50! 50? FFS! Cue Time Travel *please*!

Anyway, let's not dwell on how completely 'wrong' it is for me to have reached a half century (there must be a typo on my birth certificate or something, this is NOT right at all)  and whoever just mumbled the word 'denial' can go straight to the back of the line.  NOW!

So, Dear Reader, for your delight and delectation, here is a nice little showing of 'Debs through the Decades' and we'll have no sniggering at how mad the hair's always been please :)

Me aged 0.  Maybe about 4 months or something. 
I don't have any memories of being this young.  All my proper memories begin 3 years later when my brother is born.  They say that traumatic times herald a greater recollection, don't they?  And it don't get more traumatic than finding a pink bundle of stinking dampness inside a blanket when you were told you'd be getting a new playmate and you expected it to be a white rabbit in checked dungarees (don't ask).


Me aged 10.  With Mum and Dad (I can't believe they'd have been aged 36 and 38 respectively - they already seemed ANCIENT from where I was standing... next to my - NOT WHITE RABBIT brother).  Yes I did feel completely foolish with that bridesmaid dress on.  yes, it was handmade and yes that stupid flowery hat was made of polyester and made my head itch like mad all day. Oh and yes, coloured photographs HAD been invented then but a wedding isn't a wedding if you don't get a bit arty with the photos, right?

Aged 20.  Looking every inch the Publicity and PR Co-ordinator that I was back then, for a well-known Packaging company. Note the high perm, the dark kohlled eyes, the princess Diana court shoes and the ridiculous excuse for a word-processor machine on my desk.  I loved my job and I think you'll agree that in this photo, my delight shines from within *snort*.


Aged 30, and very recently married, attending the wedding of another couple we were friends with back then.  I remember it was blisteringly hot that day and the bright orange (ORANGE!) suit I was wearing not only gaped at the buttons down the front of the skirt, but was made of linen and so looked like a concertina around the hips every time I stood up.  I also remember refusing to take the jacket off because I afeared displaying my bingo wings (hereditary).

FFS 40!  And if it looks like I'm a little squizzy round the gills it would be because I WAS! And with good reason; in the decade between the previous photograph and this one I was divorced, became a single mother with (at one stage) 3 part-time jobs and lost my mother to cancer.  The only light at the end of this particular tunnel was that at the time of turning 40 I was dating a 29 year old.  Proving that life DOES begin at 40!



Me at 50.  With the greatest person I've ever met or given birth to.  I can't believe she's my soul mate, the sister I always wanted and the best friend a gal could ask for.  If I do nothing else of worth for the rest of my life I am proud beyond measure that I will always be a part of hers.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR ME, Happy Birthday Dear Me, Happy Biiiirrrthday Dear Me-eeeee, Happy Biiiiirrrthday Deeeeeaaaaaarrrrrr Me!
*dear me* :(

Oh, and just to prove how much I have decided to embrace my advancing years, not only shall I be wearing purple for the day and paying endless trips to the toilet because my plumbing's going, I am also delighted to offer you my book, 'Re: Becca' FREE for the day...

here: 
enjoy!

much love, Debs xxx

Miss Me?

Here's what I've been doing:
Reading:
'ROOM' by Emma Donoghue.
Was fab. Lapped it up like a vanilla milkshake.  I didn't like all the 'hype' that surrounded it and got (as always) uber-envious of it's star-studded-status on the top of every list going and mentally refused to acknowledge it for months.  Then caved.  After all, who am I to judge?  What I really loved about it was the way little Jack, who's only ever known Room and Bed and Table and TV and all the other thing in his miniscule world, sees the Outside world.  it fair took my breath away with the message it was delivering without making it feel 'heavy'.  Completely understand it's well-deserved accolades now and very sorry for having bad thoughts about it initially.

'GONE'  by Michael Grant
One that The Girl said I should read (and who am I to argue?).  And again, another that I felt really ambivalent about.  Especially considering it's a series of four now, and so I know there's no proper End in sight with the first one.  The idea of reading this made it feel heavy and laboured, a bit like picking up the second in the Twilight series.  But from the first sentence I was hooked.  And that was it - early to bed, late to rise - quite literally Gone - over too soon.  I can't wait to read the next one now! In fact, as testament to how good the writing is, the Hubster's actually reading it now and he usually only reads stuff about Fly Fishing or Trout Tickling.

'HOUSE RULES' by Jodi Picoult
Wow.  Just bloody wow.  I've never read any of  Jodi's books before, although I did see the movie of 'Her Sister's Keeper' and thought it was a pretty decent tear-jerker with a proper twist and I cried at the end.
But I was kind of unprepared for the emotions this book stirred in me.  In fact, so well was the story told that I didn't just become a member of the Hunt family, I was convinced to the point of completing online questionnaires about being on the autistic spectrum myself.  (It turns out my score does indicate a slight sway in that direction and if I'm honest it makes a lot of sense).
It takes a lot for me to fall in love, and to fall in love with a book takes something REALLY special.  And I hardly ever want to read books for a second time - House Rules? Only the third to go on a very elit TBRA pile.  Everyone should read it. It's an order - and orders are good.


'THE VANISHING ACT OF ESME LENNOX' by Maggie O'Farrell
I don't know how I came across this.  Either a recommendation or a browse through the Amazon listing, as I do.  But I'm so very glad I read this.  As I've said before, I'm not scared of Historical fiction anymore and this is SUCH a fabulous read that it's made me actually thirst for Historical now. 
I can't believe that things like this really happened, even though I've heard about it, of course, and it sort of makes sense of the generation that it's set in - but to be living with one such story of how it takes such energy to unravel a mess from a half a century ago,  left me quite emotionally drained - in a good way.
It stirred up feelings of anger on behalf of the eponymous Esme, and I really rooted for her estranged great-niece on whom she'd been unexpectedly foisted.  I loved the generation shake-up and expanding my world even further into unknown terrain. I'll definitely be reading more by Maggie O'Farrell.

'THE KITE RUNNER' by Kahled Hosseini
One of The Girl's A-level reads and another Award-Winner I'd never have read without a small twist of the arm.  It kept me up at nights and apart from (little-brained-me) not really understanding much about the area and getting confused with the unfamiliar names, the writing and the evocation of feelings and situations was just stunning.  Powerful, beautiful stuff and another book I'm very glad I read. I'm definitely getting 'A Thousand Splendid Suns' next.



Currently I'm reading: 'LIGHT ON SNOW' by Anita Shreve and LOVING it so much. I'm so happy there are many other's by Anita Shreve I can buy after this.

I'm nothing if not eclectic in my reading, you think?

Proud Parent Moments

It's no secret to any of you that I am THE proudest Mummy in the entire world for having the most beautiful, funny, intelligent, caring and talented daughter ever (even if she DOES still spill tea on her duvet cover in the morning).
And the past couple of weeks have made me want to toot my horn of proudness even louder.

Since finishing her AS Levels she's been on study leave and so has been accompanying me to school to help out with the mountain-load of stuff that I always seem to have there.
She's helped  produce the biggest, loudest, most creative display in the entrance hall we've ever known, she's been a constant source of delight and brought me back to earth when all I've felt able to do is flail wildly; and she's turned mad situations into areas of relative calm.

She's also made me laugh so much I can't imagine going back to work without her now and everyone's been telling me how clever and lovely and helpful she is. Things I already know but am incredibly proud to hear repeated over and over and over.

Which reminded me that she designed me a book cover a little while back and I only came across it just now when I was trawling mindlessly through my archives (also known as writers procrastination) and I wanted to share it with you.

Isn't she just amazing?

Once in a Lifetime Recipe for Royal Wedding Pancakes:

Ingredients (probably):


Plain flour,
An egg,
Pinch of salt,
Milk,
Water,
Lemon Juice,
Sugar,
Telly,




Method:

1. Turn on Telly.

1. Get your mum to mix everything in a bowl, cook and deliver fresh, hot pancakes to your semi-upright position on the sofa.

3. Eat pancakes whilst William and Katherine perform their nuptials.

4. Suggest tea is made to wash down devoured pancakes.

5. Loaf (this is not another recipe but a relaxed action generally assumed following the eating of pancakes).

ENJOY!

My Feature about how Dad predicted the date he'd die and then popped back from the dead...

... is NOT now going to be published. I know, I know... talk about pride before a fall, blowing my own trumpet so loud I make my lips fall off, or something dumb like that...BUT the upshot of it is, the magazine rewrote the thousand words I sent them, even though they'd told me it was a "lovely account" AND they cut the piece by half. Half! I'd had a hard job getting it down to 1,000 words so this will tell you how 'brief' they'd made it. And it made me sad that they'd taken what was left of the real emotion out of my dad's story, so I pulled it.
Anyway, I thought I'd post it here, in case you wanted a read. It's all true, by the way. Nothing sensationalised or anything... hope you enjoy:

DAD PREDICTED THE DATE HE’D DIE

THEN CAME BACK TO GIVE ME A SIGN

My dad turned the next playing card over. The Queen of Clubs.

‘There’s a journey. Not far, but it shows travel.’

He turned another one. The King of Spades. He looked up ‘An older man. He’s not well. He might not have long….?’ I frowned and shook my head. I didn’t know any older men who were sick, although… ‘Oh, wait – I know.’ I thought of a friend’s father who had Alzheimer’s and was in a Nursing Home.

Dad returned to the cards. The next ones were the Nine of diamonds and the Ten of spades. ‘In 9 or 10 weeks…’ he tapped the cards, ‘9 or 10 months maybe… that’s what it’s saying… oh and there’s money,’ he smiled as he turned over the last card. ‘Don’t look at me young lady – you know you won’t be getting anything from me.’

That’s when we both laughed. It wasn’t that my dad was tight, but he’d always had a firm rule never to lend or borrow money – friends or family. He didn’t even like to talk about it.

I loved it when Dad came to stay with us. And although we lived 200 miles apart, I’d felt closer to him since mum died 5 years before. I think he enjoyed the break from having to look after himself a couple of times a year.

Dad always said that his own father, my Grandad, could tell fortunes and that afternoon we thought we’d kill some time before my daughter came home from school.

A few weeks later, during one of our Sunday evening telephone calls, he told me he had to have a heart operation. I was a bit shocked because he’d told me he had Angina, which I thought was to do with his breathing. He said not to worry, but that it wouldn’t be a good idea for my daughter and I to go and stay with him in the summer holidays. He’d been feeling tired, and didn’t want to worry about looking after his guests. I understood, of course, but I was also concerned.

The night before the operation he joked on the phone about how the nurse’s skirts weren’t as short as he’d have liked and I said I hoped he understood that because I wasn’t there didn’t mean I didn’t love him. This was the first time I’d ever said the word ‘love’ to my dad – that just wasn’t the way we were. He said he knew; that he loved me too and I knew then that he was scared. He hated hospitals and the last time he’d been in one was the night he held my mum’s hand as she died from a brain tumour.

When I went to visit him in hospital he looked like Homer Simpson, with his chest all yellow from the chemicals they’d painted on. His legs were all stitched up from where they’d taken veins to replace the faulty ones in his heart. He looked tired but cheerful and joking with the nurses still. I left feeling optimistic but wishing we lived closer.

When he left hospital, I was worried about making him get up to answer the phone and I guessed he’d be sleeping more during his recovery. But I knew there was something wrong when I could hardly hear his words. He sounded breathless and said he hadn’t been able to keep food down for over a week. Typically, though, he’d been telling the visiting Nurse that he was fine, making a joke of it as usual.

Quickly, I phoned my cousins who lived down the road and told them I was worried. They went straight round. Soon after he was airlifted in a helicopter to Harefield Hospital in London for an emergency heart operation. I could hardly believe it.

At 2.am a Surgeon called to say that Dad had decided he didn’t want another operation. He just wanted to die in peace. Then he put Dad on the line. He told me that he was proud of the way I was bringing up my daughter on my own, that although he’d never said it, he’d loved me from the minute I was born, and that he was sorry but he wanted to be with my Mum now. And even though we didn’t believe in Life after Death, he promised he’d give me a Sign once he got there.

Dad died the following morning, on the 9th of October. 9.10. The cards had been right. About everything.

As my daughter and I left Dad’s body at the Chapel of Rest, she looked up at me and said “I think that’s the first time we’ve been with Grandad when he hasn’t moaned” and we both laughed. She tried to cheer me up again when we were on the beach a little while later, saying “Don’t be sad, Mummy, Grandad’s watching over us; he’s here somewhere.” And although I knew she was just trying to say the right thing, I hugged her tight.

Then, just as we were about to drive away from the beach front car park, I suddenly froze. In a white van, parked just ahead of us, was…..

“Mummy, there’s Grandad in that van!”.

I went cold. My brother, sitting in the back of the car gasped and said: “Jesus, it’s Dad!”

The man in the van leant over the steering wheel, watching the stretch of beach where we’d been minutes earlier, and then scratched his beard the way Dad always did. He was even wearing his favourite shirt.

“It can’t be. He hated white vans. Just drive,” my brother said, shocked.

As the cards had predicted, there was a journey. With the money from the sale of Dad’s bungalow, my daughter and I moved house 6 months later, not far from where we were. And the day the carpenter turned up in his white van to repair the kitchen at our new home, I had no idea that he would turn out to be my future husband.

But I think Dad knew.

My Girl.  My Dad.

The Best Valentines Day present…. Ever!.

There’s a lot of talk about visualisation and making things happen, and feeling the positivity and faking it ‘til you’re making it, and although I’m not renowned for having a glass-half-full, there WAS a time when I actually believed it could be if I wanted it hard enough.
 

My heart-shaped gift aged 9

 I knew I wanted to be married before I was thirty.  I ju-ust scraped through that one.  Hmm, maybe ‘scraped’ is the wrong word to use, considering it ended up a bit on the injured side after a few years (‘injured’ not being in any way an operative word, you understand.  I’m being metaphorical and figurative, which I am.  A lot). And, aided in no small part by my mother’s incessant guilt-trip that she was “married and had two kids by the time she was ‘my age’” I also knew that I wanted to start having children before I was 32. At the latest.

That year I’d had hideous food poisoning at the end of January and I’d even had the doctor OUT to me, it’d got so bad.  I’d been so wracked with the sicking-up and not being able to eat anything that I’d actually been bleeding from both ends (I know, tmi…) and it turned out I had the same Streptococcal thingy that the Queen had also had.  It’s the circles we moved in, I think.

Anyway, a few days after ‘things’ were calming down, I was still off work and I was in my familiar ‘recovery’ position (i.e. on the sofa, feet on pouffe and GMTV on telly).  And I had this image.  In fact it was stronger than an image; I actually ‘felt’ this small human curled over my back like an over-enthusiastic shoulder pad, her little body breathing in and out and the weight of her warming up the top of my neck.

That was the moment I knew it was time to have my daughter.  She was ready.  I was ready.  It was going to happen even though I’d never, in my entire life displayed any signs of maternal instincts whatsoever.  In fact up until then children scared me and I’d always gone out of my way to avoid them.

And after the question of “Is there anything I can get you?” returned this monumental decision,  I managed to convince my husband that we’d probably be ‘trying’ for a child for a good few years – it took my mother nearly six to conceive me -  I think he visualised himself launching headlong into a condom-free-sex fest of near-decade proportions. So I guess he had every right to look a little po-faced when I announced I was pregnant after a fortnight of ‘trying’.

Which had happened on Valentines night.  And I knew this because when we… um… ‘celebrated’ my Birthday only 8 days later, it “felt” different.  And I knew I was pregnant even then. 

And even though I went through the entire pregnancy calling my massive belly ‘Harry’ and buying blue babygro’s (mainly to placate the shell-shocked father-to-be) I knew she was a girl.  I knew she’d be beautiful, I knew that she would become the best friend I’d ever have and I would be eternally proud of her.

Happy Valentines/Conception Day my gorgeous girl x

Mirror, Signal, Manoeuvre

To commemorate The Girl having her first Driving Lesson today – how OLD does that make me feel? I thought I’d share some driving… erm… ‘experiences’ with you all:

1. I will always remember my first proper lesson (i.e. NOT the one with Dad fuming and huffing and rattling the gear-stick with one hand on the flippin’ steering wheel which really did my confidence NO good whatsoever) and the sense of power and freedom it gave me. I thought I could do ANYTHING if I could drive.

2. My first proper Instructor was an ex-policeman who had such a relaxed attitude about paying attention to my driving (he had dual controls too) that he only realised I was taking a corner a bit too quickly when looked up from his “Caravanning Weekly” magazine – odd what we remember isn’t it? And saw that I’d embedded his car into the side of a MultiParts van at a junction – their jaunty slogan of “Thousands of parts for Millions of cars” trilling ironically in front of us.
(The only UP-side of having this accident was the look on my mother’s face when the Actual Police came round and read me my Rights in the living room. I don’t think she went out for a week after this… neighbours, you see.)

3. Whilst attempting the three-point-turn during my first Test and because it was always tricky getting the gear into Reverse, after I’d done the whole ‘mirror, signal, manoeuvre’ thing, I forgot it was still in Reverse and, believing it to now be in First ready for the OFF, I cheerfully shot backwards at speed and knocked down a sapling tree - on the pavement. I laughed like a nervous Nellie and said to the Examiner “is it worth me carrying on?” to which he replied in the affirmative. I sweated and held back tears for the remaining 25 minutes of the Test.

4. During my second Test, a year later, I failed for TWO reasons. One: I hadn’t let a bus pull out when it was indicating – I didn’t actually realise it is LAW to allow any public transport clear access. I do now. And I let buses pull out all the time. See? I learned.

The second reason was because whilst waiting for the traffic lights to turn green on the High Street, three of my friends walked across the road in front of the car. When they realised it was me inside, they stopped in front and started pointing and talking and waving their Funky Junction shopping bags at me. Forgetting where I was, I revved up the engine menacingly and roared back at them from behind the wheel like I was intent on mowing them down. The examiner was not best pleased. Dangerous he called it. Stupid dumbass Blonde moment I call it.

5. I didn’t take another test for 4 years after these failed attempts, convinced God was telling me I wasn’t meant to take control of a weighty, metal killing machine. I should stick to buses – at least they get to pull out when they want.

6. The day I passed, I could have kissed my Examiner. It was a lovely sunny day, just after lunch (apparently more people pass if the Examiner isn’t raving hungry for food) and he was helpful with my Road Signs test at the end. He didn’t give me the answers, but he was nice and smiley and encouraging. I shall always remember him. Whatever his name was.

Letting Go

It’s been a difficult thing to come to terms with and part of the reason I haven’t blogged about it before now is that I couldn’t find the words to properly describe the feelings it’s evoked.

Of course, some of you already know that I’m talking about the Girl having left home. Gone. From here. After 12 years of having to put up with me, she’s gone to live with her Dad.

And as we’ve spent most of her life as just ‘us girls’ together, means that the splitting up of our double-act has been even harder for me . In fact I’d probably have handled giving up a limb or an organ far better.

So to say that there’s now a gap is a bit of an understatement.

But today I finally found the feeling that I thought some of you could maybe identify with. Apologies to any guys reading this – the feelings won’t be quite so evocative.

Remember how, for nine months you kept this little miracle safe and warm and fed (and lord only knows how – it’s a real, proper miracle if you actually stop and think about it… a living human being, breathing in fluid, kept alive by food that’s transported through a tube that your own body grew inside you - between you and the unborn child you’re … well… incubating; growing; giving life to)? Remember how you couldn’t stop stroking the expanding mass of skin before you and wondering how much more strain your belly button could take before it shot off and blinded the nearest person?

Remember how clever it made you feel that you were actually a part of this great big reproductive orb in the universe and that because of you, there’d be another body on the planet forging a path into the future and taking bits of you with them for another generation?

Remember how you couldn’t quite believe you could get away with ‘eating for two’ and it didn’t matter how much you did or didn’t eat, your belly just kept on growing in a totally expected (pun intended) way?

Remember how you never thought you’d get used to feeling the little kicks and the squirmy movements and the worry that you were housing an Extra Terrestrial entity inside your body because you’d seen too many re-runs of ‘Aliens’ and specifically the part where John Hurt’s belly flies wide with teeth and the nasty creature comes sliming onto the screen and devours everybody?
(Okay, that last bit might just have been me, but you get the idea).

And remember how you used to watch an elbow or a heel poke through your skin when you were in the bath; or your belly would pop with little hiccups and all you had to do was stroke it and it’d calm down and relax in the warmth with you? And how you’d sometimes sing to it and talk to it and tell it about everything it was going to see and do, and feel when it finally arrived on planet Here?

Remember how you thought you’d always be the size of a Hippo, in fact you were used to it and quite liked it, until the time your ‘due date’ had come and gone by 10 days, and then how desperately you just wanted it ‘Out, Out, Out! – NOW!’?

And remember how you knew you’d never, ever forget that pulsating little cord of purple and white which was still attached to you both when they put this writhing little body on your chest, which had kept your baby Girl alive all that time, before it was cut? The incredible feeling of being One?

And … O.M.G. It was a girl. Remember how you’d only got one name and that was Harry?

And then, remember those flabby, vacant, endless folds of skin that sat unhappily, deflated like a hot air balloon all around your middle, which for some reason made you want the little bundle of pink skin that was now lying in a Perspex cot beside you, back ‘In, In, Inside me – please?!’

Because I don’t know about you, but I felt lost. Empty. Slightly adrift, scared and cold. Like the best part of me I’d ever had was gone now. And even though I could see her and feel her and touch her, and I knew this was just the start - a new beginning, I already missed the always being together bit.

I missed... I miss... the Us.

Apologies...

As you can see, my methods of procrastination have no limits.... I cannot tell a lie, I have spent the majority of today on a faffing expedition of mammoth proportions.

Hence yet another new blog design.
But the other one was taking so long to load that even I was bored waiting.

So faffcrastination was the order of the day, of course, when I wasn't working out the UK/USA time difference and fretting over The Girl's blog from New York where she tells the world and her mother that she nearly drowned yesterday... I KNOW!
AND... And....
the Husband returns from a 'quick job' (that's carpentry, not any other kind of 'job... well, none that I'm aware of... see... extreme digression... aka faffing...) with stitches on a split upper lip...
I KNOW!
I mean, don't bother letting me know you're in A&E darling; no, no I'm quite happy lying here in bed reading my book and scoffing Philly-covered bagels whilst you're having your bloody top lip stitched.
Talk about stiff uppers...!
Talk about weepy!
Actually, let's not.
It's just a good job I'm on some medication that's all I can say.

Here's what I've been doing...

Just in case anyone's been wondering if I'm still in the land of the living... here's what I've been busy with...

The school stage had to be turned into a background scene for the summer production of Aladdin.... and even though there was ONE teeny tiny meltdown in my immediate vicinity (i.e. me) on just the one occasion, where I spent the entire day sobbing every time anybody dared to even mention the words 'paint' and 'scene' and/or 'Azkhaban', it did finally get done - after a whole five days of blood... okay  then, vermillion paint, sweat (proper sweat, it was VAY hot in there) and many aforementioned tears...

Even the Girl got involved and made the greatest bouncing melon in the history of.... well, bouncing melons (a papier mached netball "borrowed" from the PE Department)



And if anyone is thinking of zooming in on this to embiggen it - yes, it does look like we're 'painting by numbers' and that's because we had manly assistance in the form of the caretaker (thank you Mr Peddar) and several cohorts as we're not ladder trained and this is a very important thing to be... if you're up a ladder that is...


Which I DO appear to be in this one.  Only, I'm not technically UP it, I'm kind of more gossiping around the bottom rungs with my lovely work friend Luisa and holding a piece of paper which makes me look all efficient and organised. See - even SHE's holding a piece of paper (we WERE really gossiping!).

Come to think of it, I DO pass a lot of staff in the corridors who wander about holding bits of paper.  I always think they look like they're doing something very important too.

So, can you tell what it is yet?!

A Prom Pic

Do I have to say I'm one VERY PROUD mother?


This is my beautiful girl with her wonderful boyfriend of 2 years.  Both incredibly special people - to each other and to me.

*sob*

(click to embiggen)

PROMinent Stuff

See these shoes?  The Girl will be wearing these to her Prom at the end of the month.  And whilst I don't want to come over all Sex And The City gushing-over-designer-footwear, I have to admit that these are A Work Of  Art and somebody somewhere is very clever indeed where the design of shoes is concerned.

For not only are these beautiful works of art flocked - yes, flocked! - on the outside (like the inside of a very posh 80's pub lounge) they also boast interior heel-to-toe carpetting.  Yes, carpetting!  And as the piece de resistance, there is an abundance of lush, co-ordinating foliage on the toes.  And a colourful extravaganza of Indian Squaws painted on the soles.  Incredible.

Although there was a very sad, typical 'OMG what ARE you doing, mother, please not in public' moment when we were in the shop.  Whilst the Girl's face flushed excitedly at the sight of these works of art, my frown was saying something more along the lines of "what on earth would posses a person to wear a pair of flocked, carpeted shoes with heels so high you could wash the windows upstairs without the aid of a ladder" type thing.
But then I tried them on and turned into Cinderella.  Albeit momentarily - until they were whipped away from me and herded towards the box and the till and home.

Oh, and this here's the equally gorgeous dress the Girl will be wearing.  I can't wait for the whole thing to come together, although I know I shall be a blubbery wreck of emotion thinking about how only yesterday I could fit her whole foot in my mouth and blow raspberries on her belly to squeals of delight.
 Whereas that was probably more like a fortnight ago...

A Photo MeMe

The lovely Anne Dunlop tagged me in a Photo Meme and I'm hereby tagging those at the bottom of this one... find the oldest picture folder on your pc and upload the 10th.  Here's mine.  And it's - obviously - one of The Girl.  In the wonderful garden we had at our last house.  The dog by her side belonged to a nice man I worked with called Paul who was round helping us clear rubbish from the back of the shed, dismantling the swing and generally being a very great help.  We loved our little 'Wendy House' at Greenveiw and we do miss it's lushness and the fact it was self-maintaining (i.e. didn't need anything major doing to it bar the odd trim).  This was our last summer here because (exactly, spookily) 8 weeks later my dad would die and we would be upping sticks and moving about 2 miles up't'road to where we are now.
Ah the memories - not least of those teensy tiny plaits that the Girl would insist I weave through the front ofher hair with  painstakingly regularity.  And that damned T-shirt which I got her in the BHS mid-summer sale with the almost-completely silver glittered logo which ended up covering the rest of our clothes in silver specks for the remainder of the summer.  Now it's YOUR turn...
Michele Brouder,
Jacqui Christodoulou
Keris Stainton,
Fionnuala Kearney.

My Hero(ine)

When I was younger I always dreamed of becoming Doris Day when I grew up.  I think it was the effortless cheer and sparkling-optimism-in-the-face-of-adversity ... oh and those lovely tight-waisted, wide-swingy skirts of course.
She just shone, didn't she?
I'm not sure how I'd have coped with the endless dancing and singing,  though.  I'd have to have had equally endless preparation I guess - but then in 'real life', you can prepare as much as you like and still meet with the slap of a wet haddock across the face when you least expect it.
Or Ma Walton.
If the Doris Day position had been filled,  then being the Matriarch of Walton's mountain would have been my fall-back career of choice.  All that good-humour.  All those family values.  All that small-town camaraderie and support in the face of... well, more adversity I guess.  And the only set-back would've been having to give birth to a thousand and one offspring.  Which I didn't really give much consideration to when I was younger.  After all, babies were still found in cabbage patches back then and delivered by Stork - the bird, I mean, not the margarine manufacturer.
But since The Girl's been in my life, my original choice of Hero has been pretty much entirely overshadowed.  And sometimes I can't believe my good fortune.
Not only is she beautiful, funny, intelligent, kind and sensitive, but she has endured so much in her tender 16 years that I'm sure I'd have had small emotional breakdowns over, had any of these happened to me whilst I was growing up.
Her paternal grandfather died when she was 18 months old.  And even though I'm sure she understood that he wasn't around anymore, I'm equally certain it wasn't a case of incredible make-believe when she used to 'hold his hand' as we walked to the shops some afternoons (after he'd died).  Seriously - she would have her left hand raised a little like she was holding a(nother) hand on the other side of us and even look up from time to time and smile at... well, nobody that I could see anyway.  The most disconcerting part of this walk was when she stopped, turned around and waved, telling  me "Nonno's gone now" and then we'd continue our walk - just the two of us.
*shiver*
My Mum died when the Girl was nearly five.She remembers her well.  She even remembers how she offered Gramma some chocolate the night she died and how Gramma tried to refuse it, claiming she had to watch her weight.  Such a young age to learn the art of Irony.
And  in the following year, she left the home she grew up in when her father and I separated.  Even though our Divorce wasn't a pleasant affair and she had to learn to accept Daddy's new wife and all the restrictions and crap that entailed (along with finding she also had a step-sister) she never flipped the once.  There was sadness, of course.  And questions - and I always managed to make them honest but not recriminatory -  I didn't want her to grow up with a twisted, embittered, wronged woman.  In hindsight, my mantra could've been "What would Doris do?".  Smile prettily, twirl about a bit and believe that Tomorrow would be better.
And it always was. With her, it couldn't have been anything else.
She doesn't have my Arachnophobic tendencies.  When a (mahoosive) spider crawled up the curtains in our new home one evening, she pointed delightedly, informed me of the creeping thing behind my shoulder and watched as I somehow overcame my usual petrifying fear of the things, pretending I thought nothing of picking it up (with a tissue, obviously) and calmly put it outside.  I remember crying and shaking with fear, alone later, after the adrenalin had worn off.
Six years later, aged 11, she held my hand tightly, standing beside me in the church as I gave the Eulogy at my Dad's funeral.  Without her presence I'd have buckled and broken.  My dad and I had become more like best friends since my mum died and the shock of him dying and the gap he left behind was - is - gaping.  She knew this.  She still does. 
For the 9 years we spent, just us two living together in united womanhood, she kept me going. Whenever I felt that life was getting just that little bit too much to bear, all I had to do was steal a glance at her and that's all I needed.
She's never thrown tantrums.  She's never demanded anything.  She's never cried to get her own way.  She's never threatened, abused, lied, stolen, broken any laws and she always tells me if she's worried or upset about anything.
Of course there was no question that she'd be beside me when I married the man of my Dreams.  And I'm so proud that she's been with her boyfriend now for nearly 2 years now and they're such an incredibly 'together' couple that it makes the pathetic attempts I had at 'boyfriends' at 16... well, pathetic, frankly. I couldn't even apply my mascara properly.
So today when she was lying underneath the glare of a theatre spotlight and having her scalp sliced into with a surgical knife, I felt I could be forgiven for wanting to break down and weep that she shouldn't have to endure this.  Because she's had to get through so much stuff in her short life already, that if I could have, I'd have had the surgery that she was having to undergo, instead of her.
 I'm sorry to have to break this to you, Doris, but your services have sadly not been required for pretty much the last 16 years. You see,  I found me a Real Hero.  And she doesn't expect me to drop everything and start twirling about in a springy yellow frock to the tune of 'Que Sera Sera'... even though the sentiments aren't entirely lost on us, you'll understand.

If the Genes fit...

So the Girl has a pre-arranged, pre-paid for, pre-tty much completely organised 'Kerrang' thing happening this coming Friday... by the way... what happened to going to KidsWorld and turning your tongue blue with Slush Puppies and falling off foam-covered rolling logs and laughing til you're sick? - it's true - it DOES go quickly, this childhood thing.  Trust me. Back to the story.
So,  whilst she was chatting on line with one of the lads who's going with the party, he inadvertently (or not -  jury's still out) misspelled the word "you're" - without the apostrophe or the 'e'.  (The sentence was something like "your an idiot" - feel free to replace stronger, more insulting teenagery-type words at will).
Gulp.
This is MY daughter we're talking about, so you kinda get the gist of where this is going, right?
She corrected him.  Only decent thing you can do.  He stuck to his guns, telling her he was using it as slang and as he's currently mid-way through A-Level English Language, he should know.
Double gulp.
The Girl pointed out that if he'd wanted to use the word as slang or even 'text-speak' then it should have read something like"ur"  and not just missed out the apostrophe.
Heated debate (again, use your own imagination) ensued.
Fine.
Lots of 'fine's during supper this evening.  a few tears.  a few more.

[I have to interject that MY advice: "A Mother's Advice" - which was actually sought, may I add - was that the whole thing should be "slept on" and re-visited tomorrow after the heat of this evening had been allowed to chill a little.  No rash decisions should be made until then. Very sensible I thought.]

Consequently, lad is told that until he apologises and admits his inaccuracy, he is no longer welcome on this pre-arranged outing of musicality.
Nothing like a sound piece of advice being put to good use.  Nothing like.
He stands his ground.  He knows what he's talking about.  The A-level course again cited as proof if proof were needed.
So another girl is invited in his stead.
An hour later he apologises.

[Of course very, very tempted at this stage to go with an "I told you so", but a Mother knows her place]

And after he's informed of being usurped in the Kerrang seats, tells the Girl that of course he's not upset, and he wouldn't dream of demanding he still goes after she's already replaced him.
There's a moral in here somewhere but for the life of me, the only one I can come up with right now is "Mother knows Best".

Wishes Never Made...

My lovely interweb writer friend, Deborah Durbin (no relation to the black and white Deanna of 1950's Sunday afternoon musical fame) would probably back me up on this - come to think of it, so would Noel Edmonds with his Visualisation techniques and his Golden Orbs - but we'll stick with Deborah because that's a much less cringey image!.
It occurred to me in the shower this morning - the best place for any kind of creative thinking bar none - that in my life I already have things I never wished (aloud) for but which I certainly could not nor would not be able to function happily or properly without.  These being :

1.  The most beautiful, happy, level-headed, content-in-her-own-skin with no hang-ups whatsoever daughter who continually (even though I shamefully embarrass her on occasion) tells me she loves me and wants to be just like me when she grows up (okay then, so slightly worrying on the mental stability front, but we can't have everything) and with whom I have the best relationship I've ever had with anyone my entire life. *sob*.

2. The most incredible husband in the world who, for some reason seems to love me for my faults and not despite them and who never fails to lift my spirits with either a reasoned argument in spirit-lifting favour or else a supremely amusing face-pull/dance/moonie at precisely the right moment.  He remains my breath of fresh air, keeps me grounded and loves me whatever my mood and state of dress.
(Disclaimer:  Actually I DID wish for him and that'll be the subject of another post - with grateful thanks to Deborah for her amazing book "There's a Little Witch in Every Woman" and to my friend at the time, Tracey for giving it to me).

3. The absolute best (paid) work in the world for my mentality. If, during 'Career' lessons at school, it had been suggested I should remain working at a school, only I wouldn't be actually teaching, I'd be cutting, sticking, mounting and stapling work onto massive three metre display boards - after firstly having designed a whole mural associated with said work, I think I'd have peed myself laughing.  A ridiculous job like that?  Me?  Are you mad!  And yet I am the Middle School equivalent of Rolf Harris working to an academic timetable ("can you tell what it is yet?").

4. Of course Bill Gates has to have played some small part in the next non-wish scenario but where would I/we be without the amazing technologies surrounding our pc's and the things we can do with them?  No more am I sitting huddled over a manual/electric/golfball/daisywheel  typewriter (remember those?) with stupid sheets of carbon and silly little strips of tippex, wondering how I can *seriously* cut and paste a whole section of story without making the manuscript look like a Christmas decoration or a doiley.  Thank the God of technology for the wonders we are able to use today - and thank goodness s/he was listening through my frustrations of finding an easier way to do it.

5. Never in my wildest (and believe me, I've had some) imaginings, could I have dreamed that One Day I could finish reading a book and then send the author a message telling them how much I enjoyed it and have the author then reply back saying 'thanks'. My god, the conversations I could have had with Enid Blyton, Jilly Cooper and Marian Keyes had this form of tehnology been available to me decades ago!

6. And a list wouldn't be complete without a mention of the Perm, would it?  Who'd have thought that all I had to do to get the hair of my dreams would be to give birth.  Not a mention of that one in the Pregnancy Manual.  I think I'd have noticed.  And I have to thank L'Oreal for keeping it 'real' and not making me appear as the silvery-haired crazy lady who sticks kids pictures on walls for a living whilst dreaming of becoming a proper author-type person one day!

All Downhill from Here...

There comes a time in every mum’s life when she realises she’s ‘getting on a bit’. I guess. I hope. It can’t just be ME, surely? And it doesn’t happen overnight either (unlike the spread of the age round the middle which seemed to just suddenly turn up one morning and has made itself very much at home now thank you) "GOaB" creeps up and taps you on the shoulder at times but you manage to ignore it until one day it flat out hits you squarely round the chops.
Meh.
Case in point this evening.
Girl is off on one of her jolly jaunts (I’m betting she doesn’t call them this and would cringe with a “de-er” and a tongue to the inside bottom lip with dismay if she heard me) this evening – a Christmas Bowling Extravaganza in the city with her Explorer Group (they’re like very grown up Scouts and Guides – they Kayak and Camp and Canoe and Climb and Paintball and do all sorts of exciting things).
Anyway.
Because of my continued afearement of driving in the car and especially at night and because hubby is still whittling in his workshop (Carpenters whittle legitimately – this is not a derogatory term) I refused to take her - with heart in mouth, I hasten to add - because I’m one of those parents who hates refusing my child anything unless it means an outbreak of another war and/or plague/pestilence/flood etc. I can’t help it. I was a deprived child. Which means the Girl will have everything in my power. Anyway – that’s a whole other issue… back to tonight…
So one of her fellow Explorers came to pick her up. Courtesy his own parents, no doubt (they’re all only 16 anyway). And whilst she was stuffing her lovely size sixes into her shoes, I entertained her escort on the front step.
(Are you picturing a Les Dawson type character with pinny, scarf and hair curlers, supporting a sagging chest with crossed arms and toothless smacking gums?)
(Please don’t. It’ll only make matters worse).
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Hello,’ he said politely back, smiling and everything. They’re lovely these teenagers we have today aren’t they?
‘Well…’ I fumble for a natural continuation of the world “hello”. ‘Um… so…you’ve grown… haven’t you?’
(Note to self: Saying this to a child any older than ten is potentially embarrassing to both parties)
‘What?’ The Girl spins round.
‘Um... he’s grown... Well… haven’t you?’ I flash the Boy a (thinking back, very probably a senile) smile in the hope that he can corroborate my statement. ‘Taller, I mean…’ I fan the flame.
‘What?’ the Girl does incredulous brilliantly.
(The Boy is still very politely standing on the mat smiling nicely and rocking on his heels a bit. Clearly hasn’t a clue what to say. I’m beginning to feel as if I’ve just asked him if he’d like to see some puppies).
‘Well… he’s grown… up… taller – since the last time I saw him. Anyway. Hasn’t he? Look.’ my heart hammers away. I feel a Basil Fawlty moment coming on. I can either dig myself in deeper or else pretend to faint.
I don’t faint.
‘Since my Birthday party four weeks ago you mean?’ The girl says.
Ah.
‘Really?’ I peer at him over the threshold – even though I don’t need glasses for close-up. Maybe he’ll think I do. Maybe She’ll think I do.
Maybe I do.
‘You were at the party, were you?’ Three degrees below outside. Plenty hot in the hallway, I can tell you.
‘Yes mum. Who do you think this is?’ Girl doesn’t so much demand as try to lead me gently to a conclusion that needs to be reached.
‘Um… he’s… young John,’ I say – v-e-r-y slowly, swallowing and actually thinking to myself “Why the frigg did I just say the word YOUNG? Was it my manic attempt at trying to make him appear somehow shorter four weeks ago? It was. It didn’t work.
The Girl shook her head disbelievingly, made a ‘Gah!’-ing sound and hugged me goodbye, patting me on the back …shades of Happy Fields Nursing Home wafted through my ridiculous bones and I could have whipped myself with the nearest Birch twig for my idiocy.
I actually behaved like a total moron.
Like the totally moronic mother that I always vowed I would never become but which I now realise I have absolutely no control over becoming. I am an arse.
An arse with foot in mouth disease.
And now all I can hear in my head are the little whispers of apology she was making to her escort as they walked off down the drive to their car.
I still haven’t located my heart, it sank and slank, never to be seen again.
*whimper*

The Things They (Don’t) Tell You

My baby girl is sixteen today and in honour of her grand entrance to the world, I thought I'd post the poem I wrote (and had published in the anthology 'Diapers and Dimples) all about Labour Day!


Oh it was a breeze (a force ten or more)
The Midwife and the staff were so kind.
The Doctor? Well, he was a little aloof,
(but then I was sick all over him, mind).

Painful contractions? No I wouldn’t say that
(if you’re used to corsets of barbed wire).
Oh, the TENS machine, gas-n-air, you know the thing…
(But only Epidurals put out my fire).

How long was the labour? Not really that long
(if you think twenty three hours is short).
Yes, I remembered the breathing, the sighing-out-slow
(but I practised not what I was taught).

Did she suck at the breast as soon as she could?
But of course, and we bonded superbly!
Her father and I had tears filling our eyes
(FFS, hurry up with some tea!)

An episiotomy? Ach, it was only a snip!
Not half as bad as everyone makes out.
(Make it ten times as bad; it felt like a donkey
had given my rear end a good clout).

Oh yes, it’s a wonderful, memorable event,
And Alice is worth all that pain.
A brother? Oh, it’s too soon to think of just yet
(if the truth be told – never again!).

(1993)

A room with the 'flu

One of the greatest things about working in a school is the fact that Management are incredibly understanding when you have to take time off for a sick cherub. In fact guidelines allow each member of staff three days per year precisely for this occurrence.
Which is nice.
But it does make me feel like a proper fraud when the child is fifteen going on thirty at the best of times when I phone to tell them she still has a roaring temperature and a hacking cough with a chill factor of winter-weight-duvet-by-the-radiator-still in bed proportions.
I can hear my inner-voice sniggering like a demon on my shoulder.
‘What, she can’t get out of bed and get herself a cup of tea?’
Um… no. And even if she were to attempt this feat (at the best of times unnatural) I would fret irrationally about boiling water and scalded body parts en route back to sick-bed because of the aforementioned duvet-constantly-wrapped-about thing.
‘She couldn’t get herself something to eat?’
Er… no. Actually. Because I do all the thinking around here. It wouldn’t cross her mind to equate a grumbling belly and a thumping headache with something so banal as hunger, unless I suggest it – then it’s the most obviously simple solution in the world. And so much nicer because Mummy made it (always ‘mummy’ to a sick child).
And even though I’d be home by 1.30 at the latest, I know I’d be arriving to a tangled, sweaty heap of phlegm that hasn’t even gone for a pee because her water bottle’s empty and she still doesn’t ‘get’ that infections have to be constantly flushed from one end to the other unless encouraged.
Oh and there’d be sick on the bed.
Which is always nice.
She might be 15 but she’s still my baby and when she’s ill I like her to cling to me like a hot little puppy as if her recovery depends on me. Because one day it won’t. And I’m not ready for that just yet.
Oh, and I DID work from home which kind of appeased my guilt-addled brain. So I don’t feel like a total fraud.
Just a bit.
And it’s not every lunchtime I get to sit in bed with my daughter, two bowls of hot tomato soup and watch the Aristocats.
Pass me the tissues - it’s going to be a another long old day.

TAXI!

My dad had the right idea.
When I finally managed to attain dizzy heights of social whirlness during my Sixth Form Years (still the Best in my Life – and I knew it even at the time) I would invariably need a lift somewhere. Actually, make that EVERYWHERE.
But asking for this favour was heart-palpitatingly uncomfortable and always met with shockingly terrible umbrage. Like I was going to starve the other occupants of the car from their allotment of oxygen or something equally tragic.
There were sighs. Rolling of the eyes, tapping of watches; Jeez anyone would have thought I’d asked them to inject their eyeballs with Catnip so I could write a poem about my findings thereon.
Prior to these years I hadn’t any reason to be driven anywhere much since the park was only a twenty minute roller-skate away and my best friend (of which I had probably one at a time, depending on wind-direction it felt) lived within spitting and earshot distance. Any party I was invited to was up the road, round the corner and I walked. There and back. With no mobile phone.
Remember, there were no paedophiles in the seventies.
And then once the 6th Form EBBO party invites started rolling in, Dad decided to start charging for the use of his time and transport – perhaps in a bid to put me off ever asking for another lift for as long as I lived.
But I HAD parties to attend. My presence had been REQUESTED. You know what it’s like, right? So I agreed to the charges. So he upped the ante and introduced a new rule. Not just me – he’d charge EACH FRIEND I’d invited along fifty pee each way regardless of how far the journey was. (In hindsight and had I known of, I’d have displayed a greater interest in the Edinburgh Fringe that IS for sure).
I was mortified and believed my life would be well and truly over.
But instead of the whole thing becoming the most cringe-worthily embarrassing thing to have happened to my newly-discovered social vista, it actually turned out to be amongst one of the best memories OF the Best Years. Because not only did Dad have an Ex Army Land Rover (one of those green ones with no central heating and a windscreen that folds down for some reasons – Shooting the enemy perhaps?) but he had the driest sense of humour and the cheekiest character my friends had ever discovered in a parent and journeys to and from became even more fun than the party we were going to/returning from.
I could have sold tickets for a lift with Dad.
And if I’d had any business acumen about me I’m sure I could have charged my mates double per journey and they still would have given me a tip.
‘Oh Mr Cooper, you’re so funny!’ girl friends would howl with laughter as he drove us back from a disco at one in the morning. And he loved it. The adulation, the audience, the half-drunken party girls rolling around in the back of his land rover as he took a corner too sharply on purpose. (Pre-seat belt law).
He’d never admit to it, of course. He still made out it was all a huge effort on his part and I was ruining every evening he had to come out to pick me and my seven mates up from wherever we’d spent our evening.
And now I’m the Taxi to my little teenaged Angel.
But I don’t mind.
Much.
Not even when we get halfway there and she realises she’s forgotten her purse/mobile/lipstick. Because I didn’t give birth to her to grumble at her and bemoan the fact she’s interrupting my evening/weekend. She’s the most important thing in the world to me and if she needs a lift even twice the way round it, then I’m the Mum to proudly *do the driving.
(sniff)

*Of course Step-fathers are equally amazing and don’t moan very much hardly either – especially if there’s football/fishing/DIY/cookery programmes on the telly.
(but you didn’t hear me say that)