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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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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“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.

***

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.”

***

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.

***

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.

***

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.

***

Not the next Rio Ferdinand: 2013 365 Challenge #138

My little footballer

Talking to a friend yesterday about children and hobbies, I admitted that I don’t do any classes with my children – partly through laziness and partly because I don’t want them focussing on one thing and never learning about other joys and talents they might possess.

When I grew up I did gymnastics, because that’s what my sister did. I did ballet and tap too, but they were soon dropped because my sister did gymnastics and I wanted to do what she did (besides, I suspect I was rubbish at dance).

My sister was brilliant – she competed at county at gymnastics. But, despite going to class several hours a week and practising even more, I was awful. I couldn’t touch my toes even then, and I was never going to do a back flip. It wasn’t for me. I have other talents – I love music and writing and later I became a Guide Leader and found that was a real passion. But there wasn’t brownies or choir or drama when I was little, just gymnastics.

I look at my children now and they have such a breadth of talent. My son is good at football and music and loves reading and art. My daughter makes creations out of pipe-cleaners and tissue paper, invents songs, does pirouettes in the kitchen, plays the piano and writes books. They’re two and four.

Playing the Piano

Every time I see them doing something I say, “would you like to have lessons in that?” The answer is generally “no”. Amber is happy making beautiful music on the piano without the torture of correct fingering or learning to read music. Aaron likes to hog the ball so would probably hate playing football with others. The only thing they’re really keen on is having horse-riding lessons and even that has diminished since we started pony rides at the farm.

I want to nurture their interest and their passion without killing it and luckily that seems to fit with my general laissez-faire parenting style.

On the flip-side, however, I want them to belong and have good friendships and nothing includes you quicker than being part of a group: whether it’s football, music or dance, you make like-minded friends. I also want them to feel their talents are valued, and to bring out in them the best they can be.

So how to do one without the other? I learned the violin as a child. It was the only option and I was pretty awful at it. I didn’t start until I was nine and that was too old. I wish I’d been made to learn piano aged five, when it would have been easy, instead of taking it up as an adult and finding it so very hard. Such contradictions: where is the happy balance?

As with anything, I think it is a combination of going with the child’s wishes and following your gut. During the conversation with my friend, she mentioned a friend of hers whose sixteen year old son plays professional football. Her attitude was that I should get my son playing football now! That, if he is any good, we could all be making money, and he would have a career and fame and all that.

It made me shudder.

I’d rather my son was a builder

My father often said (and to this day I don’t know if he was joking) “Why couldn’t you and your sister have been professional Tennis Players – and keep me in my old age?” My general response (in my head) was, Dad, you never once played tennis with us as kids, how was that ever going to happen?

But, seriously, who would wish that on their child? A career, yes. Enough money to live without doubt and struggle, yes. But the life of a professional sports person? Endless training, long hours, restricted diet. Growing up too soon, stuck in the limelight, every childish mistake judged by the world? Retired at 35 and still the rest of your life to figure out? I wouldn’t wish that on my kids for anything.

If they want to do it, that’s different. I’ll be there at the side-lines with my pompoms cheering them on. I’ll make sacrifices if need be. But, for now, I’m happy with mediocre. I’m happy with Baa Baa Black Sheep sung by a two-year-old to his own random piano accompaniment. I’m happy to be goal keeper and ball boy and take orders from my mini tyrants. Hurrah for the laissez-faire (lazy?) parent.

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Claire was glad of the satnav, reassuring her she was on the correct road. I don’t remember Burghley being this far out of town.

She’d decided to visit the stately home and get some information together for the blog. Her visitor numbers had suffered, during her fortnight minding Sky, although she had maintained the regular posts by discussing trips out with children. It surprised Claire that they had been her most popular posts for a while.

Mental note to include children’s activities in all my blog posts from now on. There’s a whole world of parenting out there I was oblivious too. I imagine it’s even harder to cater for the tiny ones, although how much entertaining do they need when they can’t walk and talk?

At last the satnav announced the words, “turn right.” Claire looked across and saw the gate houses nestled deep in the hedgerow, with a wooden sign directing visitors to use that entrance. The last time I was at Burghley it was for the Horse Trials. I don’t think we came in this way. In fact, during the horse trials they had barely seen the house. Only a sea of white marquees and a milling throng of people.

She had come with some university friends and, as far as she could remember, they hadn’t left the champagne tent, except to go shopping. Did I even see a horse? I can’t remember. Those were the days. With a sigh of regret for her lost youth, Claire negotiated the cattle grid, hoping it didn’t shake any rusty parts off the Skoda’s bodywork, and drove up the lane. The car park nestled underneath large spreading trees, beginning to leave behind the nakedness of winter and don their spring clothes.

The car park was nearly empty, and Claire wondered if maybe the house wasn’t open. I suppose there aren’t many people visiting a stately home on a Monday morning in April. She shivered as a gust of wind swirled round the car, prompting her to reach into the back for her jacket. When she stood up, she had the impression that someone was watching her. Turning slowly, memories of the mugging in her mind, Claire gave out a startled cry at the sight of a large stag standing only two car-lengths away.

“Blimey, where did you come from?”

The stag didn’t move at the sound of her voice. He merely stood in silent scrutiny, reminding Claire of Bambi’s father surveying the herd from his hilltop lookout. The stag’s antlers spread wide and high above his head.

Barely breathing, Claire walked steadily forward, reaching into her pocket for her phone. The stag showed signs of restlessness when she was a few feet away, so she stopped and slowly took a photo. Then she stood, barely breathing, eyes connected to the impassive stare of the animal. They paused motionless for a minute, and Claire wondered if she could chance getting closer. With her arm outstretched she crept forward. The stag threw up his head, then turned and galloped off to join the grazing herd on the other side of the car park.

Bloody hell. Claire let out the breath she had been holding, and gave a shaky laugh. That’s today’s blog sorted. I can’t imagine some boring old sixteenth-century house can have anything to top that.

***

Disney’s Brave Merida Makeover: 2013 365 Challenge #137

The image that went with the petition

I received a petition in my inbox last week, asking me to save Merida. For those who don’t know, Merida is the princess in Pixar’s Brave and the latest princess to be included in Disney’s official Princess Set (like some awful exclusive club!).

I haven’t seen the whole movie, but I’ve seen enough to know that Merida is awesome. She’s natural, with uncontrollable hair and normal features (no giant scary eyes for her). She’s a proper teenager who fights with her mum and thinks the world Is. Not. Fair. She wants to ride and shoot arrows and carve out her own future. She does not want to marry a prince. From the minute I learned of her existence I thought she was amazing and Pixar were brilliant for going even further than the great Rapunzel who, despite being a kick-ass Princess, still has unnatural features and the biggest eyes in the world.

So why did Merida need saving, and why did it warrant a petition? Normally the petitions I sign online are to do with Saving the NHS, or Saving Our Forests. Big causes. You wouldn’t think saving a cartoon princess – a bunch of colour pixels – would fall in the same category. But it does. Because this is what they wanted to do to Merida: They wanted to make her sexy and feminine in order to include her in the set of ‘official’ Disney Princesses. Her already fairly curvy figure was enhanced and her waist narrowed. They tamed her hair, made her dress off-the-shoulder and dropped the bow and arrow.

Twenty-First Century Princess

Okay, maybe I get the bit about losing the bow and arrow. My father used to make bows for us as kids, with real arrows carved from ash trees. The neighbours were not impressed and many an argument was had over the inappropriate nature of a toy that could take a child’s eye out. I thought they were overly protective until I had my own kids, and now I know I wouldn’t welcome a bow and arrow as a toy. Although it’s no worse than a plastic sword! And at least it was the girl wielding it – so one to right the sexist imbalance in children’s toys.

My daughter loves dressing up as a Disney Princess, although I haven’t let her watch Cinderella, Snow White or Beauty and the Beast, partly because she isn’t interested, and partly because the women are a bit pathetic. I love the way the newer princesses have gone. And I don’t mind about the merchandising. My daughter looks fab in a Snow White dress, with her modern accessories of a mobile phone and laptop. Just as my son looks rather fetching as Spiderman in heels. But really, Disney, why go to the effort of creating the best Disney Princess ever only to ruin her for the sake of making her fit?

My Modern Princess

As I researched this post, it seems the old Merida is back and it was never intended to be a permanent change, only for some merchandising. In some images the changes aren’t as extreme, and maybe it was a storm in a tea cup: it’s hard to get a straight answer with Disney staying quiet.

Maybe Disney bowed to pressure, maybe it was a cynical marketing ploy to generate publicity, maybe it was an innocent mistake. Who knows? In the end it doesn’t much matter. What is important is the level of outrage it created (although, reading some of the comments as I researched this post, it seems many people think us mothers are going nutty over nothing. Deep breath. Count to ten.)

Hopefully, eventually, big companies like Disney will learn that it is not cool to take their duty so lightly. Millions of little girls look to Disney princesses as role models and, finally with Merida, they have someone who lives up to that responsibility. Use it wisely, Disney, use it well.

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“You have reached your destination.”

The satnav’s prim voice startled Claire out of her reverie. She looked out the window, not sure what to expect. She hadn’t studied the website for this hostel and so was arriving blind. Her heart pattered anxiously, remembering her arrival at Sheringham.

“Alright, Thurlby, let’s see what you have to offer. Please be nice.”

It seemed strange pulling up outside the hostel, alone in the Skoda. There had been too much time for thought, driving north with all the Sunday commuter traffic. There wasn’t even the novelty of new, as the area was close to where she had grown up. Signs for Burghley House and Rutland Water only reminded her of rare family trips out, sibling bickering and a desire to hide.

Claire climbed out of her car and gazed up at the building. Her soul soared like a Red Kite riding a thermal. Tall Georgian sash windows beamed from deep red brick as tree branches in early bud danced over her head. Two weeks of tension drained from her shoulders as she took in the idyllic surroundings.

I don’t know what surprises me more; that these places exist as hostels, where you can stay for a tenner a night, or that I never knew they existed before I started this assignment. It felt a betrayal to be glad of anything Carl had done to her, but at that moment she was conscious of a deep sense of gratitude that she could come and stay in a Georgian Manor. By myself, for free. I’ll take it. Even if it does mean I’ll have to cycle round Rutland Water and oo-ah at Burghley. Again.

Curled up on the sofa, once more immersed in the adventures of Katniss, Claire felt like something was missing. She glanced up at the empty room, and wondered where the strange sensation was coming from. Maybe I’m hungry. Dry cereal isn’t really dinner. That will teach me not to check whether it was a catering hostel or not. Her tummy gurgled in agreement, but still that didn’t seem to be it. She glanced round the room again, and then she knew. She missed Sky. How is that possible? This is the first time I’ve felt free in a fortnight. And it was good to be alone, without the endless worry and chatter. But still, the room seemed too silent, the night stretching out before her too long.

“Ah well,” she said, her voice echoing in the quiet. “It’ll wear off.”

***

Disney’s Brave Merida Sexy Makeover Sparks Angry Petition (Huffingtonpost.co.uk)
Disney Pulls Redesigned Princess Merida After Backlash (news.moviefone.com)
Film: Newswire: Disney quietly kills its gussied up version of Merida, the Brave princess (avclub.com)
Be Brave Little Merida! (littlemisswordy.wordpress.com)
Brave’s Princess Merida’s New Sexy Look Pulled by Disney (jedimouseketeer.com)
Disney Pulls Sexy Merida Makeover After Public Backlash (jezebel.com)

“I’m Just…” 2013 365 Challenge #130

I’m Just Finishing my Lunch Mummy

One of the things I’ve discovered since spending many hours a week writing for a living (and since having children) is that I have lots of phrases and words that I say too often, without realising it.

I noticed it from the children first, when phrases like “that’s so random” started coming out of my daughter’s mouth.

I haven’t tallied it, that would be too depressing, but I imagine I say it a dozen times a day. That at least is quite cute coming from a four-year-old. There are other phrases, some repeatable, some not, that I’d rather my kids hadn’t learned.

Phrases crop up in my writing too. I’m considerably more aware of them since starting the daily blog, because I’m also editing every day. In the past editing happened in chunks, I would use ‘find/replace’ to remove evil, repetitive words, and they would disappear from my mind. Words like “Wow” and “Absolutely” spring to mind. I say them, I write them. Far too often.

I’m Just looking at these gnomes and flowers Mummy

If only speech was as easy to edit as a manuscript. If I could ‘find/replace’ in my head and remove all the annoying words from my speech. Because, then, I could stop my kids saying them.

The naughty words or bad phrases they pick up from me in my weaker moments are easily controlled because they come back rarely and then only to test me.

The harmless words, though, the ones that are simply annoying: they’re much harder to remove, from their mouths or mine.

At the moment the evil word is “Just”.

I suspect I say it a hundred times a day. Something like this:

Kids: “Mummy, sit with us!”

Mummy: “I’m just going to stack the dishwasher/make a cuppa/ put the dog out”

I’m sure “Just a minute” is a standard parenting phrase, however horrible. Only, now the tables are turned. It’s:

Mummy: “Time to go kids, put your shoes on.”

Kids: “I’m just finding my toy/ making my bed/ putting this irrelevant thing into this box.”

Knowing you started it makes it no less frustrating. More so in fact. Now every time I hear myself saying “Just”, I cringe and attempt to think of another word. I’m as self-conscious in my speech as I am becoming in my writing, through editing Claire every day. I just need to think of different words, then I just need to say them often enough that the kids just forget they ever heard the word just. Hmmm.

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Claire stood chewing a fingernail, watching the two men talking through the small pane of glass in the door. A knot behind her ribs throbbed in time with the ache in the back of her skull. I should probably drink something other than caffeine before my head caves in.

She could hear Ruth breathing softly behind her. The sound was no longer comforting. Her sister hadn’t woken once in the twelve hours and more since Claire had arrived at the hospital. She studied the faces of the doctor and her brother, trying to guess the gist of their conversation from their expressions.

Both looked serious but Claire knew that was Robert’s habitual expression, and tried not to let it twist the knot ever tighter in her tummy. The room closed in around her, hot and muggy. Claire had already tried the window but it didn’t open.

What do they think Ruth will do, try and shimmy down the drainpipe and run for freedom. Or maybe someone will climb up four stories and break in to steal the personal effects of a sick person. There must be easier methods of security.

A dry cough behind her caused Claire to spin round. Grasping the wall to steady herself as lack of sleep and too much caffeine made her head spin, Claire peered at the lump of sheets on the bed to see if Ruth was awake. There seemed no life and for a moment Claire felt her own heart stop. Don’t let her be dead, I couldn’t stand it. Not on my watch. Not ever.

With a push against the wall, Claire propelled herself towards the bed, slumping onto the pull down mattress before her knees betrayed her.

“Ruth? Can you hear me, sis?” And still the motionless silence dragged at the air, making it hard to breathe. Claire leaned closer, trying to see her sister’s face. It was turned into the pillow as if hiding from the brightness.

“Do you want me to turn out the light, Ruthie?” There was no response. Then Claire thought she could detect a flicker of movement, a flutter of eyelash. One eye flicked open, searched around, then closed again.

“Light’s fine.”

Claire exhaled loudly in relief.

“But, Claire…”

She waited, straining to hear the whisper of sound.

“If you’re going to lean so close after coffee, can you at least suck on a mint?””

Claire sat back in shock, heat flooding her face. Then she heard the dry coughing sound again and realised her sister was laughing. Feeling as high as helium, she began laughing too. She saw the doctor and Robert turn towards the sound, their matching frowns deepening. The sight only made Claire laugh harder.

***

Am I Sheep or Goat: 2013 365 Challenge #129

Feeding the Goats

We went back to Old Farm (Sacrewell Farm) today and it was lovely. I selected it because of suspected rain (there’s more to do indoors) and because I needed to be home mid afternoon for the shopping delivery.

The children have been hankering for New Farm (West Lodge) but I think that’s the novelty factor. I’m enjoying the familiarity of Sacrewell and the timely reminder that new isn’t necessarily better.

It’s too easy to let familiarity breed contempt or to need there to be a better and less better in everything. I think that’s preschooler behaviour rubbing off (or maybe they’re like that because of me). It’s like parenting, when one person’s way needs to be better than another’s: we can’t all just be different.

I filled out all the school forms this morning for daughter’s start in September and it was hard not to be swept up into the parental discussions and to be swayed by the opinions of others. I guess that’s only going to get harder the older the children get. Mostly I’m okay with my choices but when there are parents, teachers and other professionals telling me otherwise, how will I fare? Will I stick to my guns, as I did today bringing the children to Old Farm against protest, or will I be swayed by majority opinion, strong personalities or the will of others? Will I be a sheep or a goat? Hmmm might be time to learn some of my children’s stubbornness!

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“How are Francesca and the boys?”

Robert looked up from his coffee as if the question surprised him. “Fine. They’re fine.”

He looks uncomfortable? What’s that all about? “Did they come with you?”

“No.” The word shot out like a bullet. “No,” he said again, more softly. “Can’t take the boys out of school, you know.”

Claire tried to work out how old Jack and Alex were, and realised she had no idea. How can I not know the ages of my own nephews? I really am a rotten Auntie.

They sat in silence, sipping coffee and watching hospital staff stride in for their takeaway caffeine. A pocket of strained calm surrounded them and Claire was glad for her heavy eyes and foggy brain. There was no urge to fill the emptiness with conversation. Not that I’ve ever figured out what to say to Robert. You’d think by our age, a six-year gap between us would be irrelevant. Sometimes it feels like a hundred-year gap.

She looked at Robert, his uncrumpled shirt buttoned to the collar, despite the early hour and long journey. He looked like a nineteenth-century doctor, not a twenty-first century businessman. Whatever it is that he actually does over there in Geneva. I have no idea about that either.

“How is Ruth?”

Robert’s question startled her, and she spilt coffee across the table. Keeping her eyes focussed on mopping up the spreading liquid, Claire shrugged. “How much do you know?”

“Only what Mum told me on the phone, yesterday. That the cancer has spread and they need to change her treatment.” His matter-of-fact tone set Claire’s nerves on edge. She raised her head, about to expostulate, and saw the red tinge surrounding his eyes.

Dropping her head back to the table, away from the horrific image of her brother close to tears, Claire shrugged again. “You know as much as I do, then. I guess we’ll know more later, when the doctor has done his rounds.” In her mind she added, When you have spoken to the doctor. What were big brothers for, if not to deal with the authorities. Claire felt queasy at the idea of discussing her sister with the intimidating people bustling around the building. She waited, hoping Robert would pick up on her unspoken vibe.

“Right. I will speak to her doctors and discover what the situation is. Leave it to me.”

A week ago his assumption of control would have irritated her: Now she felt a rush of relief. For the first time in a very long time she was content to be treated as the baby of the family.

***