lessons. This is followed by no 1 going out to Guides till 8.30. I got everyone in the bath while she was out and then did the dreaded nit check. I am usually scrupulous about this, but of late have been a bit lax. Which is of course why I have just had a lesson in why you should never ever take your eye off the ball...
I found some eggs in no 3's hair, several small live ones in no4's and about 100 in no 2's... Aaggh! It's going to take me forever to get rid of them. Turns out no 2 has been sitting next to the class equivalent of Nitty Nora for the last few weeks - a fact I only picked up on yesterday when I went in her class...
By ten pm the children were all deloused and in bed and I was itchy as hell.
On Friday I went into no 3's assembly to watch her blow out candles on the cake they bring out for the purpose. Usually they do this first, so I was planning a quick escape and meeting a couple of other mums who had to be in the Junior school for their children's assembly. I should have been out by 9.15, if it hadn't been for the deputy head changing the order of events. I watched in desperation as child after child came up to display their good work and the clock was ticking unremittingly towards 9.30. In desperation I asked her to interrupt the praise fest, and managed to finally escape by 9.25. I raced across the playground, realised my friends had already gone and ran up the hill just as the children were about to go on stage - phew!
The show was a triumph of ambition over sense. You have to hand it to the nursery leader, she doesn't let a little thing like the fact she has a bunch of 3/4 year olds stop her from going for broke. The theme of the show was the jungle, so we had groups of tigers/monkeys/snakes/elephants etc. and a small band of explorers who had a phenomenal amount of words to remember. No4 was a tiger, and also had some lines, which I was amazed to hear her deliver loudly. She actually seemed to do rather a lot (which makes a change - normally I sit through the tedium for my child to pop up for two minutes) - dancing/singing with the other tigers/playing the drums/and having one little solo bit where she had to brush her teeth. The funniest thing about the show, though, was not the children, but the nursery leader, who enthusiastically encouraged them from the back, leaping up and down and pulling all manner of funny faces as she tried to get them to stick with the programme. It would have been worth videoing her alone...
We still have two and a half weeks to go and I have to endure two more sports days and give a talk to no 3's class about making books. Not only that, I seem to be met daily with requests for things I don't have: cardboard boxes, silver foil, cotton wool - all to make piles of crap that I will have to find space for at the end of term. Some day I would really love to swap places with some of the teachers, then they might have a slight clue as to what they are asking of us mums...
I don't know why people moan about the summer holidays - quite frankly, I can't wait....
Seeing Double
It having been National Twins Day this week and Mad Twin and I (her ephitet, not mine) having trogged down to St Thomas' for a Twins Party at the Twins Research Unit (sorry for the tongue twister), I thought it an appropriate moment to take stock and share some of the more interesting things about being a twin.
People often ask us what it's like being a twin. As we have no experience of anything else, it's quite a toughie to answer. My instinct now is to respond with, What's it like being a singleton? There you can't answer that either can you...
I can only go on my only experience here, but for me the best way of describing being a twin is to say that it is like looking at yourself in the mirror. Your reflection is you, but slightly off. That's kind of the way it is.
My sister and I share many characteristics: we are open, warm, friendly, passionate, impatient, stubborn and bad-tempered. We hate criticism and can be deeply oversensitive, imagining hurts and slights that don't exist, but that does make us quite sensitive and empathetic with others. (We're Cancerian you see - tough exterior, soft insides). We're also insanely competitive - especially with one another.
Somewhere along the line we must have come to some unwritten agreement that we would take some characteristics and make them more our own - so my sister tends to be more passionate then I am, whereas I tend to control my emotions slightly more. She is probably more focussed and disciplined then I am, whereas I have a tendency to fire off at random. She is the unconventional one - in marriage she chose a peace activist, I chose a dentist - and at school was the one most likely to be in trouble. She has a keen sense of injustice and is the first to leap up and say, it's not fair, whereas I am more inclined to shrug my shoulders and take a pragmatic response. And yet, I have a strong sense of fair play to, and when she chooses to she can be pragmatic.
I like to think we're the opposite sides of a circle, and together we make a whole. In fact, my favourite poem, A Valediction Forbidding Mourning, by John Donne sums it up pretty well. In it, he compares two lovers being joined together like a set of compasses (bit odd, I know, but hey, he was a metaphysicist) - but he could equally be describing twins, when he ends the poem:
Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th’other foot, obliquely run,
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begunne
Being a twin is not without its difficulties sometimes.
There's the obvious one of being mistaken for one another. Time out of number I've been on a train or a bus somewhere and a complete stranger has claimed to know me. I usually just cut to the chase now and say, I think you must know my twin. (If it is a case of mistaken identity and they know neither of us, people tend to think I'm making it up!). Very often they do. But the problem can then arise that they think they know you. Which they don't. I'm not her, I want to scream, I'm me.
So reclaiming your identity can sometimes be tricky. Our brother used to drive as mad as children by claiming we were one person really. No, we're not, we would shriek before hurling ourselves on top of him. As he is six years older, this really wasn't a fair contest, and we always came off worst. But it set alight in me a strong desire for independence, and my mother thinks I spent a lot of my childhood trying to escape being a twin.
I can't remember that really, but I do remember the irritation of my sister always beating me (only marginally, but she did always do better) academically. I was always slightly better at English, and eventually she beat me at that too. I was an absolute cow about it, but fortunately she forgave me. Did I mention the great thing about being a twin? No one else will ever be as forgiving of your sins - what you do to your sister/brother you also do to yourself...
We very rarely fall out - we've only done it twice in our adult lives - and when we do it is cataclysmically awful. Until we make up, neither of us feels quite whole. Not something that those around you can understand too easily, but I'm sure other twins do. It is like the world is out of kilter and nothing fits or feels right. To be at odds with your twin if you are close to them is a pain beyond description. The relief when the argument is over cannot be overstated. It feels like you've come home.
All of this stuff is something non-twins may well have with other siblings, but we have other siblings too and the twin-bond is deeper. We were there at the start together, and I sometimes wonder what happens at the end - I was born half an hour later, do I pop off half an hour later too? I never like to dwell on that one too long. A world without my other half in it doesn't bear thinking about.
We also have shared memories in common - sometimes I know something happened to one of us, but can't remember which one. Or I look at a photo and I don't know if it's me I'm looking at.
The fun side of it is pretending to be each other, which we did a lot as children but now of course we're all grown up and don't do that kind of thing anymore...
But we do share a tendency to ring people up at the same time/send similar cards or presents. I'm not sure if that counts as being psychic, but we certainly think along similar lines and come up with similar conclusions. I guess that is something that other twins can relate to, too...
I'm not hung up on being a twin, and now we have families we don't often get together, but to go and spend a whole day with other twins felt like something of a treat. Several of us stood chatting outside the hospital while waiting for our other halves, who were incredibly easy to spot. Although even for a twin there was something slightly spooky about seeing hordes of identical couples walking up to St Thomas'. I felt at times as though I was in a very bad SF movie. I don't think I'd have been all that surprised if Shaun of the Dead had turned up...
Scary SF experiences aside, it was actually a great day. We all had our picture taken in the blazing sunshine (yay! fame at last), before heading off to lunch. All the twins were met were very jolly and convivial and chatting with them, it is quite apparent there is a huge commonality of experience amongst us. And for once in our lives it was nice not to feel like the odd ones out.
I am also hugely grateful to the lovely people at the TRU for letting Mad Twin and I talk about our experiences running the marathon.
One good turn deserves another, so....
The work the TRU unit does in using twins to research different diseases is hugely important and they are always looking for more twins for their database. If you're a twin/know of some twins and want to find out more:
ring: 020 7188 5555
or email: twinrecruitment@gstt.nhs.uk
With huge thanks to Ursula and Lynn at the Twins Unit for a wonderful day and to Professor Tim Spector for getting the unit going. It is a huge privilege to be part of the database!
And to my mad twin for being the other half of my whole.
A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING. by John Donne
As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
Men reckon what it did, and meant ;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—
cannot admit Of absence,
'cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
People often ask us what it's like being a twin. As we have no experience of anything else, it's quite a toughie to answer. My instinct now is to respond with, What's it like being a singleton? There you can't answer that either can you...
I can only go on my only experience here, but for me the best way of describing being a twin is to say that it is like looking at yourself in the mirror. Your reflection is you, but slightly off. That's kind of the way it is.
My sister and I share many characteristics: we are open, warm, friendly, passionate, impatient, stubborn and bad-tempered. We hate criticism and can be deeply oversensitive, imagining hurts and slights that don't exist, but that does make us quite sensitive and empathetic with others. (We're Cancerian you see - tough exterior, soft insides). We're also insanely competitive - especially with one another.
Somewhere along the line we must have come to some unwritten agreement that we would take some characteristics and make them more our own - so my sister tends to be more passionate then I am, whereas I tend to control my emotions slightly more. She is probably more focussed and disciplined then I am, whereas I have a tendency to fire off at random. She is the unconventional one - in marriage she chose a peace activist, I chose a dentist - and at school was the one most likely to be in trouble. She has a keen sense of injustice and is the first to leap up and say, it's not fair, whereas I am more inclined to shrug my shoulders and take a pragmatic response. And yet, I have a strong sense of fair play to, and when she chooses to she can be pragmatic.
I like to think we're the opposite sides of a circle, and together we make a whole. In fact, my favourite poem, A Valediction Forbidding Mourning, by John Donne sums it up pretty well. In it, he compares two lovers being joined together like a set of compasses (bit odd, I know, but hey, he was a metaphysicist) - but he could equally be describing twins, when he ends the poem:
Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th’other foot, obliquely run,
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begunne
Being a twin is not without its difficulties sometimes.
There's the obvious one of being mistaken for one another. Time out of number I've been on a train or a bus somewhere and a complete stranger has claimed to know me. I usually just cut to the chase now and say, I think you must know my twin. (If it is a case of mistaken identity and they know neither of us, people tend to think I'm making it up!). Very often they do. But the problem can then arise that they think they know you. Which they don't. I'm not her, I want to scream, I'm me.
So reclaiming your identity can sometimes be tricky. Our brother used to drive as mad as children by claiming we were one person really. No, we're not, we would shriek before hurling ourselves on top of him. As he is six years older, this really wasn't a fair contest, and we always came off worst. But it set alight in me a strong desire for independence, and my mother thinks I spent a lot of my childhood trying to escape being a twin.
I can't remember that really, but I do remember the irritation of my sister always beating me (only marginally, but she did always do better) academically. I was always slightly better at English, and eventually she beat me at that too. I was an absolute cow about it, but fortunately she forgave me. Did I mention the great thing about being a twin? No one else will ever be as forgiving of your sins - what you do to your sister/brother you also do to yourself...
We very rarely fall out - we've only done it twice in our adult lives - and when we do it is cataclysmically awful. Until we make up, neither of us feels quite whole. Not something that those around you can understand too easily, but I'm sure other twins do. It is like the world is out of kilter and nothing fits or feels right. To be at odds with your twin if you are close to them is a pain beyond description. The relief when the argument is over cannot be overstated. It feels like you've come home.
All of this stuff is something non-twins may well have with other siblings, but we have other siblings too and the twin-bond is deeper. We were there at the start together, and I sometimes wonder what happens at the end - I was born half an hour later, do I pop off half an hour later too? I never like to dwell on that one too long. A world without my other half in it doesn't bear thinking about.
We also have shared memories in common - sometimes I know something happened to one of us, but can't remember which one. Or I look at a photo and I don't know if it's me I'm looking at.
The fun side of it is pretending to be each other, which we did a lot as children but now of course we're all grown up and don't do that kind of thing anymore...
But we do share a tendency to ring people up at the same time/send similar cards or presents. I'm not sure if that counts as being psychic, but we certainly think along similar lines and come up with similar conclusions. I guess that is something that other twins can relate to, too...
I'm not hung up on being a twin, and now we have families we don't often get together, but to go and spend a whole day with other twins felt like something of a treat. Several of us stood chatting outside the hospital while waiting for our other halves, who were incredibly easy to spot. Although even for a twin there was something slightly spooky about seeing hordes of identical couples walking up to St Thomas'. I felt at times as though I was in a very bad SF movie. I don't think I'd have been all that surprised if Shaun of the Dead had turned up...
Scary SF experiences aside, it was actually a great day. We all had our picture taken in the blazing sunshine (yay! fame at last), before heading off to lunch. All the twins were met were very jolly and convivial and chatting with them, it is quite apparent there is a huge commonality of experience amongst us. And for once in our lives it was nice not to feel like the odd ones out.
I am also hugely grateful to the lovely people at the TRU for letting Mad Twin and I talk about our experiences running the marathon.
One good turn deserves another, so....
The work the TRU unit does in using twins to research different diseases is hugely important and they are always looking for more twins for their database. If you're a twin/know of some twins and want to find out more:
ring: 020 7188 5555
or email: twinrecruitment@gstt.nhs.uk
With huge thanks to Ursula and Lynn at the Twins Unit for a wonderful day and to Professor Tim Spector for getting the unit going. It is a huge privilege to be part of the database!
And to my mad twin for being the other half of my whole.
A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING. by John Donne
As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
Men reckon what it did, and meant ;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—
cannot admit Of absence,
'cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Happy Father's Day
It was Father's Day on Sunday. So not unnaturally the offspring all had to do make cards for their dad.
No 1's bore the legend, Daddy and doggy (wishful thinking or what) were walking in the park, when out of a bush leapt four little girls (how alarming) and they shouted, Happy Father's Day. Which coincidentally is also what they shouted in the recordable card I got for them. (Boy did I regret that!)
No 2 wrote Spouse a poem, which went like this:
Father's Day has come at last,
Your trying to hide it by wearing a mask,
Sitting in a room with a glassfull of beer (out of the mouths of babes!)
Now close your eyes and come right here...
No 2 is demonstrating an alarming propensity to show huge discernment about her parents - at her Open Day yesterday I came across a piece of writing in which she declared that her mother would watch Love Films if left to her own devices, while her dad would watch Scary Films. Which is just about right... though I do have a penchant for clever horror flicks...
No3 had drawn a picture of Super Dad. Look it's Super Dad, ran her caption. Wiat a minute I wonder who's dad it is... Wow it's my dad.
I was pretty impressed by this effort considering she isn't quite six yet, until I found no2's birthday offering which more or less said the same thing...
No 4 can't write (in fact I am beginning to wonder why I have sent her to a posh nursery - oh yes, it was so I could work - given that all the others who were deprived at preschool could write their names by now.) so no 2 kindly drew her card and wrote Happy Father's Day on it for her. Inspired by this no 4 then trogged off and came up with her own version, which had a picture of a purple creature on it. Is that me? asked Spouse brightly. Oh no, was the reply. It's an alien. Hmm... Wonder what Freud would have made of that...
Fortunately all of this activity kept them from coming in too early on Sunday morning (I hastily shoved them all downstairs at seven thirty with strict instructions that Dad really didn't want breakfast in bed just yet...)
It managed to stave them off for an hour, after which a little cohort appeared at the door bearing bowls of muesli, bread and cold tea. When no 1 learnt to make tea last year, I felt that at last my years of parenthood had been to some purpose. It will have been to good purpose once they learn to make a hot cup of tea...
Which brings me neatly on to my dear old dad, for whom the sole reason for having as many children as he did (I have seven siblings) was so he never went short of a cup of tea. I can't actually recall having made him cards for Father's Day as a child, as I don't think people went in for it much then. In fact, I think when he did start getting cards around the time I was in my teens he used to moan about it being commercial nonsense. Although, I suspect we'd have known about it if he hadn't had any...
Sadly my dad is no longer with us. He is in fact my dear departed old dad. Or DDOD for short. It's ok, it's been a long time now, and I am quite used to it. But on days like Sunday, it does suddenly strike you with a pang. There is a space which used to be inhabited by him, which will always be a vast chasm. And no one else will ever fill it. I suspect Spouse feels something similar. We lost his dad three years ago (I know very careless of us). And while for both our dads, it was in many ways a release, and they had both had what they would have termed a good innings... still. There is a poignancy now in the only dad in the family being Spouse. And while our children celebrate having him, we mourn still the loss of ours. And I suppose we always will.
The DDODs met on more then one occasion and alcohol was usually involved (that's where we get it from then). The first time they met, just before our wedding, in honour of the fact they were both WW2 vets (mine in the navy, Spouse's in the army), my father decided to bring in some rum to celebrate. He also did the cooking while we were out. By the time we got back most of the rum had gone, the dinner was cooked, and my dad was slightly squiffy to say the least. As mil is German we then had a Don't Mention the War kind of evening, except that's all they could talk about as it was all they had in common. Mil usually is sanguine about it, but after a few drinks she does tend to get a bit teary when she recalls having to flee her home. My dad, a sensitive soul, kept whispering to me sotto voce, Oh Dear, I think I've upset your mother in law. It wasn't too long before Spouse and I escaped to the pub...
On another, equally memorable occasion, the two mums had gone to bed and Spouse and I sat chewing the fat with the dads. By about midnight, both dads were well in their cups and my DDOFIL started telling vaguely risque jokes. My DDOD looked like he wanted to respond, but I could see I was cramping both their styles, and they were horrified that I knew what they were talking about... So I did the decent thing and slid gracefully off to bed. All night I heard a murmur of voices, which would suddenly get very loud and animated and then tail off into a mumble.
Spouse eventually left them to it, at about 2am. He had been sitting acolytelike at their feet, while they imparted the wisdom of their years, which as the evening wore on became somehwat more questionable. As he was there, he had to take the lackey role and keep refilling their glasses. In the end he poured my dad a large glass of brandy, his a large glass of whisky and then left them both to it.
In the morning my fil appeared bright and breezy about 9 am, but my dad didn't get up till lunchtime, when he appeared looking pale and wan and proceeded to drink water for the rest of the day. It was only many many years later that fil admitted to me that he had got up at 6am to sneak a quick whisky which kept him going for the rest of the day...
Which is why, much as I miss them both, I feel ok about it all really. Because I have this vision of my dad sitting on his cloud, his harp beside him, halo slightly slipping, a glass of claret in hand, tossing his head and saying, Father's Day, what a lot of nonsense. And sitting next to him, with a glass of whisky in his, fil, nodding wisely and responding with , Couldn't agree more old boy! Chin! Chin!
So I raise a glass to my two dads, wherever they may be. It was great to have them as long as we did. And I know they'll both appreciate the fact that we no longer have to waste our money on them...
For my two dads with all my lovexxxx
No 1's bore the legend, Daddy and doggy (wishful thinking or what) were walking in the park, when out of a bush leapt four little girls (how alarming) and they shouted, Happy Father's Day. Which coincidentally is also what they shouted in the recordable card I got for them. (Boy did I regret that!)
No 2 wrote Spouse a poem, which went like this:
Father's Day has come at last,
Your trying to hide it by wearing a mask,
Sitting in a room with a glassfull of beer (out of the mouths of babes!)
Now close your eyes and come right here...
No 2 is demonstrating an alarming propensity to show huge discernment about her parents - at her Open Day yesterday I came across a piece of writing in which she declared that her mother would watch Love Films if left to her own devices, while her dad would watch Scary Films. Which is just about right... though I do have a penchant for clever horror flicks...
No3 had drawn a picture of Super Dad. Look it's Super Dad, ran her caption. Wiat a minute I wonder who's dad it is... Wow it's my dad.
I was pretty impressed by this effort considering she isn't quite six yet, until I found no2's birthday offering which more or less said the same thing...
No 4 can't write (in fact I am beginning to wonder why I have sent her to a posh nursery - oh yes, it was so I could work - given that all the others who were deprived at preschool could write their names by now.) so no 2 kindly drew her card and wrote Happy Father's Day on it for her. Inspired by this no 4 then trogged off and came up with her own version, which had a picture of a purple creature on it. Is that me? asked Spouse brightly. Oh no, was the reply. It's an alien. Hmm... Wonder what Freud would have made of that...
Fortunately all of this activity kept them from coming in too early on Sunday morning (I hastily shoved them all downstairs at seven thirty with strict instructions that Dad really didn't want breakfast in bed just yet...)
It managed to stave them off for an hour, after which a little cohort appeared at the door bearing bowls of muesli, bread and cold tea. When no 1 learnt to make tea last year, I felt that at last my years of parenthood had been to some purpose. It will have been to good purpose once they learn to make a hot cup of tea...
Which brings me neatly on to my dear old dad, for whom the sole reason for having as many children as he did (I have seven siblings) was so he never went short of a cup of tea. I can't actually recall having made him cards for Father's Day as a child, as I don't think people went in for it much then. In fact, I think when he did start getting cards around the time I was in my teens he used to moan about it being commercial nonsense. Although, I suspect we'd have known about it if he hadn't had any...
Sadly my dad is no longer with us. He is in fact my dear departed old dad. Or DDOD for short. It's ok, it's been a long time now, and I am quite used to it. But on days like Sunday, it does suddenly strike you with a pang. There is a space which used to be inhabited by him, which will always be a vast chasm. And no one else will ever fill it. I suspect Spouse feels something similar. We lost his dad three years ago (I know very careless of us). And while for both our dads, it was in many ways a release, and they had both had what they would have termed a good innings... still. There is a poignancy now in the only dad in the family being Spouse. And while our children celebrate having him, we mourn still the loss of ours. And I suppose we always will.
The DDODs met on more then one occasion and alcohol was usually involved (that's where we get it from then). The first time they met, just before our wedding, in honour of the fact they were both WW2 vets (mine in the navy, Spouse's in the army), my father decided to bring in some rum to celebrate. He also did the cooking while we were out. By the time we got back most of the rum had gone, the dinner was cooked, and my dad was slightly squiffy to say the least. As mil is German we then had a Don't Mention the War kind of evening, except that's all they could talk about as it was all they had in common. Mil usually is sanguine about it, but after a few drinks she does tend to get a bit teary when she recalls having to flee her home. My dad, a sensitive soul, kept whispering to me sotto voce, Oh Dear, I think I've upset your mother in law. It wasn't too long before Spouse and I escaped to the pub...
On another, equally memorable occasion, the two mums had gone to bed and Spouse and I sat chewing the fat with the dads. By about midnight, both dads were well in their cups and my DDOFIL started telling vaguely risque jokes. My DDOD looked like he wanted to respond, but I could see I was cramping both their styles, and they were horrified that I knew what they were talking about... So I did the decent thing and slid gracefully off to bed. All night I heard a murmur of voices, which would suddenly get very loud and animated and then tail off into a mumble.
Spouse eventually left them to it, at about 2am. He had been sitting acolytelike at their feet, while they imparted the wisdom of their years, which as the evening wore on became somehwat more questionable. As he was there, he had to take the lackey role and keep refilling their glasses. In the end he poured my dad a large glass of brandy, his a large glass of whisky and then left them both to it.
In the morning my fil appeared bright and breezy about 9 am, but my dad didn't get up till lunchtime, when he appeared looking pale and wan and proceeded to drink water for the rest of the day. It was only many many years later that fil admitted to me that he had got up at 6am to sneak a quick whisky which kept him going for the rest of the day...
Which is why, much as I miss them both, I feel ok about it all really. Because I have this vision of my dad sitting on his cloud, his harp beside him, halo slightly slipping, a glass of claret in hand, tossing his head and saying, Father's Day, what a lot of nonsense. And sitting next to him, with a glass of whisky in his, fil, nodding wisely and responding with , Couldn't agree more old boy! Chin! Chin!
So I raise a glass to my two dads, wherever they may be. It was great to have them as long as we did. And I know they'll both appreciate the fact that we no longer have to waste our money on them...
For my two dads with all my lovexxxx
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Busy, busy, busy...
Have been quiet this last week because all of a sudden I've been too busy to breathe. Not that I'm complaining, just that things all happen at once in this house.
After the excitement of the party last week ( I sold 38 copies, more then Eamonn Holmes did, when he visited our Ottakars the other week! - I've blogged about it in more detail at the party: http://RunningonEmptyLaunchParty.blogspot.com), we had an incredibly busy weekend. We were knackered from the start as our local council had inconveniently decided to dig up our road last week - in the middle of the night...
Monday/Tuesday we were kept awake till 2am by lorries trundling up the road. This wasn't too bad, and was to a point almost soporific. The crunch came when said lorries reversed back down again, usually just at the point when you were dropping off. Naturally in these health and safety conscious days they bleeped as they reversed. Plus they had nice bright orange flashy lights which turned our bedroom into a disco. Great. On Tuesday I rang up the council to complain and was put onto our local councillor. I clearly wasn't the only person who had made a fuss, as he told me he was working his way down the list.
By Wednesday it looked as though most of the work had been done, so we foolishly presumed it was all over. How wrong we were. At 9.30pm the drilling started. And not any old drill you understand, but a huge f***off, drill to end all drills. And it didn't stop till 4.30am. The house was shaking at times. If we made that much noise pollution we would get served with an asbo.
On Thursday, we really really thought it was all over. But no. At 10pm the drilling started again, and this time stopped at 4am. By this time Spouse and I were incandescent with fury and fruitlessly rang every number we could find to complain: our local council emergency number (a man in the Midlands who simply logs your call and tells you to ring tomorrow), the police (no one can help till tomorrow), the emergency number provided by the diggers (unobtainable), the local county council (where Spouse left an uncharacteristically rude message), and finally our poor benighted councillor, who really earned his money last week...
On Friday the police rang back and told me that it wasn't their responsibility (I had been told they had authorised the work), so basically everyone was passing the buck. I did eventually hear from the county council who said, did I want to lodge a formal complaint? You bet I did!!! The woman concerned did at least say they would look into it, so I await further developments with bated breath... At least they seem to have finished now.
Friday night, we had arranged to go out for a drink as I wanted to see one or two people who hadn't made the party. But being so exhausted from all this exciting activity chez nous, we didn't stay out late and were in bed by eleven, as Saturday was full of our usual ballet run shenanigans. We had also been invited by some friends to a barbecue to watch the footie.
No 1 has developed a great interest in the footie - so much so that I spent Sat morning finding her a fantasy football team - I keep trying to gently bring her down to earth by suggesting that we might not win. But she won't have it. She is sure we will. I wish I shared her optimism. I did tell her she's going to have her heart broken and she looked at me baffled. Well she is only ten. She doesn't yet know the agony of a penalty shoot out...
The barbie was lovely - we sat in the sunshine while the sprogs played. I also reencountered my doggie friend, Toffee, who I've written about in my book (it's on my website, www.marathonmum.com if you're interested). Basically Toffee managed to get me lost in a tiny village in Spain - and on meeting him again I realised why. When his mistress told him to go left, he went right. I was running with a dog with no sense of direction... It all makes perfect sense now.
Our life being what it is, we were not only invited to the barbie, but also a fiftieth later in the evening. So we had to dash back home with the sprogs, settle them down, get spruced up and head off out again at about 9.30. It was a glorious evening and we didn't end up leaving till 2. We pretty much danced all night, which was fun - though our dj mate would keep playing our favourite tracks as I was trying to shoe horn Spouse home. I was driving so was stone cold sober, but I did have to get up early as no 2 was getting all togged up in her Holy Communion glad rags to have a party to celebrate the occasion. And we had the school summer fete... oh joy.
So I took the sprogs to church in the morning, while Spouse did men's things in the garden. All apart from no 4, who got up complaining of a headache, and then keeled over in her bedroom as she was getting dressed. I think she had mild sunstroke... Fortunately it didn't last long. Luckily no one fell in the font at church this time either...
Then it was home for a quick lunch before dashing out to school.
I must have MUG written on my forehead. I really hate school fetes. And I really hate helping on stalls. And yet I always find myself both attending them and helping. As I have two children in the juniors, I had two stalls to help on. And no1 was taking part in a dance display so I had to rearrange both stints so I saw her perform. When I got there I discovered that the dance routine was taking place later then I was told, so I arrived twenty minutes late for the putting I was supposed to be helping with.
The first stall I was meant to help on turned out to be overstaffed, so with great relief I took the kids round and they quickly liberated me of nearly all the money I had. Nos 3&4 insisted on queuing up for tatoos, only for them to decide they were too itchy so I had to rub them off. An hour later they wanted more... Nos 1&2 had their hair dyed - no 2 declared that she'd never do it again when she realised how difficult it was to wash out.
It was very hot, I got heat rash, and was very bad tempered. However, the kids loved it, no 1's dancing was great and one of her teachers had a very fine band which played my kind of music all day long.
So it wasn't a complete washout....
I got home, sorted out tea, left Spouse to put the kids to bed and headed out for a very welcome game of tennis.
I was so knackered when I got back I was sure I would sleep the sleep of the dead.
The only problem is our bedroom was so hot I found it rather difficult to sleep.
I think I need a holiday....
After the excitement of the party last week ( I sold 38 copies, more then Eamonn Holmes did, when he visited our Ottakars the other week! - I've blogged about it in more detail at the party: http://RunningonEmptyLaunchParty.blogspot.com), we had an incredibly busy weekend. We were knackered from the start as our local council had inconveniently decided to dig up our road last week - in the middle of the night...
Monday/Tuesday we were kept awake till 2am by lorries trundling up the road. This wasn't too bad, and was to a point almost soporific. The crunch came when said lorries reversed back down again, usually just at the point when you were dropping off. Naturally in these health and safety conscious days they bleeped as they reversed. Plus they had nice bright orange flashy lights which turned our bedroom into a disco. Great. On Tuesday I rang up the council to complain and was put onto our local councillor. I clearly wasn't the only person who had made a fuss, as he told me he was working his way down the list.
By Wednesday it looked as though most of the work had been done, so we foolishly presumed it was all over. How wrong we were. At 9.30pm the drilling started. And not any old drill you understand, but a huge f***off, drill to end all drills. And it didn't stop till 4.30am. The house was shaking at times. If we made that much noise pollution we would get served with an asbo.
On Thursday, we really really thought it was all over. But no. At 10pm the drilling started again, and this time stopped at 4am. By this time Spouse and I were incandescent with fury and fruitlessly rang every number we could find to complain: our local council emergency number (a man in the Midlands who simply logs your call and tells you to ring tomorrow), the police (no one can help till tomorrow), the emergency number provided by the diggers (unobtainable), the local county council (where Spouse left an uncharacteristically rude message), and finally our poor benighted councillor, who really earned his money last week...
On Friday the police rang back and told me that it wasn't their responsibility (I had been told they had authorised the work), so basically everyone was passing the buck. I did eventually hear from the county council who said, did I want to lodge a formal complaint? You bet I did!!! The woman concerned did at least say they would look into it, so I await further developments with bated breath... At least they seem to have finished now.
Friday night, we had arranged to go out for a drink as I wanted to see one or two people who hadn't made the party. But being so exhausted from all this exciting activity chez nous, we didn't stay out late and were in bed by eleven, as Saturday was full of our usual ballet run shenanigans. We had also been invited by some friends to a barbecue to watch the footie.
No 1 has developed a great interest in the footie - so much so that I spent Sat morning finding her a fantasy football team - I keep trying to gently bring her down to earth by suggesting that we might not win. But she won't have it. She is sure we will. I wish I shared her optimism. I did tell her she's going to have her heart broken and she looked at me baffled. Well she is only ten. She doesn't yet know the agony of a penalty shoot out...
The barbie was lovely - we sat in the sunshine while the sprogs played. I also reencountered my doggie friend, Toffee, who I've written about in my book (it's on my website, www.marathonmum.com if you're interested). Basically Toffee managed to get me lost in a tiny village in Spain - and on meeting him again I realised why. When his mistress told him to go left, he went right. I was running with a dog with no sense of direction... It all makes perfect sense now.
Our life being what it is, we were not only invited to the barbie, but also a fiftieth later in the evening. So we had to dash back home with the sprogs, settle them down, get spruced up and head off out again at about 9.30. It was a glorious evening and we didn't end up leaving till 2. We pretty much danced all night, which was fun - though our dj mate would keep playing our favourite tracks as I was trying to shoe horn Spouse home. I was driving so was stone cold sober, but I did have to get up early as no 2 was getting all togged up in her Holy Communion glad rags to have a party to celebrate the occasion. And we had the school summer fete... oh joy.
So I took the sprogs to church in the morning, while Spouse did men's things in the garden. All apart from no 4, who got up complaining of a headache, and then keeled over in her bedroom as she was getting dressed. I think she had mild sunstroke... Fortunately it didn't last long. Luckily no one fell in the font at church this time either...
Then it was home for a quick lunch before dashing out to school.
I must have MUG written on my forehead. I really hate school fetes. And I really hate helping on stalls. And yet I always find myself both attending them and helping. As I have two children in the juniors, I had two stalls to help on. And no1 was taking part in a dance display so I had to rearrange both stints so I saw her perform. When I got there I discovered that the dance routine was taking place later then I was told, so I arrived twenty minutes late for the putting I was supposed to be helping with.
The first stall I was meant to help on turned out to be overstaffed, so with great relief I took the kids round and they quickly liberated me of nearly all the money I had. Nos 3&4 insisted on queuing up for tatoos, only for them to decide they were too itchy so I had to rub them off. An hour later they wanted more... Nos 1&2 had their hair dyed - no 2 declared that she'd never do it again when she realised how difficult it was to wash out.
It was very hot, I got heat rash, and was very bad tempered. However, the kids loved it, no 1's dancing was great and one of her teachers had a very fine band which played my kind of music all day long.
So it wasn't a complete washout....
I got home, sorted out tea, left Spouse to put the kids to bed and headed out for a very welcome game of tennis.
I was so knackered when I got back I was sure I would sleep the sleep of the dead.
The only problem is our bedroom was so hot I found it rather difficult to sleep.
I think I need a holiday....
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Party on down...
The good news is, the books arrived. Phew!!! And I still have some fingernails left.
The better news is, that my online launch party is now officially open.
So get your dancing (or should I say running) shoes on and come on down.
Eat drink and be merry - the great thing about an online launch party is that you won't end up with a hangover or putting on weight.
I'm just off for a run to help me thrash out my speech tonight, then I'm going to be dashing about sorting things out for tonight.
Hope to see some of you later in cyber space!
And thanks for the support.
I seem to have had a few new readers in the last couple of weeks - so hope you enjoy the blog!
The better news is, that my online launch party is now officially open.
So get your dancing (or should I say running) shoes on and come on down.
Eat drink and be merry - the great thing about an online launch party is that you won't end up with a hangover or putting on weight.
I'm just off for a run to help me thrash out my speech tonight, then I'm going to be dashing about sorting things out for tonight.
Hope to see some of you later in cyber space!
And thanks for the support.
I seem to have had a few new readers in the last couple of weeks - so hope you enjoy the blog!
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
We have lift off - kind of...
I am delighted to report that if you go on to Amazon you should now be able find my book by keying in the title: Running on Empty: Diary of a Marathon Mum by Julia Williams - I found it by using Quick Search. Apparently it can take 4-6 weeks via Amazon, but if you can't wait (and I'm sure you can't!!!) Drop into my launch party and order the book at a discount of £5.99 plus p&p, by going to: http://RunningonEmptyLaunchParty.blogspot.com.
Am currently suffering from last minute nerves as books still not with me owing to technical difficulties. They are allegedly printing as we speak, so fingers crossed I should get them in time. Otherwise I will be holding a bookless launch party. But as a woman who had a wedding without a wedding ring, I suppose that follows a pattern rather. And as my sister remarked it is rather postmodern....
See you in cyberspace on Thursday when I hope I'll have some books to sell...
Am currently suffering from last minute nerves as books still not with me owing to technical difficulties. They are allegedly printing as we speak, so fingers crossed I should get them in time. Otherwise I will be holding a bookless launch party. But as a woman who had a wedding without a wedding ring, I suppose that follows a pattern rather. And as my sister remarked it is rather postmodern....
See you in cyberspace on Thursday when I hope I'll have some books to sell...
Monday, June 05, 2006
Ein Gutes Fahrt Nach Deutschland
Well at least I think that's the right way of saying we had a good trip. The children of course find the word Fahrt - which sounds like the word you think it does hilarious. And were on the floor to discover that the word for Daddy is Vati - pronounced Farty. Oh such larks.
Being as I am a big wuss about flying, I usually get myself in a lather before getting on a plane. Since the advent of children I have found they keep me busy enough to calm the nerves a bit, but at the same time I also have to work quite hard to keep the panic out of my voice on the take off and landing - the bits I really really hate. Nerves not helped this time by the sight of machine gunned cops patrolling Heathrow, nor by the rather bumpy landing in Hamburg - apparently it's very windy there and always like that. But we had the two littlies screaming that their ears hurt (lucky Spouse was dealing with them), no 2 lay dramatically across my lap, having twigged I think( despite my best efforts) that I was none too keen on events, and no1 apparently clutched my mother's hand so tightly she thought it would break...
Still we landed in one piece and then it was off for the adventure that is finding a hire car in a foreign land. On one trip to Spain Spouse disappeared for nearly an hour as the hire car place was two miles up the road from the airport, and I was left with four rather restless children and lots of luggage...
This time we were helped by the fact that though mil needs assisted passage and walks very slowly with a walker she calls her Steel Horse, my mother is still pretty able, so we deposited the grannies (or the Omis as they are known in Germany) with the offspring and set off in search for the Avis office. We had arrived at Terminal 1, so of course the Avis office was in Terminal 2. We eventually found it, got the keys to our car - or rather bus, it was really a Mercedes van that seated nine - to discover that said bus was on the fourth floor of the furthest carpark. After debating whether to let the grannies know what was going on or just get the car, we opted for the latter and then spent a merry half hour getting lost in the one way system in Hamburg. Once we had found the right route and picked everyone up, we spent another merry hour or so driving through Hamburg in the pouring rain before eventually finding the right motorway. Normally we fly to Hannover which is only an hour away from our destination of Wolfsburg, but this time we couldn't get flights when we wanted so now we were a further two hours away, and we had arrived at six pm. The hotel we stay in is rather quiet so they don't actually have any staff on on Sundays, and we had to pick up the keys from my mil's rellies, who luckily live just down the road. Once unpacked and children happily deposited with grannies, we headed across the road for a quick drink in the very freundlichen gasthof before bedtime - originally we thought we might get a meal there, but it got so late we ended up feeding everyone from a rather dodgy looking bratwurst vendor at a fair that we happened to past.
The gasthof was just as it had been on our previous visit and the owner came over to greet us like longlost friends which was rather nice - as was the mindblowing schapps he also offered us on the house. So Spouse and I staggered our way home in preparation for an earlyish start with the rellies up the road who were coming for breakfast.
Actually the rellies up the road aren't really, or rather one of them is of a kind in that his mother was step great aunt to my mil, but the family connection has gone on so long now we all treat them like family. They are very jolly and kept us highly amused at breakfast although the Kindern spent most of their time in a fog and hadn't a clue what was being said to them. After breakfast it was off to visit mil's rather fearsome sister, who has MS and has lived in a home for the last thirty years where she merrily bosses everyone about and gives everyone merry hell. She is a splendid example of a difficult aunt. Every family ought to have one. We did, but ours has popped off now. However, we were in trouble the moment we arrived because we were late, so you can't have everything.
We left mil with her and headed for the rather splendid pool that graces the outskirts of Wolfsburg, where we all machen vielen spass mucking about with the wave machine and going on rides round the jet stream which takes you outside. Although it rained the whole day luckily the sun came out for that bit.
Then it was back to pick up mil and have dinner in the hotel with mil's best friend and husband. Sadly best friend now a bit Alzheimerish, so I spent the whole meal confirming that Ja, Spouse was Mein Mann, and er she had actually come to the wedding. Still she seemed pretty happy and certainly hadn't forgotten mil, which was great. Plus another school friend had tipped up for the party so that was good too. And the bonus for me was that for the first time ever in Germany I found myself understanding a four way conversation. Maybe now they're all old they speak slower...
The week progressed in similar vein - we had two visits to different farms, and luckily this time mil didn't arrange so many things that we clashed appointment times with people (one year Spouse and she went to tea witn one friend while I waited with fil and the children at another, and everyone was offering the inevitable Kaffee and Kuchen that you get in Germany). We were also able to show the children again the fabulous Wolfsburg Castle where their Great Granny grew up - well technically she lived in a little house in the corner of the grounds which is now part of the building which houses the castle museum. Her father was the Riding Master to the Count von Schulenberg, and his job in World War I was to make sure the Count made it back from the Somme in one piece. My family is dead boring by comparison, so I find it all fascinating.
Spouse also dragged us all around the Volkswagen works and this time we took a tour of the works themselves. Personally I think I've seen all I need to know about robots making cars from those Picasso car ads, so I took the opportunity to have a little snooze, but the others seemed to enjoy it...
We also had a fabulous day at the house of the non-rellies. They live in an old farmhouse which has been in the house for generations and have the most magical garden with a beautiful pond, tons of wonderful plants, the neatest lawn imaginable and lots of nooks and crannies for the kids to hide in. It's also full of wonderful old stone memorials they've picked up on their travels and a water feature to end all water features made of an old stone mill. Charlie Dimmock eat your heart out...
So we had a jolly meal with them, followed a day later by an equally jolly meal with some of mil's rellies who own a farm in what used to be East Germany. By dint of sheer hard work and determination they have built up their milk farm from scratch again since the Wall came down. The kids were wowed by the cows and the two little pigs they saw (we didn't let them know that the piggies weren't likely to make it to adulthood for fear of turning them vegetarian), although unfortunately for me they all took a shine to the dog we took for a walk. Oh dear. With the demise of Georgie I feel my dogless days maybe numbered...
We then had a fabulous walk around the town walls of Gardelegen, the mediaeval town where mil grew up, before a short trip out to Isenschnibbe, the estate she lived on as a child (her father was an estate manager for the Prince of Lippott-Detmolt - I told you her background was interesting...) before heading home to eat with our friends across the road.
Our final day was spent with mil's sister and another trip to the pool, before a final very jolly meal in a restaurant owned by rellies of the non rellies.
All in all it was a great trip, made infinitely better by having an extra pair of hands in the form of my capable mother, the fact that the children are now older, and my sudden whizzy ability to speak German. And I was only marginally terrified on the way home when I spotted a man with a beard carrying a suspicious looking computer case. I thought he'd checked in and then left the airport, but then he popped up in Duty Free. I wasn't quite sure whether I wanted him on the plane, or of it...
Luckily my fears were groundless and we had a smooth trip down, and though I still shut my eyes, I did manage to peep out and see the millenium wheel on the way down. And now I can breathe a sigh of relief as it will be a year or so before I have to go on a plane again...
Fur unser erlebtetes Familie und Freunden in Deutschland, die haben uns ein gutes schones Besuch gemacht.
Being as I am a big wuss about flying, I usually get myself in a lather before getting on a plane. Since the advent of children I have found they keep me busy enough to calm the nerves a bit, but at the same time I also have to work quite hard to keep the panic out of my voice on the take off and landing - the bits I really really hate. Nerves not helped this time by the sight of machine gunned cops patrolling Heathrow, nor by the rather bumpy landing in Hamburg - apparently it's very windy there and always like that. But we had the two littlies screaming that their ears hurt (lucky Spouse was dealing with them), no 2 lay dramatically across my lap, having twigged I think( despite my best efforts) that I was none too keen on events, and no1 apparently clutched my mother's hand so tightly she thought it would break...
Still we landed in one piece and then it was off for the adventure that is finding a hire car in a foreign land. On one trip to Spain Spouse disappeared for nearly an hour as the hire car place was two miles up the road from the airport, and I was left with four rather restless children and lots of luggage...
This time we were helped by the fact that though mil needs assisted passage and walks very slowly with a walker she calls her Steel Horse, my mother is still pretty able, so we deposited the grannies (or the Omis as they are known in Germany) with the offspring and set off in search for the Avis office. We had arrived at Terminal 1, so of course the Avis office was in Terminal 2. We eventually found it, got the keys to our car - or rather bus, it was really a Mercedes van that seated nine - to discover that said bus was on the fourth floor of the furthest carpark. After debating whether to let the grannies know what was going on or just get the car, we opted for the latter and then spent a merry half hour getting lost in the one way system in Hamburg. Once we had found the right route and picked everyone up, we spent another merry hour or so driving through Hamburg in the pouring rain before eventually finding the right motorway. Normally we fly to Hannover which is only an hour away from our destination of Wolfsburg, but this time we couldn't get flights when we wanted so now we were a further two hours away, and we had arrived at six pm. The hotel we stay in is rather quiet so they don't actually have any staff on on Sundays, and we had to pick up the keys from my mil's rellies, who luckily live just down the road. Once unpacked and children happily deposited with grannies, we headed across the road for a quick drink in the very freundlichen gasthof before bedtime - originally we thought we might get a meal there, but it got so late we ended up feeding everyone from a rather dodgy looking bratwurst vendor at a fair that we happened to past.
The gasthof was just as it had been on our previous visit and the owner came over to greet us like longlost friends which was rather nice - as was the mindblowing schapps he also offered us on the house. So Spouse and I staggered our way home in preparation for an earlyish start with the rellies up the road who were coming for breakfast.
Actually the rellies up the road aren't really, or rather one of them is of a kind in that his mother was step great aunt to my mil, but the family connection has gone on so long now we all treat them like family. They are very jolly and kept us highly amused at breakfast although the Kindern spent most of their time in a fog and hadn't a clue what was being said to them. After breakfast it was off to visit mil's rather fearsome sister, who has MS and has lived in a home for the last thirty years where she merrily bosses everyone about and gives everyone merry hell. She is a splendid example of a difficult aunt. Every family ought to have one. We did, but ours has popped off now. However, we were in trouble the moment we arrived because we were late, so you can't have everything.
We left mil with her and headed for the rather splendid pool that graces the outskirts of Wolfsburg, where we all machen vielen spass mucking about with the wave machine and going on rides round the jet stream which takes you outside. Although it rained the whole day luckily the sun came out for that bit.
Then it was back to pick up mil and have dinner in the hotel with mil's best friend and husband. Sadly best friend now a bit Alzheimerish, so I spent the whole meal confirming that Ja, Spouse was Mein Mann, and er she had actually come to the wedding. Still she seemed pretty happy and certainly hadn't forgotten mil, which was great. Plus another school friend had tipped up for the party so that was good too. And the bonus for me was that for the first time ever in Germany I found myself understanding a four way conversation. Maybe now they're all old they speak slower...
The week progressed in similar vein - we had two visits to different farms, and luckily this time mil didn't arrange so many things that we clashed appointment times with people (one year Spouse and she went to tea witn one friend while I waited with fil and the children at another, and everyone was offering the inevitable Kaffee and Kuchen that you get in Germany). We were also able to show the children again the fabulous Wolfsburg Castle where their Great Granny grew up - well technically she lived in a little house in the corner of the grounds which is now part of the building which houses the castle museum. Her father was the Riding Master to the Count von Schulenberg, and his job in World War I was to make sure the Count made it back from the Somme in one piece. My family is dead boring by comparison, so I find it all fascinating.
Spouse also dragged us all around the Volkswagen works and this time we took a tour of the works themselves. Personally I think I've seen all I need to know about robots making cars from those Picasso car ads, so I took the opportunity to have a little snooze, but the others seemed to enjoy it...
We also had a fabulous day at the house of the non-rellies. They live in an old farmhouse which has been in the house for generations and have the most magical garden with a beautiful pond, tons of wonderful plants, the neatest lawn imaginable and lots of nooks and crannies for the kids to hide in. It's also full of wonderful old stone memorials they've picked up on their travels and a water feature to end all water features made of an old stone mill. Charlie Dimmock eat your heart out...
So we had a jolly meal with them, followed a day later by an equally jolly meal with some of mil's rellies who own a farm in what used to be East Germany. By dint of sheer hard work and determination they have built up their milk farm from scratch again since the Wall came down. The kids were wowed by the cows and the two little pigs they saw (we didn't let them know that the piggies weren't likely to make it to adulthood for fear of turning them vegetarian), although unfortunately for me they all took a shine to the dog we took for a walk. Oh dear. With the demise of Georgie I feel my dogless days maybe numbered...
We then had a fabulous walk around the town walls of Gardelegen, the mediaeval town where mil grew up, before a short trip out to Isenschnibbe, the estate she lived on as a child (her father was an estate manager for the Prince of Lippott-Detmolt - I told you her background was interesting...) before heading home to eat with our friends across the road.
Our final day was spent with mil's sister and another trip to the pool, before a final very jolly meal in a restaurant owned by rellies of the non rellies.
All in all it was a great trip, made infinitely better by having an extra pair of hands in the form of my capable mother, the fact that the children are now older, and my sudden whizzy ability to speak German. And I was only marginally terrified on the way home when I spotted a man with a beard carrying a suspicious looking computer case. I thought he'd checked in and then left the airport, but then he popped up in Duty Free. I wasn't quite sure whether I wanted him on the plane, or of it...
Luckily my fears were groundless and we had a smooth trip down, and though I still shut my eyes, I did manage to peep out and see the millenium wheel on the way down. And now I can breathe a sigh of relief as it will be a year or so before I have to go on a plane again...
Fur unser erlebtetes Familie und Freunden in Deutschland, die haben uns ein gutes schones Besuch gemacht.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Running on Empty update
So, this week I have finally got a copy of the book in my sticky paw - yay! Of course there were a few errors - mainly minor, but I did spot one typo, so I corrected them and had to upload the file on Tuesday. I erroneously thought this would generate a new proof by today, and I would then be able to press the green for go button.
However, nothing is ever straightforward and I discovered yesterday that though a new proof has been generated, till the people in the US pass it, I can do nowt. This in itself wouldn't be problematic, I have ten days to go till my official launch date. The only trouble is I'm off to Germany in the morning (Two grannies, four children, one husband, a hire truck - no dog - you couldn't make it up. I feel another book coming on...) and am going to find it tricky to sort out. As a failsafe I have ordered 200 copies to go to my friend's house, but I'm also taking my laptop with me and hoping I can sort out an internet connection in the hotel we're staying in. If not, I'm in big trouble. As we're staying out in the Deusch equivalent of Hicksville, and I have fond memories (not) of having to sterilise baby's bottles with camping sterilising tablets and buying Baby Wasser (sterilised water) because a) we forgot the adaptor for the steriliser and b) the hotel room lacked a kettle, I don't hold out much hope for this enterprise. Presumably even Hicksville has internet cafes, though...
So fingers crossed I will be able to pass the proof next week, and then the book will be ready to order from Amazon. But if you can bear to wait, join me for my online launch party which takes place from 8-15 June at: http://RunningonEmptyLaunchParty.blogspot.com - and if you buy a copy I'll sign it and give you a discount....
So anyone out there in cyberspace, pass the word on and tell all your running buddies...
Hope to see some of you there!
PS Was going to blog about the sad demise of our hamster (alas Georgie is no more), but have run out of time. Suffice to say sprogs distinctly unsaddened by his departure (I was slightly less saddened then I would have been, given that his latter days were punctuated by a tendency to bite Spouse and I when we tried to give him antibiotics), and we buried him in the garden in the pouring rain. Spouse donned a top hat and tails for the occasion, the children all drew him pictures and made him a coffin out of a shoe box, and we stood solemnly (or not in my case as I had to repress a severe fit of giggles) as the children all threw earth on his grave, and then stamped on it. So now we are petless - at least till the autumn, Spouse wisely suggesting we wait for a new pet till after the summer holidays - and I get let of cage duties for a bit. And no, we're still not getting a dog....
However, nothing is ever straightforward and I discovered yesterday that though a new proof has been generated, till the people in the US pass it, I can do nowt. This in itself wouldn't be problematic, I have ten days to go till my official launch date. The only trouble is I'm off to Germany in the morning (Two grannies, four children, one husband, a hire truck - no dog - you couldn't make it up. I feel another book coming on...) and am going to find it tricky to sort out. As a failsafe I have ordered 200 copies to go to my friend's house, but I'm also taking my laptop with me and hoping I can sort out an internet connection in the hotel we're staying in. If not, I'm in big trouble. As we're staying out in the Deusch equivalent of Hicksville, and I have fond memories (not) of having to sterilise baby's bottles with camping sterilising tablets and buying Baby Wasser (sterilised water) because a) we forgot the adaptor for the steriliser and b) the hotel room lacked a kettle, I don't hold out much hope for this enterprise. Presumably even Hicksville has internet cafes, though...
So fingers crossed I will be able to pass the proof next week, and then the book will be ready to order from Amazon. But if you can bear to wait, join me for my online launch party which takes place from 8-15 June at: http://RunningonEmptyLaunchParty.blogspot.com - and if you buy a copy I'll sign it and give you a discount....
So anyone out there in cyberspace, pass the word on and tell all your running buddies...
Hope to see some of you there!
PS Was going to blog about the sad demise of our hamster (alas Georgie is no more), but have run out of time. Suffice to say sprogs distinctly unsaddened by his departure (I was slightly less saddened then I would have been, given that his latter days were punctuated by a tendency to bite Spouse and I when we tried to give him antibiotics), and we buried him in the garden in the pouring rain. Spouse donned a top hat and tails for the occasion, the children all drew him pictures and made him a coffin out of a shoe box, and we stood solemnly (or not in my case as I had to repress a severe fit of giggles) as the children all threw earth on his grave, and then stamped on it. So now we are petless - at least till the autumn, Spouse wisely suggesting we wait for a new pet till after the summer holidays - and I get let of cage duties for a bit. And no, we're still not getting a dog....
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Here Come the Clowns...
On Sunday we went to the circus. Not any old circus you understand, but one ambitiously arranged by the PTA at the kids' school. Given that Spouse has been moaning for years about how annoying summer fairs and their ilk are, and I have been moaning for the same length of time about how I have MUG written on my forehead and end up volunteering for things, we both greeted this new development with relish. At last a fundraiser that sounded like fun...
We've only been to the circus once before - and despite our initial reservations, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, so had high hopes for this one. And the kids were besides themselves with excitement.
Our first indication that the circus we were about to see might not be quite of the same calibre was when (having gone to help set up) I discovered that the fee for the circus was £1200. Not bad money for two hours work - until you factor in that they set up the night before (and were there till midnight) and had to hang around all day till 2.30pm for just one show and then pack up to go away.
Another factor of course was the weather. It rained all day Saturday, and the whole thing nearly got cancelled when the truck got stuck in the mud. Sunday dawned, grey and windy, and then the rain set in....
Most people chose to shelter in the school before the show started, but as we dashed across the field the heavens opened and 400 odd people got very very wet.
The show was meant to start at 2.30, but in the best showbiz tradition things were running late. Isn't it ever going to start, moaned no 2. Soon, I must have said a dozen times while promising lots of women in spangly costumes, as I felt sure she would like that.
As it turned out there was one woman in a spanglyish costume who far from being the svelte nimble waif I had imagined had the chunkiest legs imaginable.Her first trick was to do acrobatics on a spinning half crescent in the shape of a moon - or as this was a French circus, Madame Legs was on her lune... First off, something was apparently stuck and she was hissing at the crew to help her out. Once that was fixed, Madame L duly did her bit, climbing up and down la lune, sticking legs and arms out at various points and ending up spinning around on her neck. Apart from that bit, it was scarcely impressive, but no 2 who is a keen gymnast was suitably awed.
Next on came the clowns who were sadly distinctly unfunny. They did a routine based around famous Moroccan acrobats, which I assumed was a warm up for said famous Moroccan acrobats, but was simply a precursor to them pulling four kids out of the audience into the ring. All my children were vainly holding their hands up, but sadly (for them) and luckily (for us) we were too far from the front.
Then there was a fanfare and Mr Spinning Plate Man was announced. His helpers came and stuck up two wobbly looking stands each holidng for sticks. He loaded a plate, and started to spin it, then went on to the next one. By the time he'd got to no3 , no1 had stopped spinning. He span it again and carried on. Then in his enthusiasm to load a plate it went spinning off to the ground. He picked up and spotted that no 1 plate had stopped spinning. He went to spin it again and carried on. He lost another plate, and nos2 and 3 plates had by now stopped spinning altogether. By this time Mr SPM was getting quite cross, particularly as the audience were roaring with laughter. Eventually he got all eight plates up there, but didn't manage to achieve complete spinning harmony before disappearing off in a grump.
He was replaced by a young lad who was chucking a stick about with a bit of string. He seemed reasonably skilful and all was going well till he pulled a dad out of the audience and got him to hold the stick. The dad didn't understand what was expected of him and kept lifting the stick higher and higher, until he was practically standing on his chair, before it dawned on him that Mr Stick Man wanted him to chuck the stick to him.
After that the clowns returned and did a funnyish routine involving a gun that bent sideways and a bursting balloon. Which would have been great if the balloon hadn't gone off pop before he'd fired a shot....
Then it was back to Mr SPM and Mr SM who did a routine with bits of string and a sort of yoyo kind of thing that they kept chucking to each other. Well, they tried to... Mr SPM demonstrated that this too wasn't his thing, because he kept dropping his. In the end you could tell a sense of desperation had set in and the first half came to a rather hasty close with all the grown ups on the floor with laughter.
In the interval we concluded that they were probably all hungover - after all what else are you going to do at midnight in the pouring rain when you've only just got your tent up, but drown your sorrows?
We went back for the second half with a degree of nervous anticipation, wondering what more tortures would be on offer.
First up it was the clowns again, offering a semi-funny routine about pulling out a tooth. Should have sent Spouse up there... Kids most cross because once again when audience participation asked for they were overlooked as they were too far back. They're only picking people at the front, said no 3 crossly. Right. That's why we're not sitting there...
Once the tooth was pulled, it was time forMadame Legs to reappear and lie on her back kicking a variety of objects about, which was rather clever but a little pointless and then Mr SM returned in a new guise as a magician. His first effort was to juggle some balls. His next two tricks progressed a little more smoothly, although in one of the boxes he used, it was possible to see the two way mirrors. He was evidently trying quite hard, but didn't seem to know where any of his props were, or more worryingly, quite what he was supposed to be doing with them. The piece de resistance came when he was pulling some handkerchiefs out of a box, which promptly came over, along with the table it was standing on. Somehow I don't think that was part of the act. Net result was collapse of all the adults in the audience, though luckily for our magician friend, children are slightly less discerning...
The finale was Madame Legs doing things on a rope - and here I have to say I was impressed. She shinned up a rope and swung around and off it, at times only hanging on by an arm or a leg. Sadly though, it wasn't quite enough to lift the performance above am dram levels. Still, as I said, children aren't terribly discerning, and at least they enjoyed it. And as we trudged back through the rain we thought, well at least we've had a laugh, the school made some money, and what else would we have done with ourselves on a wet Sunday in May? Actually, I can think of quite a lot, but OTOH Mr SPM is going to go down in school folklore, and it was worth it to see him alone....
We've only been to the circus once before - and despite our initial reservations, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, so had high hopes for this one. And the kids were besides themselves with excitement.
Our first indication that the circus we were about to see might not be quite of the same calibre was when (having gone to help set up) I discovered that the fee for the circus was £1200. Not bad money for two hours work - until you factor in that they set up the night before (and were there till midnight) and had to hang around all day till 2.30pm for just one show and then pack up to go away.
Another factor of course was the weather. It rained all day Saturday, and the whole thing nearly got cancelled when the truck got stuck in the mud. Sunday dawned, grey and windy, and then the rain set in....
Most people chose to shelter in the school before the show started, but as we dashed across the field the heavens opened and 400 odd people got very very wet.
The show was meant to start at 2.30, but in the best showbiz tradition things were running late. Isn't it ever going to start, moaned no 2. Soon, I must have said a dozen times while promising lots of women in spangly costumes, as I felt sure she would like that.
As it turned out there was one woman in a spanglyish costume who far from being the svelte nimble waif I had imagined had the chunkiest legs imaginable.Her first trick was to do acrobatics on a spinning half crescent in the shape of a moon - or as this was a French circus, Madame Legs was on her lune... First off, something was apparently stuck and she was hissing at the crew to help her out. Once that was fixed, Madame L duly did her bit, climbing up and down la lune, sticking legs and arms out at various points and ending up spinning around on her neck. Apart from that bit, it was scarcely impressive, but no 2 who is a keen gymnast was suitably awed.
Next on came the clowns who were sadly distinctly unfunny. They did a routine based around famous Moroccan acrobats, which I assumed was a warm up for said famous Moroccan acrobats, but was simply a precursor to them pulling four kids out of the audience into the ring. All my children were vainly holding their hands up, but sadly (for them) and luckily (for us) we were too far from the front.
Then there was a fanfare and Mr Spinning Plate Man was announced. His helpers came and stuck up two wobbly looking stands each holidng for sticks. He loaded a plate, and started to spin it, then went on to the next one. By the time he'd got to no3 , no1 had stopped spinning. He span it again and carried on. Then in his enthusiasm to load a plate it went spinning off to the ground. He picked up and spotted that no 1 plate had stopped spinning. He went to spin it again and carried on. He lost another plate, and nos2 and 3 plates had by now stopped spinning altogether. By this time Mr SPM was getting quite cross, particularly as the audience were roaring with laughter. Eventually he got all eight plates up there, but didn't manage to achieve complete spinning harmony before disappearing off in a grump.
He was replaced by a young lad who was chucking a stick about with a bit of string. He seemed reasonably skilful and all was going well till he pulled a dad out of the audience and got him to hold the stick. The dad didn't understand what was expected of him and kept lifting the stick higher and higher, until he was practically standing on his chair, before it dawned on him that Mr Stick Man wanted him to chuck the stick to him.
After that the clowns returned and did a funnyish routine involving a gun that bent sideways and a bursting balloon. Which would have been great if the balloon hadn't gone off pop before he'd fired a shot....
Then it was back to Mr SPM and Mr SM who did a routine with bits of string and a sort of yoyo kind of thing that they kept chucking to each other. Well, they tried to... Mr SPM demonstrated that this too wasn't his thing, because he kept dropping his. In the end you could tell a sense of desperation had set in and the first half came to a rather hasty close with all the grown ups on the floor with laughter.
In the interval we concluded that they were probably all hungover - after all what else are you going to do at midnight in the pouring rain when you've only just got your tent up, but drown your sorrows?
We went back for the second half with a degree of nervous anticipation, wondering what more tortures would be on offer.
First up it was the clowns again, offering a semi-funny routine about pulling out a tooth. Should have sent Spouse up there... Kids most cross because once again when audience participation asked for they were overlooked as they were too far back. They're only picking people at the front, said no 3 crossly. Right. That's why we're not sitting there...
Once the tooth was pulled, it was time forMadame Legs to reappear and lie on her back kicking a variety of objects about, which was rather clever but a little pointless and then Mr SM returned in a new guise as a magician. His first effort was to juggle some balls. His next two tricks progressed a little more smoothly, although in one of the boxes he used, it was possible to see the two way mirrors. He was evidently trying quite hard, but didn't seem to know where any of his props were, or more worryingly, quite what he was supposed to be doing with them. The piece de resistance came when he was pulling some handkerchiefs out of a box, which promptly came over, along with the table it was standing on. Somehow I don't think that was part of the act. Net result was collapse of all the adults in the audience, though luckily for our magician friend, children are slightly less discerning...
The finale was Madame Legs doing things on a rope - and here I have to say I was impressed. She shinned up a rope and swung around and off it, at times only hanging on by an arm or a leg. Sadly though, it wasn't quite enough to lift the performance above am dram levels. Still, as I said, children aren't terribly discerning, and at least they enjoyed it. And as we trudged back through the rain we thought, well at least we've had a laugh, the school made some money, and what else would we have done with ourselves on a wet Sunday in May? Actually, I can think of quite a lot, but OTOH Mr SPM is going to go down in school folklore, and it was worth it to see him alone....
Monday, May 22, 2006
It's not fair!
Some time ago, you may remember that I had a slight set to with no 2 about going to Holy Communion classes. Actually set to is putting it mildly. At the age of 7 she produced the biggest tantrum of her life and turned into spawn of the devil. In the end I persuaded her to carry on by bribing her with having a veil.
Now for those not familiar with the whole HC thing in the catholic church, what happens is that aged 7/8 children take communion for the first time, ie they eat the bread and drink the wine that represents Christ's body and blood, in memory of the Last Supper. It brings them in theory into communion with the rest of the church. Us Left Footers believe that the act of the Eucharist, when the priest actually says the words This is my Body etc turns the host into the Body whereas the protestant church preaches that is a representation of the event (ie we believe in transubstantiation, they believe in consubstantiation - and thereon hangs one of the reasons for the Reformation).
But I digress, you're not here for a theology lesson. Part of the big thing about it as far as little girls are concerned is they get to dress up for the day and wear a white dress and white veil. When I made my HC my ma eschewed this as missing the point - this is meant to be a spiritual and solemn occasion, she didn't want me worrying about my appearance. So I never got a veil. And last year when No1 did it, neither did she. My reasons were somewhat less religious, and more practical, namely I was too busy to organise it, so persuaded her to go for a white ribbon in her hair instead. Which was fine ... at the time.
Fast forward to this year, and my foolish bribe. As per usual I have been so busy I hadn't got round to sorting out the veil. Come the day before the HC I still hadn't... whoops. So we set off on our usual Sat morning mad scrabble of activities: tutorials, ballet, gym lessons etc and as no 3 and no4 now have a gap between their lessons I whisked them to Adams where I felt sure I had seen some veils some weeks earlier. There we encountered Spouse with no 2 (no1 still being at her class ) - who had had the same thought. Obviously we are in a phase of non-communication in our marriage...
Adams it turned out had neither veils nor pretty white shoes, the other required item, and Spouse had to dash off to pick up no1 and take no2 to gym. So I picked up the baton of the veil buying, and dashed over to Woolies, where I was hoping to find a bride's costume, but helas, to no avail... I did manage to pick up some shoes though, and some cheapo sandals for nos3&4. So that was a result. Going back to ballet for no4's lesson I met another HC mum who told me about a bridal shop in the next town, five minutes' drive away. Result.
No4 duly having finished ballet, we ran up the road to where no 2 does gym, met Spouse who was walking into town with no1, grabbed the car keys and dashed up the road. Bridal shop duly found, it transpired, that yes, they did have veils. Ok, I'll have one, I said. The choice was limited to two - both of which just looked like a bit of net curtain attached to a little white side comb. And they cost £22 - blimey I said, that's the most expensive bit of material I've ever bought, but needs must and all that. If I could sew at all I'd have done it myself, but really I know my limitations...
So veil duly bought, it was back to gym to pick up no2 then home for lunch, before taking no1 to her dance class, followed by her epic shopping trip.
At this point, no1 kicked up a fuss because no2 had a veil and she didn't get one. I didn't know you wanted one, I said. I only mentioned it a billion times, was the very cross response. To be fair she probably did. Oh I'm such a bad mother, I clearly wasn't listening.
When I went out shopping I was under strict instructions from no3 to get her a Mini Winnie - a miniature Winnie the Pooh in the mouth of a variety of different creatures, which are bizarrely all the rage at the moment. We've been looking for them for ages but managed to find some in the local cinema. In order to reduce tensions at home, I decided to buy no 4 one too - no 2 already has two so I didn't get her one. Then no 1, who only has one asked if she could spend her pocket money on one. I said yes. Big mistake....
I get home and all hell breaks loose. I didn't get a mini Winnie sobs no 2, it's not fair. (Life, as I frequently point out to her, isn't...). But you have two, I say. And no 1 has got one, she says. But you got a veil and I didn't, says no 1. Then nos 3 &4 chip in that it's not fair that they only have one each... In desperation to cheer a sobbing no 2 up I produce a pair of sandals I've brought that afternoon for her for her birthday, but that's no good either. No 3&4 have cottoned on that no 1 has lovely new clothes, no 2 is moaning that she has also got the Kelly Clarkson CD (bought with pocket money), But, I bought it to share with you, wailed no 1. And in a minute I am about to lose my rag and take everything everyone has back to the shops.
Luckily Dr Who is on and that proves a distraction...
By the day of the HC the fairnesses or otherwise of life seem to be forgotten, and we go to church to witness the great event. The older I get the more bizarre my religion seems to me. And I can't help escaping this feeling that communion is a weird form of cannibalism. The church is packed with people who clearly aren't regular churchgoers as they talk all the way through it (another reason my mother was so agin me having a big ceremony, I seem to remember) - even at the solemn moment when the children took their communion. There has been a reasonable amount of indoctrination in that all the children know all the right answers, but on the whole it passes off ok. And no one falls in the (rather deep) baptismal full size immersion font, which is a result.
We repair to a local hostelry to have a celebratory lunch. Two down two to go.
Mum, says, no1 as we leave, why didn't I get a veil on my Holy Communion. You know it's really not fair....
Now for those not familiar with the whole HC thing in the catholic church, what happens is that aged 7/8 children take communion for the first time, ie they eat the bread and drink the wine that represents Christ's body and blood, in memory of the Last Supper. It brings them in theory into communion with the rest of the church. Us Left Footers believe that the act of the Eucharist, when the priest actually says the words This is my Body etc turns the host into the Body whereas the protestant church preaches that is a representation of the event (ie we believe in transubstantiation, they believe in consubstantiation - and thereon hangs one of the reasons for the Reformation).
But I digress, you're not here for a theology lesson. Part of the big thing about it as far as little girls are concerned is they get to dress up for the day and wear a white dress and white veil. When I made my HC my ma eschewed this as missing the point - this is meant to be a spiritual and solemn occasion, she didn't want me worrying about my appearance. So I never got a veil. And last year when No1 did it, neither did she. My reasons were somewhat less religious, and more practical, namely I was too busy to organise it, so persuaded her to go for a white ribbon in her hair instead. Which was fine ... at the time.
Fast forward to this year, and my foolish bribe. As per usual I have been so busy I hadn't got round to sorting out the veil. Come the day before the HC I still hadn't... whoops. So we set off on our usual Sat morning mad scrabble of activities: tutorials, ballet, gym lessons etc and as no 3 and no4 now have a gap between their lessons I whisked them to Adams where I felt sure I had seen some veils some weeks earlier. There we encountered Spouse with no 2 (no1 still being at her class ) - who had had the same thought. Obviously we are in a phase of non-communication in our marriage...
Adams it turned out had neither veils nor pretty white shoes, the other required item, and Spouse had to dash off to pick up no1 and take no2 to gym. So I picked up the baton of the veil buying, and dashed over to Woolies, where I was hoping to find a bride's costume, but helas, to no avail... I did manage to pick up some shoes though, and some cheapo sandals for nos3&4. So that was a result. Going back to ballet for no4's lesson I met another HC mum who told me about a bridal shop in the next town, five minutes' drive away. Result.
No4 duly having finished ballet, we ran up the road to where no 2 does gym, met Spouse who was walking into town with no1, grabbed the car keys and dashed up the road. Bridal shop duly found, it transpired, that yes, they did have veils. Ok, I'll have one, I said. The choice was limited to two - both of which just looked like a bit of net curtain attached to a little white side comb. And they cost £22 - blimey I said, that's the most expensive bit of material I've ever bought, but needs must and all that. If I could sew at all I'd have done it myself, but really I know my limitations...
So veil duly bought, it was back to gym to pick up no2 then home for lunch, before taking no1 to her dance class, followed by her epic shopping trip.
At this point, no1 kicked up a fuss because no2 had a veil and she didn't get one. I didn't know you wanted one, I said. I only mentioned it a billion times, was the very cross response. To be fair she probably did. Oh I'm such a bad mother, I clearly wasn't listening.
When I went out shopping I was under strict instructions from no3 to get her a Mini Winnie - a miniature Winnie the Pooh in the mouth of a variety of different creatures, which are bizarrely all the rage at the moment. We've been looking for them for ages but managed to find some in the local cinema. In order to reduce tensions at home, I decided to buy no 4 one too - no 2 already has two so I didn't get her one. Then no 1, who only has one asked if she could spend her pocket money on one. I said yes. Big mistake....
I get home and all hell breaks loose. I didn't get a mini Winnie sobs no 2, it's not fair. (Life, as I frequently point out to her, isn't...). But you have two, I say. And no 1 has got one, she says. But you got a veil and I didn't, says no 1. Then nos 3 &4 chip in that it's not fair that they only have one each... In desperation to cheer a sobbing no 2 up I produce a pair of sandals I've brought that afternoon for her for her birthday, but that's no good either. No 3&4 have cottoned on that no 1 has lovely new clothes, no 2 is moaning that she has also got the Kelly Clarkson CD (bought with pocket money), But, I bought it to share with you, wailed no 1. And in a minute I am about to lose my rag and take everything everyone has back to the shops.
Luckily Dr Who is on and that proves a distraction...
By the day of the HC the fairnesses or otherwise of life seem to be forgotten, and we go to church to witness the great event. The older I get the more bizarre my religion seems to me. And I can't help escaping this feeling that communion is a weird form of cannibalism. The church is packed with people who clearly aren't regular churchgoers as they talk all the way through it (another reason my mother was so agin me having a big ceremony, I seem to remember) - even at the solemn moment when the children took their communion. There has been a reasonable amount of indoctrination in that all the children know all the right answers, but on the whole it passes off ok. And no one falls in the (rather deep) baptismal full size immersion font, which is a result.
We repair to a local hostelry to have a celebratory lunch. Two down two to go.
Mum, says, no1 as we leave, why didn't I get a veil on my Holy Communion. You know it's really not fair....
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Online launch party
I am going to be holding a launch party for Running on Empty on June 8 in my local Ottaker's, but for those of you who can't make it, watch this space as I will shortly be announcing details of an online launch party to be held in blogspace - either here or a new blog of my making.... Probably the latter, as I've cluttered up Maniac Mum quite enough with my marathon doings.
If anyone is interested in receiving an evite, just email me at: jules@marathonmum.com and you can go on my mailing list.
If anyone is interested in receiving an evite, just email me at: jules@marathonmum.com and you can go on my mailing list.
Monday, May 15, 2006
A Decade of Motherhood
Today is no 1's tenth birthday, which feels like a huge milestone, both to her and to us. Blimey. Where have the last ten years gone? In a blur of babies and nappies mainly, I think...
To celebrate this momentous occasion I took her shopping on Saturday with a good friend whose birthday is the day after no 1s. No 1 like all my offspring arrived very late, so my GF was demanding that I have the baby on her birthday, so it seemed only appropriate to take her on our trip.
It was quite strange thinking on Saturday that I had gone in that evening to be induced, and no 1 didn't actually arrive till two days later... we've packed in a lot in the last two days and it is quite mindblowing to think what a long time I was waiting around for (in a fair amount of pain, as well...) After ten years the hideousness of the experience remains undiminished. I can remember calling for an epidural at 7am on the 15th (this after 7 hours of excruciating racking labour pains, as a result of the three lots of prostin I had been given), and then having to wait until 10 am for the anaesthetist. The reason for the delay turned out to be that my roomie (who was being induced with me) was having an emergency caesarian. It was a weird experience - I shared two of the most harrowing nights of my life with a complete stranger, during which we told each other all sorts of intimate details about our lives, and we left hospital never to see one another again.
Once I finally got the epidural things got fairly boring for a while as I dilated ever so slowly. They started off saying the baby would come around midday, but by midday I was stuck at 9cms and appeared not to be going anywhere at all. By 3pm I had progressed no further, so the consultant was called. He immediately decided that it was forceps or a caesarian for me. The caesar I wasn't bothered about, apart from the fact that they had let me go on so long I was thinking why didn't you say that twelve hours ago you buggers. But the forceps for some reason really freaked me out, and Spouse had to pretty much slap me on the cheeks to get me calmed down again. The consultant did manage to do something to get me to 10cms and then I was allowed to have a go at pushing the baby out. But she was having none of it, at some point she had turned round the wrong way and in turning back again in the birth canal her head was at such an odd angle she wasn't going to come out without help. So, forceps it ended up being... Although by that time, quite frankly I was past caring. I just wanted this baby out of me.
I can still remember suddenly thinking, whoops this is going to get messy, and telling Spouse to come up my end of the bed. The consultant turned round and said, He's a dentist, he won't mind some blood.... I didn't see any of the aftermath, but Spouse assures me a little is putting rather a lot of spin on it.
The consultant clearly had a sense of humour, as I can remember him describing what to do to the registrar he was training (by this time there seemed to be dozens and dozens of people in the room - did I care? Not a bit) that what he was about to do was like sliding a knife between butter. Yeah, right. As he approached me with these whacking great metal things shaped like tennis rackets, part of me was fascinated, thinking how on earth do they fit? Whilst the other part of me was horrified - he was going to put those things INSIDE me????
But as it turned out he was top notch and no 1 was extracted with minimum fuss, and barely a forcep mark on her head. After several moments of extreme tension the room broke into spontaneous applause as she cried for the first time. Spouse and I of course were on cloud nine, but I was amazed at how thrilled the professionals all seemed. It was a magic moment. The first of many...
And so it was on Saturday I took my oldest baby on a girlie shopping trip for the first time. It felt like a rite of passage for both of us. There are probably no clothes now left in our local shopping centre, and part of me is mourning the loss of my little girl, who is on the cusp of leaving childhood behind. But I can't but celebrate for her really. Ten years ago I held her in my arms, and started on a journey of discovery. The journey continues, but each day it gets better and better.
For my special K with love
To celebrate this momentous occasion I took her shopping on Saturday with a good friend whose birthday is the day after no 1s. No 1 like all my offspring arrived very late, so my GF was demanding that I have the baby on her birthday, so it seemed only appropriate to take her on our trip.
It was quite strange thinking on Saturday that I had gone in that evening to be induced, and no 1 didn't actually arrive till two days later... we've packed in a lot in the last two days and it is quite mindblowing to think what a long time I was waiting around for (in a fair amount of pain, as well...) After ten years the hideousness of the experience remains undiminished. I can remember calling for an epidural at 7am on the 15th (this after 7 hours of excruciating racking labour pains, as a result of the three lots of prostin I had been given), and then having to wait until 10 am for the anaesthetist. The reason for the delay turned out to be that my roomie (who was being induced with me) was having an emergency caesarian. It was a weird experience - I shared two of the most harrowing nights of my life with a complete stranger, during which we told each other all sorts of intimate details about our lives, and we left hospital never to see one another again.
Once I finally got the epidural things got fairly boring for a while as I dilated ever so slowly. They started off saying the baby would come around midday, but by midday I was stuck at 9cms and appeared not to be going anywhere at all. By 3pm I had progressed no further, so the consultant was called. He immediately decided that it was forceps or a caesarian for me. The caesar I wasn't bothered about, apart from the fact that they had let me go on so long I was thinking why didn't you say that twelve hours ago you buggers. But the forceps for some reason really freaked me out, and Spouse had to pretty much slap me on the cheeks to get me calmed down again. The consultant did manage to do something to get me to 10cms and then I was allowed to have a go at pushing the baby out. But she was having none of it, at some point she had turned round the wrong way and in turning back again in the birth canal her head was at such an odd angle she wasn't going to come out without help. So, forceps it ended up being... Although by that time, quite frankly I was past caring. I just wanted this baby out of me.
I can still remember suddenly thinking, whoops this is going to get messy, and telling Spouse to come up my end of the bed. The consultant turned round and said, He's a dentist, he won't mind some blood.... I didn't see any of the aftermath, but Spouse assures me a little is putting rather a lot of spin on it.
The consultant clearly had a sense of humour, as I can remember him describing what to do to the registrar he was training (by this time there seemed to be dozens and dozens of people in the room - did I care? Not a bit) that what he was about to do was like sliding a knife between butter. Yeah, right. As he approached me with these whacking great metal things shaped like tennis rackets, part of me was fascinated, thinking how on earth do they fit? Whilst the other part of me was horrified - he was going to put those things INSIDE me????
But as it turned out he was top notch and no 1 was extracted with minimum fuss, and barely a forcep mark on her head. After several moments of extreme tension the room broke into spontaneous applause as she cried for the first time. Spouse and I of course were on cloud nine, but I was amazed at how thrilled the professionals all seemed. It was a magic moment. The first of many...
And so it was on Saturday I took my oldest baby on a girlie shopping trip for the first time. It felt like a rite of passage for both of us. There are probably no clothes now left in our local shopping centre, and part of me is mourning the loss of my little girl, who is on the cusp of leaving childhood behind. But I can't but celebrate for her really. Ten years ago I held her in my arms, and started on a journey of discovery. The journey continues, but each day it gets better and better.
For my special K with love
Friday, May 12, 2006
It's been a sporty week....
... In our house.
Not only did I manage to impress in the pool (ha!), but no 3 has also just learnt to swim, and no 1 managed to swim ten lengths on Tuesday, the furthest she's ever gone.
I also had a tennis lesson which was glorious - tennis being my sport of choice - and have been on two wonderful runs, where my back wasn't killing me for the first time in ages. Yay...
Spouse has been at the gym.
Everyone did tennis yesterday apart from no2 who refuses point blank, so all in all we're getting reasonably fit as a family.
And on top of that I have just signed no1 up to run the Race for Life with me in July.
She is very insistent she wants to do it, and we went running together on Sunday. She managed three-quarters of a mile before stopping with a stitch, which is more or less what I did the first time I went out running. I'm thrilled she's doing it with me, even if I end up walking her all the way.
So if anyone out there in cyberspace wants to sponsor us, you can do so by going to the following page: http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/marathonmumandfriends
I haven't set the target high as I asked alot of people when I was marathon training last year. But Race for Life goes to Cancer Research UK, which is one of the best causes I can think of, as nearly everyone knows someone...
I shall be running in memory of a very good friend, who died eight years ago, and was one of the bravest people I've ever met.
Not only did I manage to impress in the pool (ha!), but no 3 has also just learnt to swim, and no 1 managed to swim ten lengths on Tuesday, the furthest she's ever gone.
I also had a tennis lesson which was glorious - tennis being my sport of choice - and have been on two wonderful runs, where my back wasn't killing me for the first time in ages. Yay...
Spouse has been at the gym.
Everyone did tennis yesterday apart from no2 who refuses point blank, so all in all we're getting reasonably fit as a family.
And on top of that I have just signed no1 up to run the Race for Life with me in July.
She is very insistent she wants to do it, and we went running together on Sunday. She managed three-quarters of a mile before stopping with a stitch, which is more or less what I did the first time I went out running. I'm thrilled she's doing it with me, even if I end up walking her all the way.
So if anyone out there in cyberspace wants to sponsor us, you can do so by going to the following page: http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/marathonmumandfriends
I haven't set the target high as I asked alot of people when I was marathon training last year. But Race for Life goes to Cancer Research UK, which is one of the best causes I can think of, as nearly everyone knows someone...
I shall be running in memory of a very good friend, who died eight years ago, and was one of the bravest people I've ever met.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Triathlon Triumph?
Well, not exactly, but I went for my second swimming session last night, and it was somewhat better then my previous excursion.
I have to say here, hand on heart, actually I didn't want to go, as last time was so humiliating, I wasn't really sure I wanted a repeat performance. Plus the kids were all being fractious, nos 3&4 particularly so as they are knackered. This is a result of staying up too late to watch Dr Who, and then having nightmares. What to do? What to do? I could of course put them to bed early on Saturday night, so they miss it, but I'm not sure I can cope with the fall out. No 3 is so desperate to watch it, and then spends most of the time on my lap with her face pressed firmly towards my shoulder. But not watch Dr Who? Not on your nelly...
I have to say I can't blame her really. This series of Dr Who is turning out to be even better then the last, and I soooo love David Tennant. He does soulful and vulnerable turning into hard steel when required so very well. The ultimate TV hero methinks... I have a feeling one or two of my male leads might well end up modelled on him. Although I do have a slight problem with Dr Who turning into a bit of a love rat, even if he doesn't mean to be. Much as I liked Jon Pertwee and Tom Baker as a child, I don't think I saw them as romantic lead material...
But I digress. As a result of all this Dr Who watching nos3&4 have demanded their big sisters keep them company in bed on Saturday nights to stave of nightmares. All that happens is everyone stays up too late, so I have banned them doing this during the week. Net result, last night as I was leaving the house, no4 was wailing her head off, and no 3 was holding tight to her duvet staring grimly at the ceiling and saying in the pathetic tones she knows so well how to adopt, I'll try to be brave...
Spouse meanwhile was outside fixing screws to our trailer, so was oblivious to the chaos indoors. I toyed with calling it quits and not going at all. After all, as my beloved said to me, no one's making you do this... No one but me that is. And I am insanely competitive, and want to swim properly. And the only way to do that is to endure the humiliation.
So it was a nice surprise to discover that the humilation was somewhat less this time around. For a start I met a mum whose daughter is in the same year as no1. She's run the marathon four times and beat me hands down last year, so I know she's much fitter then I am. However, she told me that she is really rubbish at this swimming malarkey. And while she looked pretty good to me, I did discover that once I got going properly I was catching her up, so I might be rubbish too, but not as slow at swimming perhaps as at running. (Well a girl can dream.... the other woman in the pool looked majorly competent to me and she hasn't progressed out of the beginner's lane yet because she claims the second lane is too fast. Yikes... doubt I'll ever get there!)
Not only that, but in a schadenfreude kind of way I was pleased to discover that the only bloke in the beginner's lane was also much worse then I was. So I might be crap, but there is someone behind me. I suppose sport in that sense is like a metaphor for life. There will always be both better, and worse then you... And as we used to tell each other when I was at school. Aim for the stars and you might hit a tree. Aim for the tree and you'll hit the ground.
After my last bungled attempt at swimming crawl, I wasn't looking forward to ploughing up and down the pool on my side again. But luckily this time the instructor took pity on me and after two lengths of that, I was allowed to go for Superman, where I get to stick one arm out and have the other by my side. I did two wobbly lengths of this, then another two somewhat better, and then it was on to one arm stretched out like Superman, and bringing the other up to my ear and down into the water. This I found somewhat tricky at first. Having all the spatial awareness of a gnat, I kept getting muddled up. I was meant to start off, face out of the water, with one arm stretched out, and the other at my side. As I turned my face into the water, my elbow was meant to come up to my ear, and then I was supposed to sweep my arm downwards and back to my side, ready for one I lifted my head out of the water. For the first half a length I was lifting my elbow up, as my head was out of the water, and putting it down as I went into it, which resulted in me swallowing half the pool. But eventually I got the hang of it.
So then I progressed on to using both arms in half a stroke, which was miraculously much easier, and I powered my way up the pool in a triumphant style (especially as it was at this point that I realised I was faster then my friend). My triumph was shortlived, however when I completed my second length, only to be told that I was lifting my head up out of the water, instead of rolling it from one side to the other. Do it again, was the instruction (which I suspect I will come to dread), so I did. This time, I kept my head in the water, and managed to get it right. The main problem I was having now was the breathing. My instructor had told me earlier that I should let the breath out in the water before coming up for air. This worked okish when all I had to do was swim on one side, but factor in using both arms, and remembering which side I breathed on last, and I was all over the shop. As I said, spatial awareness isn't my thing.
However, I evidently managed well enough to get onto the next bit, which was called catch up, and involved starting with one arm out straight, bringing the other one down, touching it and lifting the first arm up and out of the water, before bringing it down to touch the first one again. This took me another four lengths to master, but I eventually go the hang of it, though every now and then I lost the rhythm, swallowed buckets of water and had to stop.
For our final torture, the instructor had the three women at the end of the pool, from where we had to kick off and float as far as we could. The first attempt for all of us was pretty pathetic. After a few seconds you start to list to one side, and then have to do an undignified scramble to the poolside before you drown. However, after being taught the trick of slightly widening your arms to balance you, this was much easier. And to my utter amazement I went further then the other two. I knew all those years of mucking about and practising floating in the pool as a child weren't wasted...
Then it was onto our last two lengths. This time I had to do a one two three motion with my arms, bringing them up from waist, to just below my shoulder and then over my arm. I managed two lengths of this, not stopping, but was absolutely knackered at the end.
Still. It was easier then last time, and I felt I had achieved something. If only to fill my sinuses with water (I spent a very uncomfortable night with a blocked nose as a result) - but you can't have everything.
As we got out of the pool the conversation turned to the other two parts of tri - biking and running. My instructor apparently running a run-bike-run session on Wednesdays, which sounds really scary. And judging by the way the conversation ran, my pathetic 8-speed bike which is already eight years old won't be up to the challenge. I would obviously like to have a go at that, but Wednesdays is Brownie night, so that's out for a few years yet. Hmm, maybe this triathlon thing will take a little longer to achieve then I thought....
****NEWS FLASH****
Yesterday I sent the marathon book to press. I should I hope have a proof to check by next week. And then all being well, copies a week or so afterwards. I'll keep you posted...
I have to say here, hand on heart, actually I didn't want to go, as last time was so humiliating, I wasn't really sure I wanted a repeat performance. Plus the kids were all being fractious, nos 3&4 particularly so as they are knackered. This is a result of staying up too late to watch Dr Who, and then having nightmares. What to do? What to do? I could of course put them to bed early on Saturday night, so they miss it, but I'm not sure I can cope with the fall out. No 3 is so desperate to watch it, and then spends most of the time on my lap with her face pressed firmly towards my shoulder. But not watch Dr Who? Not on your nelly...
I have to say I can't blame her really. This series of Dr Who is turning out to be even better then the last, and I soooo love David Tennant. He does soulful and vulnerable turning into hard steel when required so very well. The ultimate TV hero methinks... I have a feeling one or two of my male leads might well end up modelled on him. Although I do have a slight problem with Dr Who turning into a bit of a love rat, even if he doesn't mean to be. Much as I liked Jon Pertwee and Tom Baker as a child, I don't think I saw them as romantic lead material...
But I digress. As a result of all this Dr Who watching nos3&4 have demanded their big sisters keep them company in bed on Saturday nights to stave of nightmares. All that happens is everyone stays up too late, so I have banned them doing this during the week. Net result, last night as I was leaving the house, no4 was wailing her head off, and no 3 was holding tight to her duvet staring grimly at the ceiling and saying in the pathetic tones she knows so well how to adopt, I'll try to be brave...
Spouse meanwhile was outside fixing screws to our trailer, so was oblivious to the chaos indoors. I toyed with calling it quits and not going at all. After all, as my beloved said to me, no one's making you do this... No one but me that is. And I am insanely competitive, and want to swim properly. And the only way to do that is to endure the humiliation.
So it was a nice surprise to discover that the humilation was somewhat less this time around. For a start I met a mum whose daughter is in the same year as no1. She's run the marathon four times and beat me hands down last year, so I know she's much fitter then I am. However, she told me that she is really rubbish at this swimming malarkey. And while she looked pretty good to me, I did discover that once I got going properly I was catching her up, so I might be rubbish too, but not as slow at swimming perhaps as at running. (Well a girl can dream.... the other woman in the pool looked majorly competent to me and she hasn't progressed out of the beginner's lane yet because she claims the second lane is too fast. Yikes... doubt I'll ever get there!)
Not only that, but in a schadenfreude kind of way I was pleased to discover that the only bloke in the beginner's lane was also much worse then I was. So I might be crap, but there is someone behind me. I suppose sport in that sense is like a metaphor for life. There will always be both better, and worse then you... And as we used to tell each other when I was at school. Aim for the stars and you might hit a tree. Aim for the tree and you'll hit the ground.
After my last bungled attempt at swimming crawl, I wasn't looking forward to ploughing up and down the pool on my side again. But luckily this time the instructor took pity on me and after two lengths of that, I was allowed to go for Superman, where I get to stick one arm out and have the other by my side. I did two wobbly lengths of this, then another two somewhat better, and then it was on to one arm stretched out like Superman, and bringing the other up to my ear and down into the water. This I found somewhat tricky at first. Having all the spatial awareness of a gnat, I kept getting muddled up. I was meant to start off, face out of the water, with one arm stretched out, and the other at my side. As I turned my face into the water, my elbow was meant to come up to my ear, and then I was supposed to sweep my arm downwards and back to my side, ready for one I lifted my head out of the water. For the first half a length I was lifting my elbow up, as my head was out of the water, and putting it down as I went into it, which resulted in me swallowing half the pool. But eventually I got the hang of it.
So then I progressed on to using both arms in half a stroke, which was miraculously much easier, and I powered my way up the pool in a triumphant style (especially as it was at this point that I realised I was faster then my friend). My triumph was shortlived, however when I completed my second length, only to be told that I was lifting my head up out of the water, instead of rolling it from one side to the other. Do it again, was the instruction (which I suspect I will come to dread), so I did. This time, I kept my head in the water, and managed to get it right. The main problem I was having now was the breathing. My instructor had told me earlier that I should let the breath out in the water before coming up for air. This worked okish when all I had to do was swim on one side, but factor in using both arms, and remembering which side I breathed on last, and I was all over the shop. As I said, spatial awareness isn't my thing.
However, I evidently managed well enough to get onto the next bit, which was called catch up, and involved starting with one arm out straight, bringing the other one down, touching it and lifting the first arm up and out of the water, before bringing it down to touch the first one again. This took me another four lengths to master, but I eventually go the hang of it, though every now and then I lost the rhythm, swallowed buckets of water and had to stop.
For our final torture, the instructor had the three women at the end of the pool, from where we had to kick off and float as far as we could. The first attempt for all of us was pretty pathetic. After a few seconds you start to list to one side, and then have to do an undignified scramble to the poolside before you drown. However, after being taught the trick of slightly widening your arms to balance you, this was much easier. And to my utter amazement I went further then the other two. I knew all those years of mucking about and practising floating in the pool as a child weren't wasted...
Then it was onto our last two lengths. This time I had to do a one two three motion with my arms, bringing them up from waist, to just below my shoulder and then over my arm. I managed two lengths of this, not stopping, but was absolutely knackered at the end.
Still. It was easier then last time, and I felt I had achieved something. If only to fill my sinuses with water (I spent a very uncomfortable night with a blocked nose as a result) - but you can't have everything.
As we got out of the pool the conversation turned to the other two parts of tri - biking and running. My instructor apparently running a run-bike-run session on Wednesdays, which sounds really scary. And judging by the way the conversation ran, my pathetic 8-speed bike which is already eight years old won't be up to the challenge. I would obviously like to have a go at that, but Wednesdays is Brownie night, so that's out for a few years yet. Hmm, maybe this triathlon thing will take a little longer to achieve then I thought....
****NEWS FLASH****
Yesterday I sent the marathon book to press. I should I hope have a proof to check by next week. And then all being well, copies a week or so afterwards. I'll keep you posted...
Sunday, May 07, 2006
In the Swim
Not content with having done a marathon, I now have a hankering to have a go at a triathlon, swimming and cycling having been my exercises of choice before I took off on this crazy running thing. I had this rather naive notion it might be easier then running 26 miles.
I should say here, that though I am an enthusiastic swimmer, and usually manage 40-50 lengths at a time, I am more then somewhat lacking in technique. My crawl is non-existent, backstroke just about passable, butterfly (don't even go there) and my breaststroke is the best of a bad bunch. I recently went swimming with a friend who is pretty accomplished in the swimming department, and she laughingly observed that apparently I don't kick my legs at all during breaststroke.
Having spent more years then I care to remember poolside watching the sprogs learning to swim, it has occurred to me of late that once they get properly going (which after years and years of anguish no1 is finally about to do), they are all going to be miles better then their mum. Being of a somewhat competitive bent, I of course, Can't Have That, so had decided that I should learn how to do it properly.
Which is how I found myself the other week by the side of the pool enrolling for a triathlon class. Given that I am fairly fit, and can swim a reasonable distance, I didn't think I would be a complete no-hoper... at least I was in a better shape then I was when I was marathon training - or so I thought.
I knew I was in trouble when the chap asked me how far I could swim. I can do forty lengths, I said proudly. There was a pause. A significant pause, and I realised I was expected to say something else. That's breaststroke, I added. The significant pause led to a significant look, and my dreams of swimming glory disintegrated in front of me. We don't do breaststroke, he said.
And so it was, dear reader, that I was confined to the beginner's lane, doing drills which consisted of lying on my side, in the water, with my arms by my side, kicking my legs while I rolled my head back and forth in and out of the water in one fluid motion. As if. It is a wonder that I didn't drown. I am going to be soooo much more sympathetic to the children when I watch their pathetic efforts at crawl.
Luckily, my trainer appears to be a man of infinite patience,, and he put up with my feeble attempts to potter up and down the pool trying not to look like a drunk porpoise. I've had worse, he announced cheerfully at one point (though I suspect he's just saying that), and at another telling me that I'll be like the other two in my lane in a month. How long have you been coming, I asked one of them. Eight months, was the not very heartwarming reply. Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
How did it go? Spouse wanted to know when I got back. Knackering, dispiriting, humiliating.... how many more negatives can I get in a single response? However, I know now the title of my next book, should I purse this triathlon thing further... It'll be called Up the Hill Backwards: Diary of a Triathlon Mum. You heard it here first....
I should say here, that though I am an enthusiastic swimmer, and usually manage 40-50 lengths at a time, I am more then somewhat lacking in technique. My crawl is non-existent, backstroke just about passable, butterfly (don't even go there) and my breaststroke is the best of a bad bunch. I recently went swimming with a friend who is pretty accomplished in the swimming department, and she laughingly observed that apparently I don't kick my legs at all during breaststroke.
Having spent more years then I care to remember poolside watching the sprogs learning to swim, it has occurred to me of late that once they get properly going (which after years and years of anguish no1 is finally about to do), they are all going to be miles better then their mum. Being of a somewhat competitive bent, I of course, Can't Have That, so had decided that I should learn how to do it properly.
Which is how I found myself the other week by the side of the pool enrolling for a triathlon class. Given that I am fairly fit, and can swim a reasonable distance, I didn't think I would be a complete no-hoper... at least I was in a better shape then I was when I was marathon training - or so I thought.
I knew I was in trouble when the chap asked me how far I could swim. I can do forty lengths, I said proudly. There was a pause. A significant pause, and I realised I was expected to say something else. That's breaststroke, I added. The significant pause led to a significant look, and my dreams of swimming glory disintegrated in front of me. We don't do breaststroke, he said.
And so it was, dear reader, that I was confined to the beginner's lane, doing drills which consisted of lying on my side, in the water, with my arms by my side, kicking my legs while I rolled my head back and forth in and out of the water in one fluid motion. As if. It is a wonder that I didn't drown. I am going to be soooo much more sympathetic to the children when I watch their pathetic efforts at crawl.
Luckily, my trainer appears to be a man of infinite patience,, and he put up with my feeble attempts to potter up and down the pool trying not to look like a drunk porpoise. I've had worse, he announced cheerfully at one point (though I suspect he's just saying that), and at another telling me that I'll be like the other two in my lane in a month. How long have you been coming, I asked one of them. Eight months, was the not very heartwarming reply. Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
How did it go? Spouse wanted to know when I got back. Knackering, dispiriting, humiliating.... how many more negatives can I get in a single response? However, I know now the title of my next book, should I purse this triathlon thing further... It'll be called Up the Hill Backwards: Diary of a Triathlon Mum. You heard it here first....
Monday, May 01, 2006
Running on Empty
I am very pleased to announce that I now have a fab cover for Running on Empty, thanks to my designer chum, Rob Walster. To view said lovely cover, you can go to my website :www.marathonmum.com.
I am also pleased to announce the winner of my Top Tunes to Run to Competition. I don't know his/her name as I just had an email address, but the winner came up with the inspired Highway to Hell. Yup... I know that feeling. Honourable mentions go to Philip Buckingham for Keep on Running and Jan Waterfield for What A Feeling, because that probably just about sums it up...
I hereby launch another competition for people to tell me what they saw on marathon day that you don't see on the TV, or alternatively the funniest thing you've seen when out running. The winner will receive a bottle of bubbly and the two runners up a copy each of the book.
I am hoping to get the book off to the printers this week, so with a bit of luck I should have copies by the end of the month. I'll keep you posted. If you want more information you can email me at: jules@marathonmum.com and I'll put you on my mailing list.
And finally, I am delighted to announce that A November to Remember by Taryn Mckeiver is now available to buy, priced £9.99. You can either order it through your local bookshop, or online at Amazon. Alternatively you can buy it direct from Taryn by visiting her website: www.anovembertoremember.co.uk
I am also pleased to announce the winner of my Top Tunes to Run to Competition. I don't know his/her name as I just had an email address, but the winner came up with the inspired Highway to Hell. Yup... I know that feeling. Honourable mentions go to Philip Buckingham for Keep on Running and Jan Waterfield for What A Feeling, because that probably just about sums it up...
I hereby launch another competition for people to tell me what they saw on marathon day that you don't see on the TV, or alternatively the funniest thing you've seen when out running. The winner will receive a bottle of bubbly and the two runners up a copy each of the book.
I am hoping to get the book off to the printers this week, so with a bit of luck I should have copies by the end of the month. I'll keep you posted. If you want more information you can email me at: jules@marathonmum.com and I'll put you on my mailing list.
And finally, I am delighted to announce that A November to Remember by Taryn Mckeiver is now available to buy, priced £9.99. You can either order it through your local bookshop, or online at Amazon. Alternatively you can buy it direct from Taryn by visiting her website: www.anovembertoremember.co.uk
Sunday, April 23, 2006
London Marathon
To all runners in the London Marathon today. Congratulations. You are all heroes and heroines! And I nominate my top tune for you: Simply the Best, because you all are...
I watched some of the race today and was green as anything. If I can just sort out this pesky sciatica problem I have, I would love to have a go again next year...
Watching today has certainly reinspired me. And it was soooo great recognizing bits of the course and thinking, I've run along there....
Am still trying to decide which is my favourite top tune - thanks to all who entered!
Will be posting the result on here and on the website in due course, and launching another competition...
I watched some of the race today and was green as anything. If I can just sort out this pesky sciatica problem I have, I would love to have a go again next year...
Watching today has certainly reinspired me. And it was soooo great recognizing bits of the course and thinking, I've run along there....
Am still trying to decide which is my favourite top tune - thanks to all who entered!
Will be posting the result on here and on the website in due course, and launching another competition...
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