Advice versus Instinct: 2013 365 Challenge #164

My little man growing up

Yesterday’s post on private versus state education sparked an interesting discussion, and it got me thinking about parenting and advice. It is natural to ask others for advice when you’re unsure, or facing a major decision in your life. I, especially, like to seek a myriad of opinions before forming my own.

Maybe it’s the academic in me: I tend to ‘research’ things. Maybe it the Libran in me (if you follow star signs) – forever sitting on the fence. I can’t buy a vacuum cleaner or book a hotel without reading ALL the reviews, until I can’t reconcile between the one-stars and the five-stars and I no longer have any idea what my own opinion is.

Well, that’s okay. If it’s a rubbish vacuum cleaner or a crappy holiday, learn and move on.

The problem with parenting is that the need for advice is HUGE and there are many many people to ask for guidance. But, unlike a vacuum cleaner, the product isn’t the same for them as for me. Their children are not my children, their lives are not my lives. Their upbringings, local areas, houses, family, careers, husbands, wives, great-aunt Noras are not mine.

This is normal, right?

And so, while their advice is helpful, it can be only that. Which is fine, when you are rested, and calm and in control of your own sanity.

There have been times, though, when I haven’t trusted my own judgement, and I have taken other people’s advice too much to heart. Forgetting, of course, that their kids are not my kids, and so on…

It has taken me five years and much heartache to get to a point where I trust myself, my knowledge of my children and my values, to make parenting decisions by myself rather than by committee.

The education debate is a classic example. Don’t get me wrong: I love the discussion it generated and I genuinely value every response. But it didn’t make my decision any easier, because every single situation is different. I have access to a fee-paying non-(overtly)-religious co-ed school. My state schools are amazing (in this ten-square-mile area I am blessed to call home) and so on. The best piece of advice was provided by Miss Fanny P, and is applicable to all parenting decisions:

i) as a parent you always get it wrong 😉
ii) however hard you try they will get to 13/14 and tell you they are in the wrong school and it’s all your fault
iii) they all do get there in the end.

These are things to remember in every situation. Add, ‘Remember to smile’, and you’re done. 🙂

And of course there’s a difference between solicited and unsolicited advice. As a new parent, I had equal amounts of both! Sometimes I wanted sympathy without solutions, but it is human nature to fix. I do it myself, ALL THE TIME. I hate myself. When a mother is having problems with sleep or feeding, I wade in: even though I never solved those things myself.

My beautiful, stubborn, boy

The same is true now with potty training. I had a whinge on Facebook a while back (I may even have asked for advice, which was silly) and the comment list was endless. Including someone who recommended I take my child out of nursery for two weeks and put him on the toilet every half hour. Goodness me. Just thinking of taking my child out of childcare for that long gives me the shivers, never mind battling him on to the toilet like that.

This evening he had the screaming heebies because I tried to carry him to the toilet when he declared he was ‘having a poo’ sitting on our beautifully embroidered piano stool.

Thankfully he seems to have more or less taken to potty training by himself, despite my huge reservations when nursery put him in pants against my wishes. We had a few more accidents than with my eldest, but then I think nursery started him a few weeks too early. I had to go with it and now I’m glad I did, but I have to admit they did most of the hard work on the two days a week that he’s with them. And that’s because he doesn’t fight them the way he fights me!

I had a clear idea for this post (I asked hubbie for a topic and he said ‘potty training’) but it seems to have turned into a random ramble. Apologies. It’s been a long day. But one without any potty training ‘accidents’. Hurrah! Long may it continue. If only choosing a school and knowing we’ve made the right choice were that easy! 🙂 Thanks again for all your views.

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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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“So, the eco lodge it is.”

Claire sighed and sipped at her second latte. Her side-trip to the Motorway Services to buy coffee had made her next destination inevitable. Although, with nothing to fill her day except getting to her next location and finding an activity, there was no real reason to go to the nearest hostel.

I could be in Scotland by tea-time if I wanted to. But she knew her brief was to travel as a visitor might, and that meant hopping from hostel to hostel, with one eye on the petrol-gauge and the other on the budget.

The National Forest hostel held little appeal. Any place that sought to reduce the effect of her stay on the environment screamed lack of creature comforts in too loud a voice. It ticked another one off the list, though, and that meant she was one step nearer freedom.

Claire looked at the building ahead of her through tired eyes. It wasn’t what she was expecting. Where were the trees, for a start. This is the National Forest. I expected a building hidden by dark pines, with no sight of the sky. Not this blank-faced brick pile on the edge of a field.

The building itself looked like a Travelodge. It was so far the other end of the scale from Stratford-Upon-Avon’s Georgian mansion it made her soul ache. Well, Claire, this is what you get for letting gin rule your life. If you’d kept your clothes on you would still be surrounded by historic grandeur.

With a heavy heart, Claire swung her car into the driveway. At least it’s new and clean, I guess. Not the straw-bale and lime building I expected an eco hostel to be.

Claire’s expectations were further stretched as she parked and entered the building. Modern furnishings, bright décor and clean lines spread out around her. It wasn’t dissimilar to the interior of Stratford. I guess that’s the YHA brand. Bland and clean.

In her room the bunks had drawers underneath for belongings, and there was an ensuite wet room. No hole in the ground or shack out back with cold showers.

You’d think by now I would learn not to give in to expectations.

The manager had let her leave her bag in the room but, as it was only 10am, she needed to vacate for the day. His recommendation was that she go llama trekking. Claire managed to swallow her immediate response and nod, as if that might be the perfect way to spend the day after waking at dawn with a strange man in her bed.

Locating the rather small self-catering kitchen, Claire made herself a mug of earl grey and curled up on the sofa, prepared to spend her day with Katniss. She didn’t want time to think.

“Claire! It is Claire, isn’t it?”

With a thudding heart, Claire looked up at the sound of the voice. Memories of the night before intruded without permission and her stomach tightened. She didn’t recognise the woman approaching her across the room, but the smile on her face was encouraging.

“Don’t you remember me? It’s Maggie.”

Claire recalled the woman who had tramped with her to buy gingerbread, and felt her face respond in a mirroring grin.

***

Evaluating Education: 2013 365 Challenge #163

If my children go to a private school will I have to learn to iron?

I received a prospectus for our nearest public (private, fee-paying) junior school in the post today. Our daughter is enrolled in the state school and due to start in September, but I read it anyway because, why not? I’ll tell you why not! It took us long enough to choose the right primary school, without bending the brain yet further.

We’ve often talked of sending our kids to private school at some point. It would stretch us financially, but so does sending them to nursery so I can write (and they can make friends). You make your choices. Cheaper cars and holidays, no dinners out or weekends away, clothes from charity shops. Easy choices, actually, as they’re not things that bother us too much. But I’d always figured there wasn’t much point paying for education at 4 years old when there’s a perfectly good primary school funded by our tax (well, hubbie’s anyway!)

Our discussions about private education have never been straight forward, either. It’s not just the money. What if our children became ashamed of us and our concrete-coated ex-Council house? What if Mummy has to start shopping at Boden and wearing make up on the school run? What if an old car isn’t good enough? Would I need a Chelsea Tractor to fit in?

My little princess

I remember childhood embarrassment. Hiding in the foot-well as Dad dropped us off in his latest rusty yellow banger or when my stepdad picked us up from the school disco in his dressing gown and clogs. I was never embarrassed of them as people, though, or of our house. It would never occur to me not to invite someone home.

I do remember the chagrin of not having the same possessions or going on skiing holidays. I remember a whole school year of enduring taunting from a child several years younger than me, the grandson of my mum’s boss, who’d been put in state school after years of private education. He used to tell everyone I was his Grandmother’s secretary’s daughter, in that plummy voice that made me want to hit him.

What if I felt like that about my own children? I’ve battled insecurity and a lack of belonging all my life, and I dearly want my children to have a different experience. That’s the lure of a private education. The attention, the sport and music, the extra curricular activities, all help children find their niche and excel in it. That gives confidence and contentment that lasts well beyond the relevance of academic grades.

I see it time and again, comparing the friends with at least some private education versus those with none. Who wouldn’t want that for their child?

I’d have to learn to wear a mask over my foot-in-mouth honesty

But will my insecurities mean I suffer and they suffer with me? Will I lose my sense of belonging with my Mummies community, so they can find their place in the world? And should that stop us? Just reading the prospectus left me torn. Because that belonging starts right at the beginning. It says “there is no assessment for Reception year”, which implies there is after that. We might decide we can afford the school in a year or two, only to have them reject us and our child.

There are other factors too. Reading one of the ‘Related Articles’ below, suggested by WordPress, there are arguments I haven’t even considered.

Is it right to perpetuate the class divide by sending our children to a private school? Will they get a sense of entitlement, rather than learning that hard work is the only way to get results in life? I would still want them to work in the summer holidays, as I did, but would that fit with their life/friends/social engagements? It’s a tricky decision and one that will never be straightforward.

We all want the best for our kids. If only we knew what that was.

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Claire tapped some commands into the SatNav and continued driving. Her throat begged for water, dry to the point it was hard to swallow. Inside her pulsing brain, her thoughts raged through the pain.

What is wrong with me? My best friend is practically a wife and mother, and I’m still doing the walk of shame at 5am.

Her cheeks burned as the events of the last twelve hours ran through her mind in unwelcome clarity. While Kim has a career, a man who loves her and a baby on the way, what have I got? She glanced around the inside of her car. A rusty old Skoda that’s my only travelling companion, a boss that wants to sack me, and a daily blog that needs more attention than a new-born brat.

Following the monotone instructions from the small plastic box attached to her windscreen, Claire tried to ignore the stream of self-loathing pouring into her mind. It didn’t work.

I wanted to stay at that gorgeous hostel for a few days. Visit Stratford, maybe take in a play. She thought about the programme to As You Like It tucked into her handbag, picked up from the hostel reception. The manager had informed her that she would probably be able to get a Monday night ticket, if she didn’t mind where she sat.

Instead I go and ruin it by getting semi-naked with a complete stranger. Not to mention bouncing on a bunk-bed in a single-sex dorm. I’ll be lucky if they don’t revoke my YHA membership.

Attempting to stop the torrent of thoughts with rationality, Claire tried to put the incident into context. Shacking up with total strangers and frolicking with them back in the bedroom was closer to her original impression of what hostelling was all about. But, then, she had pictured flea-infested bedding and filthy facilities. All her initial preconceptions had been proven to be rubbish.

Motorway lights paraded past in a blur, as the dawn dragged the darkness from the sky. Claire willed her eyes to remain open, and concentrated on the road ahead. Her eyes ached from staring out of the alcohol-induced fog filling her skull. At last The SatNav announced her favourite words.

“You have reached your destination.”

Claire looked up at the services. She chose not to think about the fact that she had passed one Starbucks only minutes from the hostel and travelled an additional 20 miles to find one that might be open. Her phone said 5.30am. Please be open.

Collecting her bag and phone and, checking the keys were in her hand, Claire pushed down the lock and slammed the car door.

The services were quiet, with only a few lorries parked in neat rows, and a handful of cars dotted around in careful solitude. The sun was only just thinking about hitting snooze on the alarm, and the sky remained steel-grey. Trees and shrubs added life to the paving and tarmac, and the services building reared up ahead in glass and tile. The words Claire longed to see emblazoned the building to the right of the entrance. All around was an air of peace.

Stratford might be a beautiful, ancient town, steeped in history. But service stations offer promise: journeys, moving on, respite and refreshment. They’re soulless, yes, but wonderfully anonymous with it.

The doors opened with a quiet hiss and Claire headed towards Starbucks. It was closed.

“Opens at 6am, love,” called a voice from behind the counter. “You can always go to the Coffee Nation.”

“I’d rather drink from the toilet,” Claire muttered quietly. She checked her watch. 5.35am. Taking her iPad, Claire found a seat and opened her book. The important things in life, like husbands, careers, good coffee, were worth the wait.

***

Education: private or state? (ruhramble.wordpress.com)
State school kids win battle for values (theage.com.au)

A Good Day: 2013 365 Challenge #156

Keep up brother

I had a great day with the kids today.

I think that has to be said, to off-set the bad days. If you’re going to be honest about your failures you have to celebrate the successes. This wasn’t a super-mum day full of craft and baking, but a good parenting day.

A good parenting day (for me) is when the kids have had three meals that would pass an Ofsted Inspection (the UK authority that grades nurseries and schools, and insists no chocolate in a packed lunch box).

A day when the proportion of outside time to TV is at least 2:1 (we had three hours in the park this morning and another hour this evening, including a bike ride).

Taking Baby Annabelle for a ride

A day when littlest Martin has slept (okay, so he weed on the sofa but that was my fault for letting him sleep past the hour in order to pack away the shopping delivery and play a bit with my daughter).

A day when I’ve talked to (and listened to) real live friends more than I’ve read blogs and Twitter.

A day with no tears and plenty of hugs and minimal shouting (no shouting is unrealistic for the sleep deprived).

A day that started with remembering to brush teeth and ended with finally getting both children’s hair washed (I won’t admit to how long it’s been because I honestly don’t know. I’m guessing swimming doesn’t count.)

And, finally, a day when I didn’t get cross with hubbie for arriving home an hour later than suggested by his ‘I’m leaving now’ text message. Even though he got mobbed by the kids and dog and had to disappear immediately for some quiet time. I’m managing to walk the dog while writing this and even remembered to shove dinner in the oven on the way out.

All in all a good day. Let’s mark this and remember.

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“Will you have a hen night, do you think?”

Claire looked over at Kim with one eye-brow raised, a forkful of pasta halfway to her mouth.

Kim shook her head, her mouth full of Carbonara. When she could speak, she said, “No, what’s the point? You’re the only real friend I have. If I go out with the theatre crew they’ll expect me to get wrecked, and I can’t exactly tell them why it’s orange juice all the way.”

“You haven’t told them you’re pregnant?” Claire’s voice rose in surprise.

Kim shook her head again, more emphatically. “Lord, no. Remember what I said, about the Director being less than impressed? He’s already made some smart comments about me laying off the cakes. If I tell him I’m pregnant he’ll give the role to the understudy.”

Kim’s face twisted, as if her pasta was suddenly soaked in lemon juice. “Silly, jumped-up cow, she’d just love that.”

The girls laughed, but Claire felt heat rising from her stomach. “I think it’s outrageous. If Carl tried to sack me because I fell pregnant, I could take him to court.”

“So, it’s okay to try and force you to resign by making your life miserable, but sacking you unfairly would be illegal?”

Claire gave a wry smile. “Trying to make me resign is illegal too. It’s called Constructive Dismissal.” At Kim’s searching look, Claire nodded. “Yes, I spoke to an employment lawyer. I wanted to know where I stood. I do have a case against him, but it comes at a cost.”

Kim tipped her head to one side in mute question, her mouth too full to talk.

“You get a reputation, if you rock the boat like that. And it’s an incestuous industry. Oh, no one would ever say anything, but it might make it harder to get another job, if word got out.”

“Really? Now, that’s outrageous.”

Both girls chewed their food and sat considering the difficulties of their separate careers.

“Makes you think our grannies had it right, when they stayed home to raise the kids.” Kim’s face was thoughtful, and Claire wasn’t sure if she was serious or not.

She has to be joking. Spending all day with nothing but a couple of ungrateful brats for company and no money to call my own? Reliant on a man to feed and clothe us all. No, thank you.

“What will you do, once you’re on maternity leave? I’m guessing you don’t get maternity pay?”

“I’m self-employed, so I get statutory. Which actually works out not far off the pittance I’m being paid currently. It will be tough, though. I wonder if I could make some money as a live model?” She struck a pose, and they both giggled. “Or maybe the baby will be cute, and I’ll get her registered with a model agency.”

“Her?” Somehow giving the baby a gender made it all too real.

“Hopefully. I have this strange feeling it’s a girl. We find out in a couple of weeks. I can’t wait.” Her face lit with excitement, and Claire had a strange sensation that her friend was slipping away from her.

We’ve lived completely separate lives; different schools, different careers. This isn’t going to change our friendship. It’s just another alternative life choice, that’s all. She’ll still be Kim, even when she’s a mother.

The words rang clear in Claire’s mind, but there was something about the look on her friend’s face that gave rise to doubt. Motherhood was such a definite thing. A school could be changed, a career-path altered. But, once you became a mother, that was something you were forever.

A shiver ran down Claire’s neck, and she put her fork down on her plate, no longer hungry.

***

All about Expectation: 2013 365 Challenge #155

Swimming (from our holiday snaps)

I went to a spa with my Mum this afternoon. I bought her the experience for Mother’s day and she asked if I would come too as she didn’t want to go by herself. It was only local, meaning I could get my post written this morning and cook dinner before picking her up after lunch.

Summer has finally arrived here and it’s a gorgeous day. Thankfully the swimming pool had sky lights so we didn’t feel cut off from the sun.

I swam 25 lengths, relaxed in the sauna and had a back massage. Gorgeous.

But it wasn’t Ragdale Hall, the place I go with my friends. It was a third of the cost so I didn’t expect it to be, except our vouchers were half price, so at full price our 4-hour visit (without lunch) would have been expensive. After my recent discussions about reviews, it got me thinking about the importance of expectations. From the full price of the experience, and based on my visits to Ragdale, I had a certain expectation – one that wasn’t met:

The changing rooms were small and basic. In a travel review I’d called it Tired. There were no towels or robes, because the delivery driver had broken down, so we had a small hand towel each. When the delivery did arrive I went to reception to ask for a robe and was told they’d be brought out, even though I was standing there wet and dripping. Mum says her massage was marred by the sound of taps running in the next room. My ‘relaxing music’ was Indian sitars with lots of Indian men chatting in the background, as if they were playing at a street festival. I tried so hard to ignore it. To be happy. To practice gratitude. I even politely asked the girl to turn it down, but it didn’t help. Despite that, and the therapist’s long nails, I came out content and revived.

Relaxation

I met Mum in the relaxation room, but as there was no door shutting it off from the noise of the jacuzzi or the happy shouts of the young kids in the pool, it wasn’t terribly relaxing. After a short while, with still an hour left until we had to leave, I suggested we go for coffee. Then said, “Let’s save the eight quid and have coffee at home.”

Mum agreed.

I dropped her at her house – feeling only slightly guilty for shortening our visit – drove home and had a free cup of tea and read my book. And there was still time to walk the dog in the sunshine and write this post on my phone.

This isn’t meant to be a rant. I very much enjoyed my afternoon and would go back at the reduced cost. But it was interesting to see how critical I was because my expectations weren’t met. I’m afraid to say I even left negative feedback on the comments card.

Someone responded to my post yesterday by saying one-star reviews are more about the reviewer than the book. That’s probably true. But I think it’s also about expectations. Something in my cover image and blurb may have set the wrong expectation and the reader never managed to overcome that. I think getting the cover and blurb right on a book is essential – whatever we say, we all judge a book a little bit on its cover.

I have two covers for Dragon Wraiths and they represent the book differently. I’m very attached to them both but maybe they set the wrong expectation. Similarly for the blurb. For a marketer I’m rubbish at writing blurb, for Dragon Wraiths or the Claire books. Maybe I should run a competition for people who loved the book to write the blurb for me, though not sure what I could offer as a prize.

The other thing I need to establish is the price. I dropped it to see if I would shift more copies (I haven’t yet). Maybe people make a more considered buying decision if it’s more expensive. It’s all fascinating stuff I don’t have answers to. In the mean time I’m off to get the kids. Relaxing day over then!

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“How’s your Mum?”

“She’s great. Thank you so much for suggesting I talk to her. You were right – she’s been so worried about being the pushy parent, she’s been biting her tongue. Now I’ve given her the green light she can’t wait to get stuck in. I wouldn’t be surprised if she came to stay next week. What is it with mothers and weddings?”

Claire shrugged, unwilling to answer. I can’t imagine what mine would be like with a wedding to plan, and I doubt she’ll find out. She didn’t get a look-in on Robert’s and, from what I remember, Ruth’s was a paltry registry-office affair.

“You didn’t tell me what venue you managed to book for the wedding.”

“Wilderhope Manor, in Shropshire. It’s not too far from Mum and Dad, and the building looks amazing. We’re having to accept a sub from Jeff’s parents, as it isn’t dirt cheap, but even they must approve of the building, if not the bunk beds. Have you been?”

“No. Milton Keynes was the furthest south I managed to get to, and look how well that turned out.”

Kim pouted. “Oh, I was hoping you might be able to have a word with the manager, make sure everything is perfect.”

Claire’s laughter rang loud in Kim’s kitchen. “Kim, none of the YHA managers in the hostels I’ve visited even know I’m doing the assignment. The more places I stay, the more I know Carl is making the whole thing up. I haven’t had anything to do with Coca Cola either.”

Kim’s expression made Claire snort with laughter again.

“What are you laughing at?”

“You. You look so shocked.”

Kim shook her head. “Well, I am. I can’t imagine a boss lying to me on that kind of scale.” She gave her friend an accusing stare. “I can’t believe you’re okay with it, either. It’s not like you.”

Claire took a sip of coffee, then put her mug back on the table, while words churned through her mind. “I’m not okay with it.” She looked up at Kim. “I’m spitting mad, if you want to know the truth.”

Kim’s face became serious. “Then why do you put up with it? I hate to see you being taken advantage of.”

“Being taken for a fool, you mean? No, don’t apologise: you’re right. It must look like that from the outside.”

“But..?”

“But, I don’t think I’m doing this assignment for Carl anymore.” Claire sat back in the chair and laced her fingers, careful not to pull at her sprained wrist. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Kim nodded, sitting forward to give Claire her full focus.

“I had no intention of sticking it out. I was going to travel for a couple of weeks and then use my holiday and the salary they’re still paying me to jet off to Maldives. I’m not sure what I planned to do then, I never thought that far ahead. Send Carl a rude email, probably.”

“What stopped you?”

Claire sighed again, and ran her fingers through her hair. A scent of daffodils wafted in through the open window and somewhere a blackbird was singing.

“Josh, I guess. To begin with. He made travelling fun. Then it all went wrong, and I got mugged. I wanted to leave at that point.”

“I’ll bet!”

“But, somehow, there was always something stopping me. I had to look after Sky, and now, with Ruth sick…” She stopped, but Kim’s face showed her understanding. Claire couldn’t leave the country not knowing whether Sky might need her again.

“What will you do, then? Will you finish the assignment?”

Claire gazed out the window at the clouds scudding past, foretelling the arrival of another rain shower.

“I don’t know, Kim, I really don’t. I’m only on hostel number thirty or thirty-one. That leaves so many still to do. Plus the stupid activities Julia keep sending me. Did I tell you, she emailed me to suggest I learn to windsurf? She has no idea. Stuff like that isn’t for an idle afternoon. It takes time and commitment. It’s all very well trying to make the blog interesting – not to mention humiliate me – but it does hurt.” She looked at her wrist as if the pain was entirely Julia’s fault.

“Maybe you could sell your story to a newspaper, have them sponsor your blog. It’s a great adventure. I can’t be the only one loving it.”

Claire was going to dismiss the idea as foolish, but something stopped her. That’s actually not entirely crazy. What if I approach the YHA myself? Or a paper could work. Get a travel column. Claire looked over at her friend and wondered when she suddenly had all the answers.

***

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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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.”

***

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?

________________________________________________________________________________

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.

***

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.”

________________________________________________________________________________

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.

________________________________________________________________________________

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.

________________________________________________________________________________

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.

***