Hanging On: 2013 365 Challenge #153

Birthday Boy

The last few days have been crazy busy. Thursday’s manic Smashwords frenzy had domestic repercussions, in terms of undone laundry and cleaning. Friday was hubbie’s birthday, so started with gifts and cake and tears as Daddy went to work. I took the kids to the Farm to keep them busy but exhausted myself more than them.

We stopped off at a friend’s house on the way home and the kids ran riot in their paddling pool for an hour before sitting down to an alfresco dinner of spag bol. I love my friend! Then we had a trip to Grandma’s house to take Daddy’s cake over and say hi.

Saturday started early, with hubbie leaving to collect his new crazy purchase. As it was the first of June I turned over our photo calendar only to realise it had run out. I should remember it runs June to May (the first photo calendar was a birthday gift for hubbie and they’ve run June-May ever since) but every year it comes as a surprise.

So, being me, I sat down to load photos to a new one on vistaprint, while the kids watched cartoons. Three hours later, when they’d moved on from cartoons to chaos, I was still waiting for the photos to load. For once the kids were saying, “Come on, Mummy, let’s go, let’s go to the Farm,” and I was whining, “Just five more minutes, please.” I’m not very good at walking away from a project.

Taking a trip in the van

In the end we got to the Farm for lunchtime (with the calendar unfinished) and had a lovely three hours running around (I would post pictures but the camera’s in the car and I’m too tired to move. Tomorrow. The Farm’s wisteria is definitely worth sharing.)

After the Farm we planned to go to grandma’s for a swim while Daddy was driving home, but he’d arrived when we got back. Thus began a long begging argument to have a turn in the van. How is it these discussions can be so exhausting? I hate giving in, but in the end I’m ashamed to say we did.

Then followed a swim at Grandma’s, a wander up the field to see Daddy’s new trailer, and another whining session from Littlest Martin who wanted to go home right up until the point we said it was time to leave. By 8,30pm they were finally both in bed, dinner was in the oven, and I sat down to start my post. I suspect I’ll be finishing in the morning as I have no idea what Claire’s up to. Thank goodness I have some more childcare next week, plus a couple of hours at a spa with my mum on Monday. Maybe I’ll finally catch up on some sleep!

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire looked at the bright green numbers on the dash and scrunched her eyes, as if to block out what they said. It’s nearly midnight. Kim is going to be livid. She’s pregnant, the last thing she needs is her mate turning up on the doorstep like Cinderella’s pumpkin.

Outside the window the streets became familiar, as the breakdown truck finally neared its destination. Rather than anticipation, Claire’s stomach knotted with tension and her eyes itched with unshed tears.

Despite the Customer Advisor’s assurances that the Skoda would be picked up within the hour, it had been over two before assistance arrived. Time enough for Claire to check out of the hostel, track down a security guard to retrieve her belongings from the Snow Dome lockers, and unstick the parking ticket from her windscreen.

Relief that the Skoda hadn’t been towed was short-lived as Claire watched the time tick past on her smartphone clock, like she was in some low-budget movie. She didn’t dare venture in search of coffee in case the breakdown driver arrived in her absence. As a result she greeted him with a tongue-lashing when he did arrive, to which he merely shrugged and said, by way of explanation, “Friday night, love.”

They were the last words spoken between them. The relatively short journey to Kim’s house had taken much longer in the breakdown truck and Claire had been torn between trying to make conversation and risking a nap that might result in her slumped, slack-jawed and drooling, against the driver’s shoulder. In the end she opted for silence.

Now, with Kim’s house around the corner, Claire wondered if she was doing the right thing. Do I want to be in a house of hormones and happy families? At least I won’t have to listen to them shagging endlessly, if Jeff’s away.

She tried to recall something from Ruth’s pregnancy with Sky, so she could offer support if required. With a start, Claire realised she didn’t even remember her sister being pregnant. I guess I was too busy climbing the career ladder to have time for babies. Poor Ruth, no wonder she feels Robert and I neglect her. Mind you, she was still with Chris then: she didn’t need me.

At last they were parked outside Kim’s house, and the silent driver climbed down to release the winch securing Claire’s Skoda to his lorry. With a, “Where do you want it, love?” he followed the gestured response, handed Claire some paperwork to sign, and left.

Poor bloke, I wonder if he’ll get it in the neck from the Missus, being out late on a Friday night? Tough job.

Claire shouldered her rucksack and headed for the porch, praying Kim wasn’t already asleep. Before she reached the door it was flung open and Kim bustled out, her face split in a wide grin.

“Claire, you’re here at last! Let’s see your wrist, you poor thing. Come in, come in, I’ve just been watching Graham Norton. How was the trip? Was Jeff useful? He was glad he managed to catch you before he had to leave. I saw the breakdown truck – did you have to disable the car, or did they take pity on your poorly arm?”

While the words spilled forth, Kim ushered Claire in and walked her to the spare room to dump her bag.

Waddled is probably more accurate. Claire watched her friend’s progress through the house and marvelled that she seemed to be so much more pregnant than when she’d seen her two weeks earlier. How is that possible? It’s like the baby has doubled in size in a fortnight.

Eventually, Kim paused to catch her breath, and Claire was able to speak. She wasn’t used to this garrulous version of her oldest friend, and keeping up was using the last of her energy. After the long silence of the last few hours, her throat felt dry and her mouth unable to form words. She swallowed, searching for something simple to say.

“You look well.”

“Do you think so? I feel completely haggard, but Jeff says I’ve reached the blooming stage – you know, with the flawless skin and glossy hair. Just about makes up for the swollen ankles and the weird dreams and the endless need to pee. Plus I’ve suddenly started to sway like an elephant when I walk. How embarrassing is that? It’s like I suddenly got super-pregnant overnight. So much for trying to get married without it being obvious. Mind you, I tried on a gorgeous dress this week that’s perfect and, with a bit of breathing in, I should be okay. The wedding’s only two weeks away, can you believe it?”

Claire’s brain drowned under the deluge of words. The last sentence shone through her murky mind like a ray of sunlight. Her face must have revealed her shock, because Kim suddenly clapped both hands to her mouth.

“Oh crap, I didn’t tell you yet, did I? One of the hostels we’ve been investigating had a last minute cancellation – seems the groom got cold feet and went to warm them in Barbados – so we’ve been able to book it. We’re begging friends and family to try and come, though we know it’s short notice. And it’s the bank holiday weekend. You’ll be able to come, thought, won’t you, Claire?”

Kim looked at her properly for the first time since her arrival, and Claire saw that her face did look smooth and radiant, although marred by a frown as she waited for her friend’s answer.

A wedding. Lovely. Just what I need to confirm my spinster status – to attend a wedding on my own and field a hundred questions about my love life and all I’ve achieved since school. It’ll be worse than a reunion.

Kim’s face became taut with tension and Claire realised she hadn’t responded to a question that should have elicited an immediate answer.

“Of course I will, Kim. You’re my best friend, of course I’ll be there.”

***

The Big Questions: 2013 365 Challenge #152

By NASA, ESA, and the Hubble Heritage Team via Wikimedia Commons

By NASA, ESA, & Hubble Heritage Team via Wikimedia Commons

My daughter is struggling with one of life’s Big Questions (and I’m struggling with answering it!) I love that she is, though, because it shows how she thinks about the world. To me there are two or three Big Questions that are almost impossible to answer in a way that a four-year-old will understand (or a grown-up for that matter).

1. What happens when we die

2. What is outside Space

3. Evolution (it’s tough to put it into one question)

My ‘question’ is number two: I was (and still am) fascinated by what is outside Space. As a child I imagined space as a room and wondered what was outside the room. I couldn’t get my head around a concept such as a void or infinity. There had to be something outside the infinity, outside the void.

I studied Astronomy and Cosmology for Arts Students at University (a great course that must have driven any scientists present completely nuts). The tutor was amazing, using baking and fruit to try to explain the expansion of the universe. I’m not sure I ever really understood it, but I remember some analogy about us being a raisin on the expanding fruit cake in the Universe’s oven. (Apologies, the course was 15 years ago and I didn’t understand it then!)

By Tkgd2007 via Wikimedia Commons

My daughter’s ‘question’ is about Evolution. She says things like, “Before there were deserts, or trees, or anything, how were there people?” Or “How did camels grow, before there was sand and grass?” It doesn’t matter how often you explain Survival of the Fittest or Darwinism, when you reduce it to the level of a four-year-old, it’s a theory that’s full of holes.

Now, we’re not a religious family (apologies to anyone reading who is) and, even though our daughter will go to a Christian school, she will still learn about evolution and Big Bang (I think; I hope!) There is part of me, though, that thinks all these Big Questions probably need an element of faith to understand them. The Universe is too amazing to be explained by numbers.

I told my daughter today that we were once all stars (my science is sketchy, but I do remember something like that). I think that’s a beautiful idea. It might not be very scientific, or explain her Big Question, but it’s a lovely image to hold on to. Her reaction was to dance a twirling pattern across the floor like a twinkling star.

I’m now off to find the Idiot’s Guide to Science and the Universe. I hope there is one.

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Claire sat, cradling her phone, and stared at the scuffed vinyl floor. She waited for relief to come, but it didn’t. I have a place to stay until my wrist gets better, why doesn’t that make me feel better?

Her mind churned with turbulent thoughts, until she couldn’t distinguish which was most urgent. How am I going to get to Kim’s? I need to collect my things from the Snow dome and the hostel, collect my car – assuming it hasn’t been towed – and get to Cambridgeshire. All I want to do is sleep.

Aware that the helpful nurse was watching her from behind the reception desk, Claire raised her phone and pretended to read messages. It was amazing how easy it was to look busy, holding a phone. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the nurse turn away to deal with a new arrival.

Solutions refused to surface from the choppy sea in her head, and Claire was about to admit defeat when the phone began to vibrate. Startled, she looked at the screen, wondering who would be calling late on a Friday afternoon.

Kim? Please don’t let her be ringing to tell me I can’t stay. Claire swallowed, aware of the dryness of her throat, and put the phone to her ear.

“Hi, Kim, what’s up?”

“It’s not Kim, it’s Jeff.”

“Jeff? Why are you calling? Is Kim okay? I only spoke to her a minute ago.”

“Whoa, steady.” Jeff’s deep voice exuded calm. “Kim’s fine. She says you’re coming to visit. I’m glad she’ll have company while I’m away this weekend.”

“I hope that’s okay? I don’t want to intrude.”

“Don’t be silly.” Jeff chuckled, an unnervingly sexy sound. “Kim was worried that you’d try to drive the Skoda, when the docs have told you not to. I called to ask if you have Breakdown Cover?”

“Er, sure, yes. Since the Skoda overheated. I don’t think it covers injury though.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain. Some policies cover you for illness, if you’re unable to drive. And you’re only coming fifty miles. If not, I can talk you through disabling the car so that the breakdown guys won’t be able to get it going. You have Relay, I take it?”

Claire tried to process Jeff’s words. He sounded so assured and in control that she didn’t want to question what he was saying. Something niggled at her, though.

“Isn’t that fraud?”

Jeff laughed, a deep, rolling sound, like a timpani drum. “Yes, I suppose so. But you’ve paid for your cover, and you are stranded, even if it’s you that’s broken rather than the car.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” Claire tried to think through the pounding in her skull. She wished she had someone smart and competent to sort out her problems. As the thought drifted traitorously through her mind, another yelled out, Don’t be so pathetic. You’re a Twenty-First Century Gal. You don’t need a man to bail you out. A third voice – quieter, more thoughtful – said, Need, no. Want, yes.

Claire murmured her thanks to Jeff and promised to call if she needed to resort to disabling the Skoda. She hung up the phone and flicked through her emails until she found the Breakdown policy. A quick scan lifted her spirits, and she called the helpline number.

“Yes, Ms Carleton, we do offer Compassionate Relay, in some circumstances. Can you explain why you are too ill to drive?”

“I’m currently sat in A&E, my car is on the other side of town and my clothes in a third location. I have a sprained wrist, wrapped in heavy bandaging, and I’ve been informed I am not allowed to drive for 48 hours at least.”

There was silence as the Customer Advisor processed Claire’s impassioned words.

“I see. Please wait.”

Claire ran her hand through her hair and yearned for coffee. Her breathing felt shallow as if there was insufficient oxygen in the room. Eventually the phone clicked and she heard the sound of the line reconnecting.

“Ms Carleton? I’ve checked with my supervisor and we are prepared to offer assistance. We’re not able to help you collect your possessions, but if you can gather them and wait with your vehicle, someone will arrive to take you to your destination within the hour.”

Claire hung up, and surged into action. She felt like Annika Rice with a new challenge. I’ll get a taxi to run me to the hostel and back to the snow dome. Carl will have to just suck up my expenses this month.

With a fresh lease of life, Claire strode from A&E and flagged down a vacant taxi.

***

Smashwords Fatigue: 2013 365 Challenge #151

Imagine I finally chose for Vol5

I’m all Smashworded out today. Not only have I been formatting the May volume of Two-Hundred Steps Home (including a lengthy and arduous search for a cover image), I have also been attempting to load Dragon Wraiths to Smashwords, now it is out of the KDP Select programme.

Arrgghhhh!

I think that about sums it up. Thank goodness I now have the iPad and can put a few more of the download versions through their paces. For example I discovered the ISBN I had for Dragon Wraiths was for the sample I put up in February, and so no longer appropriate. I discovered that the Contents File works fine in the Kindle App but not in the iBook app. I learned that Smashwords makes my 12pt Headers HUGE for no apparent reason. I also learned that it is much harder to get a 113k word file through the AutoVetter than it is a 20-25k word file (as the Two-Hundred Steps Home Volumes usually are.)

The outcome is I’m still not happy with my Smashwords Dragon Wraiths file, although I have left it live for now, as I don’t know how to fix some of the issues. I’ve dropped the price on Smashwords and Amazon to 99c so hopefully people don’t feel they’re being ripped off if they buy it and the formatting stinks. I’ll say this for Amazon, my html file turned into a perfectly acceptable .mobi file with minimal effort.

As far as the May Two-Hundred Steps Home Volume Five is concerned, it’s not my finest – that probably goes for the cover and the content. It was a bitty month, more about Ruth than Claire, and so there wasn’t really an image that pulled it all together. I had to Photoshop this one to remove an extra person on a horse in the river, and it’s almost what I was after, though not quite. With a tiny budget there are limits to my ability to fulfill my vision!

I’ve also discovered that Volume 3 isn’t available on iPad even though it’s meant to be in the Smashwords Premium Catalogue – that might explain my poor download numbers for 3 and 4. So much of self-publishing seems to be wandering round in the dark. At least I found a new source of free ebooks in my iBooks app, so the day wasn’t a complete loss.

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“Your wrist isn’t broken, Ms Carleton, but you do have a nasty sprain.”

Claire looked up at the A&E doctor and groaned. “How bad? You’re not going to plaster it, are you?” Carl is never going to accept another doctor’s note stopping me working, but I can’t drive with my arm in plaster.

“No, I think a bandage and a sling will be sufficient. You’ll need to rest it for several days, however. Do you work?”

And how exactly is that relevant? Claire glowered at the doctor, who continued to look blandly at her as if she was as interesting as wallpaper.

“Yes, I work. I’m a travel journalist.” Well, I guess that’s what I am these days. How odd not to know what my job title is.

“Well, no sitting at a computer for hours, and no driving until the swelling has gone done. You’re best to follow the PRICE routine.”

Claire looked at the woman blankly, waiting for her to elaborate. The doctor looked surprised at her silence, then seemed to realise she wasn’t speaking to a fellow medical professional.

“Protection, Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation,” she rattled off, as if listing the ingredients for a cake. Noticing the panicked expression in Claire’s widened eyes, the doctor handed her an information booklet.

“The main thing is no heat, alcohol, massage or strenuous activity. Rest, Ms Carleton. You’ll be fine in a day or so.” She began tapping words into the computer and Claire wondered if she had been dismissed.

“And the pain?” Two hours sitting in the Milton Keynes A&E waiting room, watching small children come in screaming and leaving sobbing, had numbed Claire’s pain to a dull roar.

“Over-the-counter medicine should be fine. Paracetamol for the first day or so, to let it heal. Then ibuprofen. Codeine if it’s severe. No alcohol.”

You said that already, you silly cow. I get it. No G&T to ease the misery. Great.

“How about food?” Claire had no idea what time it was, but it had to be at least mid-afternoon. The two-hour wait had been followed by a trip to X-Ray and a further wait to see the doctor.

“You can eat, if you feel like it. It’s only a sprained wrist, Ms Carleton. Book an appointment to see your GP if it isn’t improving after a week.”

This time the dismissal was clear. Claire thanked the doctor, gathered her bag, and headed out to the waiting room. The First Aider at the snow dome had sent her to A&E in a taxi, and she had no idea how to get back to her car or whether it would even still be there. Looking down, she realised she was still wearing the snow dome clothing and her things were in a locker at Xscape.

She stood motionless, staring blindly at the rows of faces sat like an audience watching the drama of A&E unfold.

I have to get the car. And get back to the hostel. Except I can’t drive and I don’t know anyone in this stupid town. For the first time in weeks, Claire felt defeated. Without caring who was watching, with no real thought at all, she sunk down into an empty seat and sobbed.

“Are you okay, Miss?”

Claire looked up into the kindly gaze of a young nurse, who had rested her hand on Claire’s shoulder. She tried to control her tears, but the warmth of the touch made them come faster, until she was gulping for air.

The nurse dropped down onto her haunches and looked into Claire’s face. “Can I get you anything?”

Aware of the snot threatening to leak from her nose, and the mascara tracking down her cheeks, Claire smiled through her tears and said, “A tissue?”

The nurse nodded and disappeared from view. She came back with a box of tissues, and sat in the now-vacant chair next to Claire.

Funny how quickly a weeping woman can be alone in a crowd.

The nurse handed over tissues, and sat silent while Claire mopped her face and blew her nose.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened. It’s only a sprained wrist, for goodness sake. Nothing tragic.” She thought about Ruth, and all the time she had spent in hospital with her. Crying over a bandage seemed selfish and uncalled for.

“Sometimes it’s the little things that break us. Do you have anyone I can call, to come and collect you?”

The words made Claire sob again, as she realised the answer was no. Her parents were fully occupied with Ruth, and Robert had gone back to Geneva. She thought about calling Michael, but dismissed the idea. He had finally stopped ringing and it wouldn’t be fair to reignite his hopes, just to get a lift.

She shook her head in answer to the nurse’s question, unable to speak.

“What about a friend, there must be someone?”

Kim. What about Kim? I wonder what it would cost me to get a taxi to her place? I’d have to sleep in the bath. I guess I could go back to the hostel now, and figure it out tomorrow. They’ll probably have towed my car away by that point anyway.

She realised the nurse was waiting for an answer, and gave a weak nod. “Yes, I have someone I can call. I need to get a taxi to my hostel though, is there a taxi rank near here?”

The nurse nodded and gave some directions, clearly relieved to have been able to help. Claire watched her leave, then went out to the lobby and dialled Kim’s number. Please be home.

“Hello, Claire. I was about to call you, you must be psychic. We need to talk about the wedding, I’ve got so many ideas and I want to pick your brains about hostels.”

“Hi, Kim.” Claire’s voice wobbled as she interrupted the flow of happy words, and she was unable to continue.

“Claire, honey, are you okay?”

“No.”

“What is it? Is it Ruth? God, is she alright?”

Kim’s words stabbed at Claire. What am I doing, feeling sorry for myself when my sister has cancer. She took a deep breath and tried to stop the shake in her voice.

“No, Ruth’s okay, as far as I know. It’s me, I sprained my wrist, and I guess I’m feeling a bit fragile. I wondered if you could cope with a visitor for the weekend?”

“Of course! Actually, that’s perfect. Jeff’s away, so we’ll be able to talk babies and weddings without driving him nuts.” She babbled on excitedly, and Claire tried to listen with patience.

Lovely. A weekend of happy families, love, nuptials and procreation. Just what the doctor ordered. She let Kim make arrangements and tried hard to hold back the tears.

***

A Time for Decisions: 2013 365 Challenge #150

Two-Hundred Steps Home

It doesn’t seem possible that this is post 150 of the 365 challenge. How quickly the numbers stack up. If only Claire was racking up hostels as quickly as I have been writing posts. She is currently staying in her 31st hostel, with well over a hundred to go, discounting the bunkhouses and hostels that aren’t open to individuals.

I also sense that Claire’s personal journey might not require her to visit all the hostels, which would result in Two–Hundred Steps Home becoming too much of a travel journal. At over 114,000 words already (now just longer than Dragon Wraiths), the novel isn’t what you’d call pacey! I have two directions in mind for where the series will go, and I probably need to make a decision soon about which road to take.

Both lead to a second, normal-length novel that I would write and publish as I have done Dragon Wraiths (just what I need, another manuscript to join the other unfinished works). In an ideal world I would write that now, alongside the daily one, so people could rush out and buy it on 1st Jan 2014, when there is no more Claire here on the blog.

Ha ha ha ha. Excuse me while I wipe tears of mirth from my eyes.

I have so many projects, the only thing that has priority is feeding the demanding, screaming, baby that is the daily blog. I don’t know what Claire’s going to do today, never mind writing a whole novel of new Claire adventures. And the sequel to Dragon Wraiths. And the new MG one. Plus, of course, editing and publishing the two complete manuscripts sitting patiently on my laptop. No wonder Claire doesn’t know what she’s doing today – her creator is swamped beneath a mound of unfinished projects.

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Claire looked up at the building and wondered which way to go. The dome dominated the skyline in front of her as if it was a true mountain rather than a monstrosity of steel filled with fake snow. Her nerves were already rattled from searching for a parking space: not that the car park was full, but the rainbow of coloured bays confused her.

It’s too early and I haven’t had enough coffee. Was this a good idea? It’s not exactly Val d’Isère. How can it be anything like the real thing, here in Milton Keynes, as far from the mountains as it’s possible to be?

Knowing she had little choice, Claire followed the signs into the building and to her check-in location. If I don’t do something spectacular, Julia’s going to be all over me like hives.

She’d thought about cheating – pretending she had never skied and taking a skiing lesson. I’m pretty sure Carl will remember I went skiing with Michael last November. I don’t need that particular conversation. At least learning to snowboard will be fun and something useful for after I’ve finished this stupid assignment.

A gaggle of children clambered down from a coach nearby, making Claire jump. Their excited shrieking gave her the shivers. I hope they’re going bowling. That’s too much energy to share a slope with.

Memories of skiing flickered in Claire’s mind and she pushed them away. She didn’t want to picture Michael skiing up and showering her in powder before smothering her in kisses. Nor did she want to remember the twelve-year-olds who had swooped round her on the blue runs as if the skis had been on their feet since birth. Much as she had enjoyed skiing, she had to admit she wasn’t a natural.

Claire arrived at the desk and smiled at the young woman waiting to check people in. She received a glittering grin in return, and felt some of the tension seep out of her shoulders. Following the directions, Claire went to pull on her snow trousers and jacket and locate her board. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

“Ow!”

Claire glared at the child who had crashed into her, sending her sprawling in the snow.

“Sorry, Miss, I lost my balance.”

Fairness caused Claire to grin. “No apology needed, I’m not exactly getting the hang of it myself.”

“You’re doing great, Miss.”

The boy flipped onto his feet, tilted his board, and sailed off down the slope. Claire looked round, trying to work out how to get to her feet with as much elegance. She ached and her clothes were wet. This snow is far too real for my liking. Though at least it is soft.

A whoosh behind her signalled the arrival of her coach. He held out an arm and Claire allowed herself to be pulled upright.

“Are you naturally clumsy, or just not awake?”

The words were said with humour but Claire bristled. We can’t all be born graceful.

“I’m used to skis,” she said, defensively, before regretting her words.

“Ah, yes, that figures. Nice safe option. Boring, but much easier.” He raised an eyebrow and Claire felt the ire build in her chest, warming her from the inside.

“I’m not done yet. I’ve only been here an hour.” She gritted her teeth, tilted the board, adjusted her bodyweight as instructed, and headed down the slope. For the first time since arriving she managed to remain upright.

Wow, this is amazing! Okay I begin to understand the hype. The words were barely formed in her mind before she lost her balance and landed heavily in the snow, her arm trapped awkwardly beneath her. Pain flooded through her mind like hot ice, and she screamed.

***

A Life of Make Believe: 2013 365 Challenge #149

Making Butter at Wimpole Home Farm

How much of our past life is made up? How much pure fiction sits in our minds masquerading as fact? This has been puzzling me today. Not just today, actually, but for a long time. I remember hubbie watching some TV drama about a device you could wear that recorded every detail of your life. He thought it was brilliant. Disputed conversations would be a thing of the past. You could relive your best moments. I thought how awful.

I believe humans have a unique way to rewrite the past and, on the whole, that’s a good thing.

Most of the time.

That said, the ability to rewrite our memories can also be dangerous to ourselves or upsetting to others. Dangerous if, like me, history is written as seen through a dark cloud. I remember the last four years as mostly struggle and sobbing. Even today, when I met a friend and her kids at a new farm and then took my two to see their Grandad: A great day. But my memory is of me sobbing from tiredness and frustration, of the long traffic queues and being late. Of always, somehow, getting it wrong.

I also remember that I stopped crying and turned a disaster into an adventure, that the kids were super-happy to see Grandad and sat beautifully quiet in the traffic jam watching TV programmes on the iPads. Both stories are true. I need to make sure the right version of events gets written to the hard drive in my brain.

I found out about the upsetting part of invented memories at the weekend. Mum was talking about holidays we went on as kids in the South of France. I only have a few scattered memories of those holidays and it turns out even those are garbled. (For example I remember ridged tents, Mum says we stayed in caravans).

One-Day-Old Piglets

Mum got particularly upset when I didn’t remember it was her who took us on a particular day trip – in my mind it was Dad. I can understand why she was upset, as my parents split in an acrimonious divorce. And because every mother wants to think her efforts are remembered with gratitude. Or at least remembered accurately.

I think the problem for me – the reason I have few memories of childhood – isn’t because it was all awful (as I used to think must be the case) but because the memories weren’t consolidated with repetition and evidence.

Memories are only stories we tell ourselves about our lives. Snapshots, Flash Fiction. If we remembered every minute of every day our brains would explode. So we tell ourselves stories, and share them with others. I often sit with the kids and go through photos, reminding them of things we’ve done. At bed time we talk through the fun bits of the day, or those events are retold to Daddy or the staff at nursery. In that way we write and rewrite the memories until it is the re-living rather than the event that sticks.

Old memories can be rewritten in the same way, I think. Our past edited, touched up, like an Instagram photograph. My grandma apparently did nothing but moan about my grandpa while he lived. After he died she rewrote her memories and made the man a saint. I think, eventually, she came to believe her rewritten stories, however hard it was for others to hear her fictions.

Hopefully that means one day I’ll sit with a photo album and remember happy childhoods – mine and my kids’ – and I’ll rewrite or erase the dark parts. What’s the point of being a writer if you can’t write your own stories with a Happy Ever After?

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Claire pulled the steering wheel down and negotiated the roundabout, trying to ignore the horns that accompanied her journey through rush-hour traffic. Oh do shut up. So I don’t have power steering, or turbo, or anything other than five gears and a steering wheel. You’re not going anywhere; the average speed is twenty miles an hour.

She looked at the satnav and cursed as yet another roundabout appeared on the screen. You’ve got to be kidding. What’s that now? Five? Six? What is it with this town and roundabouts?

Either side of the Skoda silver executive cars jostled for position, ushering her forward like a lamb being escorted to the altar. Claire cursed her impromptu decision to leave the Peak District and head south. The morning trip to the Tourist Information hadn’t revealed anything to rouse her interest and all the hostels in the area were either bunkhouses or ones she had already visited.

It seemed strange, travelling south. It wasn’t as if she’d never been further than Leicester before. Work had involved visiting nearly every county in the UK and she’d spent more than her fair share of time in London.

This is different, though. Whatever lies Carl is telling the rest of the office, I’m no longer Claire Carleton, Associate Director. Now I’m just plain Claire, backpacking round Britain. What does she know about being this far from home?

A knot twisted Claire’s stomach as, at last, the satnav ran out of roundabouts and led her off the dual carriage way. The roads had been flat and uninteresting up until then, but familiar, with the ribbons of tarmac and the towering motorway lights. Now, she drove into what looked like a housing estate, only to drive past the houses onto a country lane.

Goodness, Milton Keynes is a place of surprises. Oh look, another bloomin roundabout. At least this one is only tiny, even if there is a tree in the middle of it.

Ahead, indigo and grey storm clouds built on the horizon, while the sun shone briefly behind her. The tree-lined lane was suddenly illuminated, as if God had turned on the studio lights. The contrast of storm and sun took Claire’s breath away.

I didn’t expect to see anything beautiful in this concrete jungle. Isn’t Milton Keynes only famous for roundabouts and concrete cows?

The road meandered past an old red-brick wall framing a white five-bar gate, then red-brick cottages, huddled by the road like old men on a bench watching the world go by. Claire drove past two village pubs, facing each other across the road, before the satnav finally announced, “You have reached your destination.”

In front of her, overlooking a green, was a charming old farmhouse surrounded by a smart black iron fence. Claire drove through the gateway and came to a halt on the gravel.

“Well I never.” Looking up at the old building, Claire thought how little you could tell about a place from its reputation. If you’d have asked me whether I would rather stay in Milton Keynes or put pins in my eyes, I’d say ‘pass the pin’. How wrong can you be?

With a broad smile, Claire pulled her rucksack from the back seat and headed into the hostel.

***

Bank Holiday Bliss: 2013 365 Challenge #148

Daughter and friends

Today is Bank Holiday Monday in the UK. Generally I dislike Bank Holidays because we pay £84 for our kids NOT to go to nursery and – now hubbie is contracting – neither of us get paid unless we’re working.

Today, though, today was different. I had planned to take the kids to the Farm while hubbie had some quiet time as he’s still recovering from driving us all home from Scotland. However friends invited us to a BBQ in the local park with other families from the children’s nursery.

The sun shone, there was a cool breeze and, when we arrived, one of my daughter’s nursery friends ran over and gave her a huge hug. I feel blessed that my children have good friends who are happy to see them. There were even a couple of staff from the nursery there, so we managed to get a bit of free childcare after all!

The boys enjoying sunshine and pringles

When we were in Scotland, I soaked in the mountains, the lochs, the mature trees and parkland, and I wished I could be with them always. I often think of us relocating somewhere with a bit more geography. The Fens are pretty flat and, even though we’re on the edge so at least have a few trees, it’s a tough place to love.

I grew up by the sea and the rolling south downs, then spent years in Leeds and Manchester, with the Pennines in between. I was near The Lakes and close to Scotland. Now I feel we have traded scenery for family and friends. Days like today, and yesterday when we visited my parents and splashed around in their pool, I remember why we stay. Here we are home. Here we belong.

It doesn’t stop me dreaming that one day I’ll write a bestseller (I know, it’s a far-fetched dream), or the premium bonds will come good, and we’ll be able to buy a holiday home somewhere with geography. A nice little cottage in Cornwall, where I can take the kids for the long vacation and let them know what it means to be near the hills and the sea. To watch the kids paddling in a lake and throwing pebbles. Until then, it’s good to spend time with friends.

(Unfortunately it does mean I’ve been too tired to give Claire proper attention today. I’ve been staring at my computer for hours this evening trying to decide what to write for today’s post. Don’t expect Tolstoy!)

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“Bloody Hell!”

Claire looked at the building stretching away from her through the drizzle. From the description of The Pavilion Gardens she’d figured it was just a greenhouse full of plants and a coffee shop perched on the edge of a park. She’d only come to visit the Tourist Information Centre, hoping to find exciting things to do in the area before Julia got there first.

Those Victorians knew a thing or two about architecture. I can’t believe all this is free. I didn’t think anything was free any more. Claire stood gazing at the sight, until she felt the rain dripping down the gap between her collar and her neck. With a shiver she snapped a picture of the Pavilion for the blog and scurried inside.

It took a few moments for her to get her bearings. This place feels like a maze. I don’t think I’ve got it in me to explore today, thanks to the bag ladies waking me at dawn. Claire read the sign: Art Gallery, Opera House, Restaurant, Conservatory, Tourist information office. Come on, there has to be a café. Caffeine, that’s what’s needed. A sudden stab of guilt made her pause. Why is it my first stop is always the café? There must be more to life than latte? Even the thought left her feeling panicked and shaky.

She scanned the sign again and saw the welcome words ‘coffee shop’. Deciding that the need to warm up after the bitter walk from the car was sufficient excuse, Claire set off in pursuit.

Warm and awake from her drink, Claire wandered through the Victorian conservatory, welcoming the humid atmosphere which snuggled round her like a duvet. Banana trees bobbed alongside vibrant blooms. Up ahead she could see a pond with what looked like metal dinosaurs dotted about. Sky would love this.

“Look Mummy, there’s Boris!”

Claire searched around her, half expecting to see the London Mayor lurking amidst the foliage. Instead she saw a small child with pigtails jumping up and down while pointing into the pond.

Claire chuckled. For some reason imagining Boris as a fish appealed to her sense of humour. She stood watching the girl’s excitement with a smile on her face, until she felt the mother’s stare. She must think I’m a nutter or a stalker. With a flush Claire turned away, eager to find the Tourist Information Centre and get on with her day.

***

Alive and Crazy: 2013 365 Challenge #147

Inchcailloch island

We arrived back from Scotland at 1am this morning, after heroic hubbie drove through the night to minimise the amount of turned-round parenting I had to do in the car. The journey up wasn’t hellish, but we did learn why most people with preschoolers choose to travel at night.

The holiday was great. I have to take my husband’s word for that because a combination of lack of sleep and chatty children means I spent proportions of it in tears and therefore assume I ruined the whole week for everybody. It’s hard to keep perspective when you’re under a cloud.

I’ll probably write bits about the holiday now we are back and have access to the pictures. Scotland was beautiful and did us proud, with fabulous weather nearly every day. I managed to get sunburnt on the last day, just to feel like it was a proper holiday!

Paddling in Loch Lomond

Today, though, I wanted to write about my crazy husband and his crazy schemes, and why we work as a couple. Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I wonder why he puts up with me, with my tears and tantrums, self loathing and self doubt.

And then he does something like he did today. Which was spend £8,000 on a whim. Knowing I wouldn’t bat an eyelid. Which I didn’t.

I might lose sleep over dropping a pound coin or paying too much to get into a safari park or worry about £5 paninis at the service station. But the big things, for some reason that’s okay. It’s an investment and I have faith in him that it will pay off. Besides, he says he feels alive, for the first time in far too long. You can’t put a price on that.

My water baby

The way it happened is this. Hubbie has needed a project for a long time. He’s been caught in the family trap, not knowing how much of his own life he is allowed, with young children demanding his attention. Hubbie likes projects, the bigger the better. He doesn’t go to the pub, attend football matches or play golf. He likes to build things and spend/make money.

So far his projects (since I married him) have all been house related: a shed, a garage, a loft extension, a new office. Recently though he’s wanted something for him. After watching too much Wheeler Dealer he decided to get a new engine for his Caterham Seven. A few hundred quid, a nice project for someone who might be out of work by Friday if his contract isn’t renewed. Sorted.

Then this morning, while the kids were clambering all over him and talking incessantly, he asked if he could spend ten grand on an investment. I said as long as it pays back in three months, fine. Turned out instead of buying an engine he decided to buy a whole car: a racing Caterham Seven to be precise. Got it for a bargain too.

And that’s why we’re still married. I might sweat the small stuff far more than I should. But when it counts, I say things like “do you want to watch the football?” and “you sit down, I’ll cook dinner,” and occasionally, “of course you can buy a car.”

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Claire curled over towards the window and buried her nose in the pillow. This is meant to be an all-female dorm. Why am I stuck with two snorers and a person who farts like a lager lout loaded with kebab? Screwing her earplugs in tighter, Claire fumbled under the covers for her phone. 4a.m. What the…?

The snoring from the bunk beneath resonated through Claire’s mattress, undermining the work of the earplugs. I guess there’s a limit to what they can do against that industrial sawing noise. Swallowing her frustration, Claire pulled the duvet over her head and tried to return to her dream. It had been a rather pleasant one, featuring a leading man that was a morph of Josh and Anthony. Josh’s personality and Anthony’s availability.

She smiled, pulling the images back into her head to encourage her dream-self to return to the same place. The snoring beneath her subsided and Claire exhaled.

At least they won’t be up early.

The sound of doom-laden rap over a bass beat dragged Claire from slumber. She lay in the pool of light seeping through the curtains, trying to figure out what Eminem was doing in her dream. He’s not romantic hero material, even if his lyrics are rather clever. What’s more intriguing is what he’s doing in my head. She lay considering the problem for several moments before a surge of activity beneath her drew her attention to the real source of the music.

“Bugger. Sorry!”

The hissing whisper was loud enough that Eminem probably heard it across the Atlantic. More fumbling was followed by the blissful cessation of noise, as the girl located her phone.

Claire dropped her head into the pillow with a groan and tried to return to sleep.

Strange time for a phone call. I hope she’s had the sense to turn that damn phone off now. The bunk beneath her began to pitch and rock, like a small boat in a choppy sea, and Claire felt a sigh escape before she could swallow it. She tensed, waiting for retaliation against her obvious displeasure, but it didn’t come. The girl in the bunk below continued to mutter in a strident whisper.

With a shiver of fear, Claire wondered if the girl was entirely sane or sober. Then she realised the whispering was directed at the occupants of the other beds.

“Come the heck on, girls. We’re going to miss the bloody bus.”

The words were followed by a nerve-tingling sound that Claire identified as the rustling of a plastic bag. She lay motionless in the darkness, waiting for the awful sound to stop.

It’s six in the morning. Surely you’re not packing now, if you’re leaving today? Apparently they were.

One by one, the five women slid, climbed or fell from their beds and began rummaging in plastic bags until Claire thought she might scream. Her skin felt raw, like it had been scrubbed with wire wool.

The harder the women tried to be quiet the louder they became. I should just tell them I’m awake. The thought revolved in Claire’s head, but somehow the words would not come out. Instead she lay in rigid silence, praying for the noise to stop so she could go back to sleep.

When I have my own hostel I think I’ll ban plastic bags. Or introduce a curfew. Maybe I’ll have quiet rooms, like the quiet coaches on the train, where there can be no silly alarms, no packing before 9am and definitely no snoring. Well, maybe I can’t enforce the last one, but the free ear plugs will help.

Trapped in the murky world between sleep and wakefulness, Claire wondered where the hostel ideas kept popping up from. When this assignment is over I’ll be perfectly happy if I never see a hostel again as long as I live.

***

The Squawking Tree: 2013 365 Challenge #146

The gorgeous Scottish hills from my friend’s house

I’ve been having some crazy dreams while on holiday. I think it’s the rock-hard bed. I’m sleeping on a pile of duvets like Princess and the Pea and I’m clearly of royal blood because, even through the towering pile of softness, the bed is hard enough to keep me awake.

Last night I dreamed that a friend and I took our manuscripts to a publishers together and mine was put forward when hers wasn’t. It ought to have been a happy dream but instead it reminded me of many uncomfortable moments in my own life. With each academic milestone, when I should have been elated at my own achievements, the moment was clouded by a friend’s disappointment. GCSEs, A Levels, degree: In each instance, I got top marks and a friend didn’t. So instead of bouncing with joy for my A Grades, my First, I was embarrassed and tried to conceal my results, while consoling various friends’ unexpected Es, Fs, 2:2s.

This has all come to light again, I think, because we went to visit a friend of my father’s who lives close to our holiday location in Scotland. I haven’t seen him since we scattered my Father’s ashes seven years ago. He hasn’t changed. Visiting him and his house was like having a chance to see what my Dad would have been like had he lived. Talking to him was a bit like talking to Dad, and double edged for the same reasons.

Even though Dad’s friend was impressed at my writing achievements (after hubbie listed them, while I sat red-faced and silent) he said something later that showed his true feelings. We were talking about my Masters degree. He seemed disappointed that I didn’t crown my first class honours degree with a distinction for my masters. (I was close to getting top marks, but losing my Dad and getting married the year my dissertation was due didn’t help my grades).

My Dad and his friend as boys

He then went on to question why I wasn’t some hot-shot Board Director with all the qualifications I have, instead of “wasting my time scribbling” (his words). I thought hubbie was going to explode. I shrugged off the comment, having heard it before, and having learned to be comfortable with that particular decision – I’m not made to be a director: I’m rubbish at office politics.

It got me thinking, though, about how miserable I make myself by constantly comparing myself to other people’s expectations. Talking about it with hubbie, I came to the conclusion that I am a product of my parents – both of them were one of three kids and each bore the burden of being compared unfavourably to elder siblings. Both then found themselves caring for ungrateful parents later in life, while the favoured siblings vanished and did nothing. Nothing like martyrdom to leave you bitter.

So I learned martyrdom and feelings of inferiority (I’m very good at both!). I feel like my parents, and their parents, are all squawking crows sitting above me in a giant tree, shrieking their nonsense at me. All the clamouring voices in my head are theirs. When I feel the disapproval of my friends, or worry I don’t live up to their expectations, it is the fear and worry of my noisy family tree filling my head. Beneath it all I believe in my choices and am happy with them.

It’s a useful analogy. I don’t want my kids to have to roost in that tree, though it’s probably too late, particularly for my eldest child. They are a product of me. But if I can fly off and roost somewhere quiet, maybe just maybe they won’t have that noise clamouring in their heads all their lives.

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Claire looked up at the glorious building, set in parkland, and smiled. She was glad to leave the trees and the rain and the smell of horses behind. All she wanted was a hot bath or shower and something alcoholic to send her into the land of nod.

She walked through check-in like a zombie, nodding in the right places and scrawling her name on the paperwork. She regretted the lack of a private room but, if the outside of the hostel was anything to go by, the dorms would be lovely.

Claire opened the door to her room, then stepped out to double-check the number. There must be some mistake. She checked the paper in her hand. It was definitely the right room.

She stared at the chaos, trying to make sense of it. The floor was barely visible beneath a litter of clothes, plastic bags, stray shoes and other paraphernalia. A bra hung from the nearest bunk bed. The top bunk seemed to be occupied, although Claire wasn’t sure if it was a body or a crumpled duvet.

This can’t be right. There isn’t room for a mouse to move in here, never mind an extra person.

Eventually, like a Where’s Wally puzzle, Claire spotted an unoccupied bunk near the window. She was surprised it was free – usually the beds under the window were taken first – until she realised the curtains were so thin the morning light would illuminate the bed like a spotlight. Something about the state of the room suggested to Claire that these girls were not early risers.

A memory from early in her trip intruded on Claire’s thoughts. Those bloody Swedish girls. That’s all I need. I wonder if it’s too late to get a different room. She backed out and headed down to reception.

“Sorry love, the last bed was taken just after you arrived. Is there a problem?”

Claire thought about the stench of clashing body sprays, the comatose body huddled under a duvet at 5pm, the general clutter and chaos. I guess that’s hostelling, I’ll just have to write a post about it.

“No, there’s no problem. I’m a light sleeper and the free bed is by the window, that’s all.”

“I can lend you an eye mask if you like?”

Claire was touched by the offer, but shook her head. “No need, I have one, thank you, and ear plugs.” Like airplane freebies, without the glamorous destination to look forward to. She sighed, then a thought sparked in her mind.

Actually, hostels should do that. How much nicer would some people find their hostelling experience if they discovered the wonders of ear plugs? You could have a little packet on each bed with the sheets; maybe get the eye masks sponsored by local businesses so they don’t cost anything. If I ever have my own hostel, that’s what I’ll do.

***

Let it Go: 2013 365 Challenge #145

Preschool Chicks

Matt Haig, author of The Humans, recently ran a hashtag on Twitter asking people to give their best piece of advice to the human race. It’s worth a look at #thehumans, as there were some great nuggets of wisdom.

I liked, “Walk the wavy line between self control and abandon. Try not to fall over. Much.”

My advice was:

Learn to live life as dogs and children do: live in the moment, love openly, forgive willingly, laugh often

I really should learn to follow my own advice. Today I am struggling with one of my biggest faults, a severe inability to let it go. I hang on to mistakes, especially my own mistakes, forever. Particularly if it is something I feel I should have done and didn’t (like not buying my dad a heater, when he then died of pneumonia.)

Today’s gut-twisting mistake is not putting my children into a certain preschool when I had a chance two years ago (I know, get a grip, right?). We visited it, my daughter didn’t like the woman running it, and we never went back. Even though I heard good things about it. I did consider it, I even contacted them a few months ago, when we couldn’t afford our current childcare after hubbie was made redundant and we had to reduce our days. A lot of family stress came from that reduction in childcare, and some of it might have been avoided if I had moved the kids to the new (cheaper) preschool.

Blowing Bubbles at Nursery

I lie awake at night all the time worrying about childcare, because I have so much choice. It doesn’t matter when I write. I don’t work shifts or have a boss to fit around. I need two or three days a week to keep on top of housework and work on my blog/novels/marketing. And to stay sane, away from the endless chatter and squabbling of a house of preschoolers. And there are lots of options, although none are cheap. When you’re not earning, that’s definitely a factor! I churn the options round and round until my head aches and I’m no nearer to a solution.

Anyway, it’s an old discussion. Today we visited preschools to choose one for my son, when my daughter goes to primary school in September. Nursery is not only very expensive, it is quite a small environment. I want space for Aaron to run and run, preferably outdoors.

We visited two preschools, the first near the primary school, so uber convenient, the other the one mentioned above. It’s in a village hall, surrounded by a large lawn and playground. It’s perfect. But, being me, I didn’t think, “Hurrah, we’ve chosen a great preschool for September and the kids want to start straight away, and they have a forest school and so much quiet space, it’s wonderful.” Instead of all that positivity, I’m mostly thinking, “why didn’t I try harder to get Amber in two years ago. It’s cheaper, nicer, there’s more space, etc etc.” (Not helped by Amber telling me she wants to go to forest school, which isn’t possible!)

I hope my Learning Happiness as a Second Language book will also help me learn the art of Letting Go. Live in the moment, love openly, forgive willingly (especially myself), laugh often.

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Claire ran her eye down the list of links on the website and sighed. This is wearing thin. Go Ape – done that; country parks – done that; Spa Day – not allowed even if it is tempting; narrow-gage railway – done that though worth mentioning on the blog; country house – done that. Looks like I’m going to have to wait for Julia’s email after all. The only thing on the list that could be considered a high-adrenalin activity was karting, and Claire decided she’d sooner resign.

There must be something new to do in Sherwood Forest. Her mind filled with images of men in tights hiding in the trees and the words of the song “Robin Hood” began to play in her head.

Right, so what is Robin Hood famous for? Archery? That’s a possibility. Or what about horse riding? A nice gentle hack through the trees might be nice. A quick search on the internet threw up several possibilities and Claire was soon booked up.

There we go, Julia, no need for you to lower yourself to the task at all. It’s all in hand. Though I don’t think plodding through the trees on a pony is going to humiliate me quite enough for you. Tough.

Claire stared between the horse’s ears at the rump of the pony in front, and tried not to cry. Her legs hurt, her bum hurt and, thanks to a moment’s inattention, her head hurt where she’d ridden into a low-slung branch. So much for a relaxing hack through the woods. The worst part was being the eldest in the group by more than a decade. Claire hadn’t enquired what group she’d be joining and it turned out to be a bunch of teenagers on some Outward Bound expedition.

Head low, Claire let the horse find its own path through the forest and tried to enjoy the sound of bird song and the occasional sight of snow drops deep beneath the trees. After an hour even the teenage chatter began to diminish. Through the foliage around her, Claire could sense the sky darkening and the humidity rising.

It’s going to rain. Bugger. I really must get in the habit of checking the forecast. She pulled up the collar of her coat and wished she’d thought to put the hood up underneath her hard hat.

Well, Julia, is this miserable enough for you? Hunching her shoulders, Claire was reminded of a character in one of Sky’s story books about a sulking vulture called Boris. The thought made her smile briefly, but the feeling didn’t last long.

The temperature plummeted as the sun disappeared behind a charcoal grey cloud, hovering it seemed only metres above the trees. There was a pause, then heavy rain drops began to splatter through the leaves.

Claire felt as if she’d fallen into the percussion section of the orchestra pit. The rain splashing on her hard hat syncopated with the clopping of the hooves on the path and the whistle of the wind through the trees.

The horse in front of her stopped and Claire craned her neck to see the problem. Horses had gathered in a group at the front and she wondered if someone had fallen off or been injured. I can’t imagine any of these plod-a-longs bucking. More likely someone fell asleep from boredom and slid off.

A whisper came back along the line to Claire. The teenager on the pony in front didn’t turn and share it with her, but she got the general gist. We’re lost.

Claire gave a quick kick to the ribs of her beast and on the third attempt it shuffled forwards, past the gaggle of teenagers. Eventually she drew alongside the guide, a woman no older than Claire, who was staring at a tatty piece of now-soggy paper, turning it this way and that.

“Are we lost?”

Claire didn’t mean to sound so accusatory, but cold and fatigue sharpened her voice. The girl looked up, her face woebegone. She nodded slightly without making eye contact.

“How can we be lost? Surely you know the route like the back of your hand? We’re not in the Amazon rainforest.”

“I’m new. This is the first time I’ve taken a group out on my own. I’m used to riding on the downs, these trees make me claustrophobic.”

Claire swore under her breath. I feel a hundred years old. There clearly wasn’t any point bothering with the sodden map. She pulled out her phone and prayed for signal. Luck was on her side. Frowning over the screen, trying to shield it from the rain, she fathomed the general direction of the stables.

“We need to head that way.” She pointed through the trees, but the rain had reduced visibility to almost zero. Shouting over the gathering wind, Claire added, “Though I don’t know how we find a path through this.”

The guide shouted back, her facing losing some of its gloom.

“Sorry?” Claire yelled.

“I said the ponies will find their way home, if we point them the right way.”

Claire nodded, then signalled for the guide to lead on. She let the teenagers past, and took up position at the rear again – this time to watch for stragglers rather than to mope.

Only I could come on a pony trek with the clueless newbie. Thank you evil genie Carl and your handmaiden Julia. I don’t know how you arranged it, but you managed to inject adrenalin even into this.

***

Photographs: 2013 365 Challenge #144

Dad and his first garage

I went up in the loft recently, searching for pictures of my sister doing gymnastics (for this post) and I came across an album, almost forgotten, of the end of my time in New Zealand. I was going to put the album back when I decided to take a few snaps with the iPad and post the pictures to Facebook in case they were ones my friends hadn’t seen for a while.

I love photographs. I take thousands. I love the digital age where there is no limit to how many we can take. However there is a downside. It’s unlikely I’ll ever stumble across an album of fifty snaps that tell a story in the same way as the one I found today. Now they’re all on the computer and there aren’t fifty, there are five thousand at least. Plus they’re all muddled so I can never find the one I want.

My Grandma, Dad and Uncles

One day, in the not too distant future, the hard drive will degrade and they’ll be gone forever. What will my children flick through, when I’m gone, and discover a life they don’t remember?

Photographs are so important to remind us of the truth of our past. I found pictures of me happy at school, me thin and brown, me doing crazy things like skydiving and canyoning. Pictures of friends whose names I’ve forgotten but were precious back then. Places I’ve forgotten, lives I’ve lived.

Occasionally I find photographs of the kids I don’t remember taking or that hubbie took. I find them by accident in a random folder. My precious memories. But there are too many to sort, too many to print, too many to choose from.

Grandma and Grandpa

When I travelled round NZ for three months I took about 10 rolls of film. Around 400 photographs in total. I chose each shot with care and wrote down where it was taken. They’re all labelled in an album and it’s one of my greatest treasures. Now the only way I can catalogue is by date taken and even that only works if the date on the camera was right.

I look at pictures of my grandma and grandpa, and my father when he was younger: all posed and beautiful and precious for their rarity. Maybe that was better than a million photos cataloguing my children’s every move. That said, I wouldn’t be without my various cameras for an instant. These early years of parenting are such a blur, I need the photos to be my memory. But maybe, just maybe, I should take slightly fewer of them.

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Claire looked up at the hostel building and felt a sense of calm. No more cooking, no more sitting like a lemon in a tiny lounge, trying not to feel like the girl that time forgot.

The hostel spread out in front of her – a bespoke built red-brick building. It looked more like a Travelodge than the YHA buildings she had stayed in recently. I guess it lacks charm, but I bet it more than makes up for that in facilities. Even if it does look a bit like a rocket ship about to depart.

As she headed to her room, Claire’s mood continued to rise. A sense of newness permeated the building. Each bunk had a neatly folded sheet, pillow and duvet placed in the centre of the bed. Long-since used to making her bed before sleeping in it, Claire only saw the organisation and happy anonymity of it all. Just what I need to get back into the swing of my challenge, before Carl gets on my case.

Her phone rang. Oh bugger, I bet that’s Carl, summoned like an evil genie.

She put the handset to her ear, waiting to hear her boss’s angry tones down the line.

“Hi Claire, it’s Julia. Thought I ought to check in on your progress.”

Great. The evil genie has sent his handmaiden. I would have preferred the master, he’s easier to discomfort.

“Jules, hi, how are things in the shiny world of AJC?”

Claire could sense the teeth-gnashing that her use of ‘Jules’ had triggered. She also knew that Julia wouldn’t rise to the bait. Not immediately. She would have to try harder.

“I’ve just been having coffee with the head of Live Recordings at the BBC.” Or something like that. Bumbling idiot, but she doesn’t need to know the details. “Charming fellow. I met him in Lincoln Cathedral. You’ll read about it on the blog later. I assume you do keep up to date, so you can report back to Carl my every move?”

Not letting Julia speak was bound to be whipping her temper up to a fever-pitch. Claire wondered if she could keep up the endless prattle, but she was tired and wanted the conversation done with.

“That’s why I called.” Julia dropped her words into the gap like hot bricks. “Carl says there hasn’t been anything interesting on the blog for weeks. I’m sure there’s no excuse to be hiding behind a doctor’s note or a sick sister any longer. It’s time to start earning your wages instead of coasting around have a jolly.”

It was Claire’s turn to grind her teeth. She is trying to goad you. Do. Not. Rise to it. Or maybe she is just an insensitive cow. Either way, hold your tongue. Claire took a steadying breath and re-entered the fray.

“No worries, Jules. I’m in Sherwood Forest. There’s bound to be something here that will be suitable. Or you could save me the bother and whiz over one of your oh-so-helpful emails. Actually, yes, why don’t you do that, Jules? Then you can earn your wages.”

She hung up the phone, before the PA could retaliate, and leaned against the wall. Her heart beat double time, knowing there would be fallout from insulting Julia. A Director’s PA didn’t fetch and carry at the behest of a mere underling, particularly not one in the bad books as she seemed to be. When will this farce be done? Maybe it’s time I put an end to it. The Maldives would be lovely at this time of year. The thought didn’t make her soul sing as it usually did.

Claire looked round the utilitarian room, with matching bunks and plain blue carpet, and wondered when the idea of hot sandy beaches and sparkling blue sea had ceased to have a pull on her heart.

***