Glimpse of the Future: 2013 365 Challenge #174

My angels playing the piano

We had a glimpse of the future today, or hopefully what the future might be like. The weather was kind and, having decided to let the children have an entire day at home, they were out in the garden by 8am.

Days at home are rare, as I find the hours go quicker when we’re out and about. The children behave better too, and I’m not tempted to try and do anything but watch them and maybe check the odd email.

As a result they view a day to themselves as a high treat.

They’re at an age where they play together quite well, such as games of Mums and Dads, with one of the dolls as their baby. There are the usual sibling scuffles, particularly because my daughter has a bike but my son still only has a trike. We were intending to get his big boy’s bike for his birthday but, as that’s 3 months away, I’ve been scouring ebay for one. [And found one, hurrah for ebay!]

So they played and I did housework and got the cover ready for June’s installment of Two Hundred Steps Home. Four hours flew by. I made lunch and dinner while they played the piano (watch the video here).

Garden mayhem

After lunch I gave them a wee lesson in Mummy’s Quiet Time, reading my book while they read theirs. It sort of worked, without too much shouting and huffing from me! We filled the paddling pool and had the sun-cream screaming session (for followers of me on Twitter), and they painted the decking with rollers and brushes and chalk until five o’clock.

I even managed to do one of ‘those’ jobs. You know, the ones that nag and nag and get worse because you maintain you haven’t got time, until every time you look at it you feel sick? We have an oak worktop in the kitchen and it’s my job to keep it oiled. Has been since before my son was born.

Only I haven’t. I managed for two years and then it slipped. Now the bit round the sink is rotting. So it’s been easy to think ‘Ah, too late anyway’.

Well, today I took action. Spent an hour cleaning it, only to find the oil had set in the bottle. Not to be deterred, I poked it with a spoon and found liquid oil underneath. Hurrah! Kids managed to stay away long enough for me to spread the oil, (although daughter did rush in to say son had fallen off the slide and I may have replied, ‘If there’s no blood it can wait’… You have to know my son to realise this is not a callous response but one born from a boy with a tendency to cry wolf.)

Anyway, long may such wonderful independent behaviour continue (of course I’ve put the kibosh on it by writing about it! The first rule of good child behaviour is not to talk about good child behaviour).

Maybe the school holidays won’t be so scary after all.

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

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Claire gazed at the hostel nestled into the hillside, and smiled. The sprawling whitewashed farmhouse was much closer to her imagination of Welsh accommodation than the Victorian house she had stayed in the night before.

The sun shone overhead – a walk-on cameo role in an otherwise overcast morning – and its rays lit the white walls in sharp contrast to the backdrop of green. Eager to leave her bag and get her hiking boots on, Claire headed in to find her room. After her adventure at Llangorse, she intended to keep her feet on terra firma. The guidebook mentioned hill walks and waterfalls and, provided there was no abseiling involved in the latter, that sounded just fine.

Claire had decided to drive to the opposite end of the Talybont Reservoir from the Danywenallt hostel, to do a walk she’d found on the internet. It was only five miles and would hopefully be done by lunch, as she’d failed to pick up supplies when she left Brecon.

Looking at the trail now from the car park, Claire was wondering if she’d lost her mind. The path led steeply uphill, passing alongside a waterfall. She could see the path was wet and probably slippery. With her wrist only just healed, Claire wondered if she could blag a blog post from the online description, rather than risk the walk.

A blackbird hopped along the path, searching for grubs, its head tilted and its orange beak glistening against the dark ground. He seemed to be inviting Claire along on an adventure.

“Oh, go on then. But I’m blaming you if I fall and break something else. You have to go for help, can you manage that?”

The blackbird took off at the sound of her voice, and watched her from the safety of a tree branch.

“Great, now I’m talking to birds. I am losing my mind, it’s official.”

Claire followed the path along to a ridge apparently called Craig Fan Du, according to her map. It sounded like a kung fu master or a dish of melted cheese. As she reached the ridge, the path vanished and the sinking feeling returned to the pit of her stomach. I do not want to get lost today, not up here.

She followed the ridge, scanning left and right for a path. Her tummy grumbled, as if reminding her that she’d come out without any food or water. Idiot girl. I should know better by now.

Spotting the path, Claire headed to the right hand side of the ridge. The path ran along the edge of a cliff and she prayed the rain stayed put in the heavy clouds hanging above her head. It looked like it would be treacherous underfoot if wet. The path led along to a river, where a waterfall crashed into the water, filling the air with spray and noise. Claire looked round, trying to find a bridge over the river. There wasn’t one. Great, wet boots. Lovely.

The water wasn’t deep, so Claire unlaced her boots and slung them round her neck. Tip-toeing through the icy water, trying not to slip and wet more than her feet, Claire was relieved to make the opposite bank. Okay, note to self: read the walk notes before heading off.

She trudged on, unsure exactly where she was on the map. At last she reached the war memorial and plane wreckage which was listed as a highlight of the walk. Standing alone in an isolated valley, surrounded by debris, Claire suppressed a shiver. Ghost stories were exactly that as far as she was concerned, but out here, with only trees and sheep for company, it was easy to hear the cries of the dying airmen blowing on the wind.

The route gave her a choice now, as the path petered out into sheep tracks and patches of boggy ground. The rumbles in her tummy were getting louder and it was taking all Claire’s effort to pull her feet free of the bog with every step.

Half way across the valley, her boot stuck fast. Pulling hard, Claire left the boot behind and toppled facedown onto the muddy ground. She lay, panting, her face coated with more mud than a Japanese clay mask. I hope Welsh bog is as good for the skin. Tears pricked in her eyes but she realised a different sensation was bubbling alongside hunger in her tummy.

Gradually the feeling rose, and she realised it was laughter. Claire rolled over on her back, the bog squelching as it released her. For some reason an image of Michael came into her mind. She imagined his reaction if he could see her now. Michael, who went hiking and hostelling with Debbie, but had never taken her on anything but five-star experiences.

Did he think I wouldn’t enjoy it, or was it Debbie that dragged him into the great outdoors? Maybe he sees me differently; a china princess to be cherished. She contrasted the image with Josh, who would be doubled-up with laughter and most likely would take photographs before offering to help her up. Shaking both images aside, Claire shuffled back to her buried boot and pulled it free. So much for not getting wet. Trying not to wince, Claire stuffed her soggy foot back into the boot and pulled the laces tight.

The map notes said she was only half way. Determined not to be disheartened, Claire crawled to her feet and set off downstream towards the woodland. The woods closed protectively around her, as a group of waterfalls provided surround-sound entertainment. The path wound alongside the river, with the cascading water chuckling and chortling, keeping her company.

This time a footbridge crossed the river and led Claire further into the woods. The waterfalls took her breath away, not just the noise and immensity of the water, but the glinting rainbows caused by the occasional shard of sunlight brave enough to break through the clouds. There was something passionate and untameable about the cascades of water, all white with fury and rushing with deafening noise, that resonated in Claire’s gut. They possessed a freedom she was only now beginning to understand.

At last the end was in sight. Claire no longer cared about wet boots. She strode across the stream, following the barely visible path back to the car park. Stomping along the final yards, footsore and soaked to her underwear, Claire reached the car and wished she could give it a hug. She settled for sliding into the seat, resisting the urge to remove the sodden boots. That would have to wait until she was back at the hostel. All she wanted was a cup of tea and a hot shower.

Looking in the rear-view-mirror, Claire was surprised to see the grin beaming through the dried mud on her face. That was fun.

***

http://www.walkscene.co.uk/map_view_61/Talybont_waterfalls_walk.html

Sticky June: 2013 365 Challenge #173

Summer skies

Trying to write my Claire post today, it was hard to remember what the weather was like back in April.

It’s hot and humid here, with a promise of summer storms. I thought; What I need is a seasons dictionary, like the emotion thesaurus. So today’s post is dedicated to a freewrite on June in all its sticky glory. It is the summer equinox after all.

By the way, I reserve my copyright to the idea of a seasons dictionary, if it doesn’t exist already! Ha ha.

Seasons. June

Sticky with life, the hedgerows spill over with nettles and cow parsley, messy and exuberant. Yellow oil seed rape paints every field in luminous colour. The sky, high and hot, is the hue of murky water after a watercolour is finished. Clouds promise rain. Bees buzz in a range of pitches, their busy sound adding to the heat and exhaustion. Trees heavy with leaves, their glory days of spring colour over.

A sense of waiting. Waiting for the storm, humidity rising. Sticky sweat trickling down into the bra and between the shoulder blades. Children hot and cranky or laughing too loudly as they run through the fountains or play in the water.

Dog pants, running slow and heavy-footed. Pheasants call their two-noted cry in the distance while, nearby, the intermittent song of the sparrow, blackbird and thrush fills the silence. The brash beep beep of a reversing tractor cuts through the peace, a reminder that, somewhere, despite the heat, people are working hard. Flies swim and swoop in the heavy air, irritating the skin and blocking the way.

The ground is hard beneath my boots, waiting for the rain. My steps startle a bird and it flies abruptly from the undergrowth, the wing-beats quick and loud in the air. Sheep sit motionless, even their short shorn locks too hot for comfort.

Trees heavy with leaves

Everywhere abundant life, busy and quiet, eager and waiting, living, growing. Winter a distant memory, but an ever present threat. Grow, now, while there’s sunlight, warmth and water. Grow and keep growing.

The pods hang on the oil seed rape plants. Soon the flowers will blacken and die. The plants will die and yield their crop. The corn is still green. Farmers hope for a better harvest. One not drowned by relentless rain. Thinking the words seems to bring the promised downpour. Heavy drops splat into dry soil & sizzle on hot skin. One drop, two.

Footsteps quicken, heading for home and shelter. The dog wants to stay in the river, in the cool. Home now. Your coat is waterproof, mine is not. That smell of rain, wet dust and the scent of flowers as the drops release their fragrance. A breeze comes with the rain, cooling sticky skin. The rain is fresh. Footsteps slow. Let it rain.

Remember the washing on the line and speed up again.

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Claire drove past the sign and smiled. “At last, I’ve left the country! What a shame it’s only the border from England to Wales, rather than, say, France into Spain.”

The small sign with the red dragon was the only way Claire knew she had crossed into Wales. The road wound on ahead of her, just the same as she had been driving on since leaving the hostel. Welsh countryside stretched around her in a myriad of green hues. Her destination was Brecon, the namesake town of the Brecon Beacons that nestled at their foot. Claire had skimmed through the town’s website before leaving Kington, and had decided it would be the perfect place for lunch.

Before long, Claire could see the spire of the Norman Cathedral heralding her approach into town. She checked her phone: There was just time for a wander before her appointment at the Llangorse Activity Centre.

Claire experimented with the unfamiliar Welsh word, putting her tongue to the roof of her mouth in an attempt to repeat the clu of the Ll sound. After three or four attempts she decided to make sure there was no need to ask for directions.

Gazing around her at the pretty shop fronts and historic buildings that made up Brecon, Claire realised she was trying not to dwell on her afternoon activity.

Come on, Claire, don’t be such a baby. You’ve done this a few times now. It keeps the lovely Jules off your back and provides plenty for the blog in the way of high-adrenalin activity.

She shivered and felt an ache in her tummy, a sensation she realised brought with it a memory of Josh.

Claire closed her eyes, clenched her jaw, and stepped forwards.

“That’s it, Claire. Well done. Try opening your eyes, the view is amazing.” The deep voice ended in a chuckle, as Claire’s face remained scrunched up.

Wind whistled past her face, brushing tendrils of hair away from her sweaty brow. Prising open one eyelid a fraction, Claire looked ahead. Some way beneath her, approaching fast, was a wooden platform with several people standing on it. Behind it she could see the blur of blue that indicated the presence of the lake, and two more wires zagging off to the right and down the hill.

Blood pumped in her ears, blocking out the whoosh of the wind and the cheers of encouragement from below. Despite her closed lids, perhaps through a change in the air, Claire sensed something looming up ahead. Before she could open her eyes, tree branches surrounded her face and she slid to a halt. Hands reached out to unclip her from the wire, before leading her forwards to clip her onto the next one.

Not again. Claire had done one zip wire before, as part of the Tree Trek. One was a challenge, for someone terrified of heights.

“How many have I got left to do?” Claire could hear the wobble in her voice. Get a grip, girl.

“You’re on your third, so you’ve still got a dozen left. Awesome, right?” Claire felt the enthusiasm emanating from the guide in waves, and resisted the urge to push him off the platform to the ground 20 feet below.

Swallowing the metallic taste in her mouth, Claire nodded feebly and managed one more nod when the guide gave the signal to ask if she was ready to go again.

Yes, go on, get it over with.

Scrunching her eyes shut once more, Claire felt the platform fall away behind her, and let gravity do the rest.

***

Love, Spelled T.I.M.E: 2013 365 Challenge #171

Running through the Mirror Maze

I recently came across an article / blog post on Linkedin, by someone called Dave Kerpen, about the importance of balancing career progression with spending time with the children. It’s aimed at fathers but I think it’s relevant to any parent, working or not.

The article presents, in a lovely balanced way, the constant battle between spending time with our children and providing for them. As he so eloquently put it:

It’s all too easy to skip the family dinner in the name of helping to put dinner on the table.

Gardens of Surprise: keeping cool

It’s something we’ve had to deal with in the past, when hubbie’s work has taken him away at short notice, resulting in missed parents evenings or carol concerts, or when he travelled overseas regularly, leaving me to be a single parent for a week at a time.

It’s one of the reasons I didn’t go back to work after my first child was born. I worked as a contractor and my day could start at 6am and finish with me getting home at 9pm.

You can’t easily have two people working those hours and raise children, although I’m sure some people manage it.

Mummy, why does the lady have a big tummy?

When he worked from home, hubbie had the opposite dilemma: the kids got used to him being around for lunch and struggled with the idea that he was in the house but unavailable.

Then came the six months following the redundancy, when hubbie was home but desperately looking for work. And now it looks like he might have to commute further to get a new contract: missing bedtime most nights unless we keep the children up late.

I feel it too, when I’m buried in drafting or editing and it’s tough to raise my head above the parapet. Or I’m running a promotion and check Twitter far too often, until my son tells me to put the phone away.

Whatever job you do, or even if you don’t work but still have housework, laundry, cooking and all that jazz to deal with, finding a balance is hard.

Ready, steady, run!

The article had two particular lines that resonated with me. One was the article title: Your Career Highlights won’t be on Your Tombstone: your kids’ names will be. A bit black and white in a world of hues of grey (funny how I shy away from writing Shades of Grey these days!) but a useful reminder of what’s important.

The other line was a quotation from John Crudele: “How do children spell LOVE? T-I-M-E.”

My children spend more than two-thirds of their time at home with me, but they don’t always get my time. So today, when I picked them up from preschool, I took them to the Gardens of Surprise, a local attraction with water fountains and a sculpture garden. It was 26 degrees and humid outside and hot equals cross for me, so it was a gift for all of us.

Kiddies and the Giant Rabbit

For three hours we stomped on fountains, splashed through water walls, climbed trees, explored the woods for sculptures, visited the ice house, met a giant bunny and ate ice cream. It was fab.

At the end of the day I asked my daughter if it was nice to spend some lovely time with Mummy, and whether she felt like she’d had my attention for a few hours.

Her answer? “Not really, Mummy.”

Ah well, back to work then.

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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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“Kim, it’s Claire, how are you?”

“Hello, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. How’s the wrist?”

Claire looked at her bare arm, amazed that she had forgotten about it completely. It seemed months since her snowboarding incident, rather than just a week.

“It’s fine. I took the bandage off a couple of days ago. I haven’t exactly been straining it.”

“Where are you, then?”

“Kington, Herefordshire.”

“Where? Why? That’s practically Wales. I thought you were going to stay near the hostel for the wedding?”

Claire laughed. “I have to move hostel more or less every day, and there are only a handful round here. Besides, I can’t stay in Kington at the weekend, so I had to get to it and mark it off the list. Nice hostel, big red brick building, en-suite room.”

It was Kim’s turn to laugh. “You can take the girl out of the five-star resorts, but you can’t take a need for luxury out of the girl.”

“I’ll have you know I normally stay in a dorm.” She didn’t add that Carl and Julia challenged her expenses if she didn’t. “But this place is mostly small rooms and they happened to have a single free.” That was her excuse anyway.

“No need to defend yourself, I’d be staying en-suite every night if I could afford it.”

“Me too.” Claire heard the wistful tone in her voice. There was no romance sharing a bedroom with strangers. Not even Scottish ones. She flushed. That particular incident wouldn’t be shared with anyone.

“So, why are you calling? Mum has all the wedding planning under control. You just need to be there on the day, with whomever you manage to pick up as your plus-one.” She giggled.

Claire resisted the urge to tell her what happened when you shacked up with strangers in a hostel. An unwelcome image of the girl asleep on the floor flashed into her mind and she shoved it away.

“That’s why I’m phoning, actually.” She took a deep breath. “Michael called me yesterday.”

“Good God, what did he want? I thought you gave him the heave-ho months ago?” Kim kept her voice light, but Claire could hear the undercurrent of enquiry. They’d never discussed her break-up with Michael. It was too painful to revisit at the time, and other things had taken over since then.

“He wants to be my plus-one.”

“He what? The cheek of him! He hates me. And Jeff.”

“No, he doesn’t. You’re just very different, that’s all.” Claire winced at the memory of Michael meeting her best friend. They’d got on like dog and cat.

“You could say that. He’s an over-bearing, over-protective, old-fashioned, chauvinistic prig.”

Claire reeled at the litany of flaws. “Don’t hold back, Kim, you say what you really mean.” Her voice had a slight edge that was not lost on her friend.

“Are you defending him? Why did you dump him, if he’s so marvellous?”

“I had my reasons. He’s not as bad as you think, you know. You brought out the worst in him. You and Jeff, all over each other in the bar. He’s more reserved, that’s all.” Certain memories flickered in her mind. “Well, in public anyway.”

“You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?” The accusation stung for its veracity.

“No! No, but I don’t want to be the single bird at your wedding. He’d only come as a friend. It would be good. Give us closure.”

Kim snorted down the phone, but didn’t say anything. There was a strained pause, and then they both spoke at once.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be harsh–”

“I don’t have to bring him, it’s your wedding–”

They laughed and apologised. After a minute of, “After you,” “No, After you,” they resumed their conversation.

“Bring him, Claire. You don’t know many of my friends and if it allows you to move on, find someone more suited to you, then that’s a good thing.”

Claire smiled at the barely-hidden barb. “Okay, I will. He can make himself useful, pouring drinks or ushering people around.”

“Cleaning up vomit, looking after the drunks.”

“Kim!”

“Sorry.” She laughed, and changed to subject to the tricky question of red roses versus lilies.

As she hung up the phone, Claire replayed the conversation in her mind. She knew that Kim wasn’t Michael’s greatest fan, but the vehemence of her dislike surprised her.

Is Michael all those things? She didn’t remember him that way. He’d been a gentleman, in every sense of the word. Gentle, kind, thoughtful. Sure he opened doors and booked restaurants, but that didn’t make him old-fashioned, just unusual. Compared with her previous boyfriends it had been wonderful. And of course there were other things he excelled at. She blushed and forced the thought away.

That’s history now. He wants something I can’t give him. The weekend will be good; we can part as friends and move on.

Claire gazed unfocussed at the bright yellow walls of the hostel lounge and let her mind drift, ignoring the sense of anticipation building in her tummy.

***

Enthusiastic Editing: 2013 365 Challenge #169

A lovely little editing book

I had an unusual day today:I enjoyed editing.

I was fortunate to read a post by Rinelle Grey before I started work this morning, about her four favourite writing books. I have one, and one is to do with sales. Of the remaining two, I was drawn to one called The Little Book of Self-Editing for Writers by Bridget McKenna.

Discovering that it was less than the price of a latte, I downloaded it and started reading. Which nearly resulted in no Claire installment for this morning’s post! I managed to drag myself away to dredge up a miserable 400 words before jumping straight back in.

It’s not a long book and I only skimmed it, but it really helped me focus on what to tackle next with Baby Blues. I hope one day to really polish and polish it, and I know I shouldn’t publish it until that has happened. But hey, it’s out in the world already…

My aim is to erase it’s most awful sins speedily and get back to Claire, or I won’t finish my 2013 challenge. I probably wouldn’t finish Baby Blues either because it’ll go back in the bottom drawer. So, for a flying edit, the book is brilliant. Particularly the check list at the end. It suggests tallying up the things that shouldn’t be in your book. Adverbs, filler words, things like Just (257), That (1220), Really (125). I’m not surprised about the number of ‘Just’s, as I wrote a post about it!

The numbers were astounding, as much for the ones I didn’t have loads of as the ones I did. Not a single ‘Absolutely’ in the entire manuscript, even though I say it all the time.

Killing adverbs in Baby Blues

I like numbers. They’re comforting. They’re a way to track progress. I didn’t used to be a marketing analyst for nothing. Numbers motivate me. It’s why editing is hard. When you’re drafting you can say, I wrote 7,000 words today, and smile at that. With editing it’s harder. Now I have numbers.

I started the day with 2040 words ending in ly. They’re not all adverbs, and not all adverbs end in ly, but what a great place to start. At the end of today, that number is down to 1760. I’ve managed to shave over 1100 words off the bloated manuscript total of 117,500, and fix several POV issues in the process.

It’s not the most structured way to edit, but it works for me. It was hard to tear myself away to vacuum upstairs and unpack the shopping. The dog almost despaired of her walk, although it’s glorious out here and I’m glad she convinced me. Lord knows what I’m going to do for Claire though. I want to get back to scrubbing out those adverbs. Not all of them – I’m not that patient – but certainly the easy ones.

I’m breaking all the rules of writing and deserve to be whipped, but quick fix editing? Yes please.

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Claire registered the name flashing on her phone, and the world went still. She searched the empty lounge for a place to hide. Finding nothing, she turned her attention back to the phone, her thumb hovering over the buttons: green, red, green, red. Selecting one without looking, she held the phone to her ear.

“Claire?”

“Hello, Michael.”

“I, er, hello. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

The phone fell silent. Words came and went in Claire’s mind, but none seemed the right ones. She waited for Michael to give the reason for his call. At last she heard him draw breath, and she unconsciously held hers.

“I saw on Facebook that Kim’s getting married, weekend after next.” He paused again, and Claire had time to curse the innumerable connections that meant he could still keep tabs on her life. He and Kim were not friends.

“Yes, they decided to Carpe Diem. I’m maid of honour.”

She had a pretty good idea what he wanted, but decided to make him sweat. This time the silence lasted a beat too long, before words tumbled out.

“Do you have a date?”

Claire laughed. She couldn’t help it; she hadn’t expected him to be so blunt. What happened to the suave businessman, never at a loss?

“No, Michael, I don’t have a date. I’ve been rather busy of late.”

“Yes, I follow the blog. How was your week with Sky?”

“It was great, well, until the end anyway.”

“Why, what happened?” Michael’s concern buried deep into Claire’s tummy, sparking warmth.

“Dad called to say Ruth had taken a turn for the worse. We had to leg it to the hospital.”

“What’s wrong with Ruth?” The sharpness in Michael’s voice reminded Claire that he had met her family; that Ruth wasn’t merely a name. She recalled, too, that she had yet to tell Michael of her sister’s illness. Hard to avoid it now.

“She has cancer. Well, she had a tumour, in her brain. They removed it, but it seems to have spread.”

“Oh, Claire. Why didn’t you tell me?” He inhaled, and she could imagine him running his hands through his hair. “Why would you cope with something like that alone?”

“I’m not alone, Michael.” The words were colder than intended. “I have friends, family. It’s kind of you to be concerned, but I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.”

Michael’s words triggered a memory. Sitting in A&E thinking that, even though she didn’t need a man, it would be rather nice to have someone to take care of her. Then she remembered Michael’s habit of treating her like a Royal Doulton figurine, and decided there was a fine line between caring and suffocating.

“Ruth is in good hands. Mum and Dad are nearby, Robert came over and dealt with the doctors, and I can mind Sky whenever she needs. We’re fine.”

“Well, I’m here if you need me.”

“I know, Michael.”

“And if you want someone to go to Kim’s wedding. You know, as a friend.” He paused, and Claire could imagine him replaying their meeting at the airport. She wondered if he regretted going to a wedding with Debbie as a friend.

The words of denial were on her lips, when another thought presented itself. Maybe I should let him come. Maybe that’s what we both need. What do the Americans call it? Closure? Maybe we need to see that we’ve outgrown each other. It’s been months now. What harm can it do? It’s not like it’s a romantic weekend away: We’ll be staying in bunk-beds. She chose not to remember her encounter with the Scotsman in a top bunk.

“I’ll have to ask Kim. You’re not exactly her favourite person, you know.”

“You dumped me, Claire. I’m not the bad guy in all this.” The rest of her words seemed to register, as he stopped abruptly. “Wait a minute; what will you speak to Kim about?”

“Whether you can come to the wedding as my plus one. As a friend.” She emphasised the words. “You can make yourself useful as an usher or something.”

“Whatever you want, Claire. I’ll be the perfect guest.”

Claire winced at the hope and excitement in his voice. Damn, this was a bad idea. Still, it was done now. She could always say Kim had vetoed it.

The idea of Michael coming to the wedding seemed to alleviate the dread she had been carrying round for the last few days. At least I’ll have someone to talk to, to distract me from all that romantic bliss. As long as Michael doesn’t find out Kim’s pregnant. That’s a discussion I do not need to have with him.

“Okay, Michael. No funny business and no guarantees. I’ll talk to Kim. If you do come, it will be purely to keep my glass full and stop me dying of boredom. I barely know any of Kim and Jeff’s friends.”

“Understood.”

Claire hung up the phone. She felt like Pandora, wishing the box lid had remained firmly closed.

***

Baby Shower: 2013 365 Challenge #168

High Tea: now you see it…

I went to my first baby shower today.

They’re not a big thing here in the UK (or not in my experience anyway): we tend to make more of a fuss once the baby is born. It was lovely to be able to chat with the mother-to-be while she was awake and full of beans, rather than half asleep and exhausted, and for the focus to be on her rather than a bundle of joy that would rather be feeding.

We played lovely games like ‘name that baby food’ and ‘taste the chocolate in the nappy and identify it’. Also a new experience! (I confess I just sniffed the chocolate in the nappies!)

The interesting part for me was how, as a group of friends, we tried so hard to get the balance between supportive and honest. Five out of six of us already have children, so when the mother-to-be started sharing horror stories people have told her, about birth and after, we had to walk the line between ‘oh yes, that happened to me’ and ‘don’t be silly, you’ll be fine.’

…now you don’t

Really, though, what person tells a 33-week-pregnant woman all the details of episiotomies and C-sections? By that point you’re ‘on the train’, as my friend kept saying: it’s too late to get off.

Isn’t parenting like that though? Always running the line of honesty versus compassion when it comes to discussing it with people yet to get to the point you have reached? (Whether it’s babies or teenagers.)

It’s the same with the blogs I follow. Some of them are all about telling you it’s okay to be the less-than-perfect parent.

Like this one on the Scary Mommy blog about the school holidays. (Interestingly, some parents still feel the need to leave vicious comments along the line of ‘if you hate your kids so much, why did you have them?’ I mean, really? It’s meant to be hyperbole, it’s meant to be sarcastic. Don’t take it so seriously!)

On the other hand, some posts gently remind you, on occasion, to strive to be a better parent. Like this one from Raised by My Daughter about the glory of holding a child’s hand and being dragged off into their world of adventures. This was my response to the post this morning:

I really needed this post, thank you. My son’s nearly three and at the tugging, Mummy come see, stage. But I also have the 4yo insisting I watch her ballet or listen to her story. I confess the hand-pulling mostly irritates me because I’m generally too exhausted to get up. You have reminded me to try and find the energy to get up and go exploring more often and see it as endearing rather than annoying. Thank you!

So, to my mother-to-be friend, if I were to give you advice (which I won’t, because you won’t need it), it would be Don’t judge others, keep a sense of humour, and follow some great blogs.’ These two would be a good start (check them out, if you haven’t before).

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Claire wandered around the china museum without seeing it. Her mind whirred with unwelcome thoughts until her skin tingled, vibrating like a busy computer. Fear for Ruth and Sky tangled with vague dread about Kim’s wedding. She was unclear whether it was the event that bothered her, or the fact that she would be attending by herself.

A memory presented itself at the door of her mind and asked to come in. Claire tried to deny it entrance, but it insisted. There in her head was a vivid image of Michael, with his ex-girlfriend Debbie, at Manchester airport. She could hear him speaking, although she wanted to block out the sound.

“We were coming back from a wedding. An old friend of Debbie’s. Debbie didn’t want to go by herself and I said I’d go. As a friend.”

The words swirled in an eerie rendition of Michael’s deep voice, like a sound-bite in a news bulletin heard on the radio again and again.

“As a friend.”

She considered it. But we’re not friends, not like that. If I invite Michael to a wedding, he’s going to get the wrong idea.

Claire followed the guide and tried to tear her mind away from unpleasant thoughts to concentrate on the here and now. She watched the spinning potter’s wheel, the capable hands moulding and guiding the clay into a beautiful shape.

I wonder if Kim would like a vase for a wedding present. Glancing at the walls of delicate pottery, Claire remembered the baby growing in her friend’s tummy. Not such a good idea. A weekend away at Ragdale Spa would probably be more useful.

Claire felt heavy, as she plodded after the guide and attempted to concentrate. Her limbs dragged down until they felt impossible to lift. With effort, she took pictures of the flickering light in the kiln, the fine china of the gallery, the conical chimneys, towering against a murky sky.

Coffee, that’s the answer.

She scanned the area for café signs, but couldn’t see any.

“Excuse me?” Claire approached the guide, unaware whether she had interrupted her or not. Her muffled ears weren’t picking up sound as they should. The lady turned, a questioning look on her face.

“Is there a coffee shop here?”

The question was greeted with a look of bewilderment and Claire decided she probably had interrupted the guide mid-flow. It was too late to be embarrassed. So what if this stranger thought she was rude?

“There isn’t, I’m afraid, but the Youth Hostel is a short walk away; there’s a café there.”

Claire nodded and turned to leave. She was halfway back to the hostel before she realised she hadn’t even said thank you.

***

Watching and Failing: 2013 365 Challenge #167

Cosy Bunnies

Had a strange instance of parenting fail today. I’m blaming the lack of sleep. Today was not a great day to take both kids to the Farm by myself. Normally I like going to one of the Farms, they’re relaxing places with plenty to keep the kids amused. As it took two hours to even get out the house, due to my tiredness and their inability to do something as simple as brush their teeth, my nerves were already stretched before we left home.

I paid for them to paint a plaster of paris plaque in the craft barn. Both chose fairies and all was good until I tipped out the black water and got some fresh, as it was muddying the watercolours.

Littlest Martin threw a paddy because he wanted black water, and proceeded to prove his point by painting his fairy black.

Painting fairies

For some reason it made me mad, to the point I had to leave the room. But not until I’d got grumpy with him and accused him of being ungrateful. All because he liked black.

And because I wanted to paint a fairy and make it beautiful. Ironically his black fairy is very effective, much more so than his sister’s multi-coloured one, or anything I might have painted.

I do try to let them do their own thing, although covering stuff in black paint does irritate me for some inexplicable reason. (Maybe I get frustrated with the art stuff because that’s my thing, particularly colour.)

On a good day it wouldn’t lead to anything from me but a gentle, ‘How about blue?’. But, when I’m tired, it seems I’m more of a two-year-old than he is. Thank goodness kids are forgiving!

Painting the world black

Later I was able to sit and watch the children across the playground, out of earshot. It was lovely.

There’s an irony in choosing to sit and watch the children unobserved, when generally they spend all day saying, ‘Watch me, watch me!’ because I’m reading a book or checking my email. Maybe it’s the gift freely given, or that it’s nice to watch without having to be an active participant. ‘Watch me!’ really means, ‘Praise me and applaud my marvellous efforts,’ or ‘Watch me so you’re no longer watching my sibling,’ or ‘Tell me I’m better than them, tell me you love me more.’

This passive watching, as my two sit side by side in a sand pit happily digging, not flicking sand or annoying each other, this is a joy not a chore. I have felt in my life that my family are never watching. Maybe they’re doing this lazy, passive watching-at-a-distance. It’s a nice thought.

And then you make eye contact, and it’s broken. 🙂

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire hurried forward and slid onto a wooden chair at the back of the gathered audience.

I hope Maggie wasn’t having me on, telling me to come here. I wonder if she knew it was St Georges Day?

Claire looked around at the people hemmed in on either side. A flutter of panic rippled in her stomach. After a morning spent with small children, what she needed was quiet repose and coffee. Her internet search on Blists Hill after lunch had revealed the St George’s Day activities and it had been too good an opportunity to miss.

She’d arrived at the hostel to be informed by the manager that she had five minutes to get across to the location before the performance began.

Inhaling deeply to control her ragged breathing, Claire felt as if every eye was on her, judging her for her frizzy hair and the sweat trickling down her neck and chest into her bra.

The set in front of her didn’t looking inspiring. A wooden board with the English flag painted on it and a tatty basket in front isn’t exactly West End theatre. Claire tried to remember that Shakespeare’s plays hadn’t been big on set design either.

A hush fell over the gathered crowd and a person came onto the stage. Claire sat enthralled as she watched the rendition of St George and the Dragon, enacted brilliantly with a handful of actors and a dragon costume. She was no longer aware of the uncomfortable chair or the drying sweat on her forehead.

As the play finished, Claire looked around at the clapping crowd. Even the children seemed to have enjoyed the performance. Part of Claire felt pleased to know that modern children weren’t above being entertained by something that wasn’t 3D animated with surround sound and a bucket of popcorn. She wondered if Sky would have enjoyed it.

Thinking about Sky brought to mind the long-overdue call to Sky and Ruth. With a quick look at her phone she realised Sky would still be on her way home from school. Instead she changed some money into pounds, shillings and pence, and wandered through the Victorian streets, buying bottles of curiosity cola and other knick-knacks to send home to Sky.

The cola bottle reminded her about her assignment. I wonder if I could weave it into a blog post. Hmmm maybe Coca Cola wouldn’t be too impressed if I wrote about a rival brand. It seemed strange thinking about work in this old-fashioned location. Her shiny glass office and life of travelling to client meetings seemed a world away now.

“Hello, Sky, it’s Auntie Claire. How are you?”

“Auntie Claire, hello! We learned about fossils at school today. Did you know they’re hundreds and millions of years old?”

Claire sat back into the bench and let her niece’s words flow over her. The jumble of images made her smile, as she pictured the blonde head bent in concentration over rocky fossils and pictures of dinosaurs. There was something very real about listening to Sky talk about her day at school. Seeing the world through fresh eyes; feeling the youthful excitement at every discovery. A tired world felt and experienced anew

In turn, she told Sky about the Victorian town, with people in costume and old fairground games, and the rendition of George and the Dragon.

“How is your Mum?” she asked, when the conversation came to a natural pause.

“Sleeping. Nana says I mustn’t disturb her.”

“Is Nana there?”

Sky didn’t answer, but Claire heard running feet and a call down the corridor. She waited, hoping her mum was in a good mood.

“Yes?”

“Hi Mum, it’s Claire.”

“Oh. Where are you?”

“In Shropshire. Kim’s getting married next weekend, so I’m staying west to attend the wedding.”

There was a pause, and Claire imagined her mum processing the information. She waited for the inevitable comparison to her own spinster-state. It didn’t come.

“Well, about time. I never understood that long engagement thing. In my day if you wanted to get married you did, and had as grand an affair as you could afford.”

Claire looked round at the Victorian town, thinking her mum sounded like she came from that era rather than thirty years ago, when she and her father had a pretty lavish affair, if the photos were anything to go by.

They talked some more about the wedding and Claire was grateful to her mum for not asking who she would go to the wedding with. At last there was only one question left to ask.

“How’s Ruth?”

“Fighting. I wasn’t happy when she told me you’d let Sky meet up with that good-for-nothing ex of hers. But it’s given her something to fight for. It’s good to see. The medication will only take her half the way.”

Claire felt the knot in her stomach release at her mum’s words. As long as her sister was fighting, that was the best to be hoped for.

“Give her my love,” she said, before saying farewell. The clock said 5pm but, to Claire, it felt like bedtime.

***

The Wonder of Sleep: 2013 365 Challenge #166

Walking the dog

Life has been good recently.

With an extra half day of childcare to get on top of the housework, and lots of lovely feedback on my next book, I’ve been feeling unusual sensations: Confidence. Enjoyment.

The sun has been shining and it felt like summer in my heart, if not always outside the front door.

Then I started to struggle with sleep. And the school debate reared its head, so the sleep got worse. Now, for three nights in a row (at least, I’ve lost count) I’ve been woken every two hours, and everything’s gone to pot.

Spot the dog!

Last night I went to bed on a large glass of wine, hoping to sleep through. All it meant was the two-hour shifts of sleep left me groggy and unable to get up. I broke. Low and behold, my life reverted to what it was before. Crying before breakfast, shouting before morning snack. Unable to concentrate, unable to smile.

My family are amazing. Hubbie and kids were full of sympathy and cuddles. When I sobbed in Tesco because my Clubcard vouchers had expired, Amber said, “It’s alright Mummy,” before I’d even managed to apologise. I think maybe seeing the difference for themselves, seeing that it isn’t just words when I say, “Sorry, Mummy’s tired,” has made them take the tears and shouting less to heart.

Enjoying the evening sun

Doesn’t stop them being little monkeys of course but you can’t expect miracles from preschoolers.

So now I’m yawning and stumbling my way round the field with the dog, trying to smile at the sun but really praying for bedtime and a night where my lovely family don’t take it in turns to wake me.

On the plus side, I didn’t cry when I got back to the car this afternoon, with two tired and cranky kids, to find a scribbled note under the wiper that said, “You have a flat tyre.” I didn’t shout at hubbie when I rang him and he said, “Oh yes, that went flat when I borrowed your car last week, just pump it up, it’ll be fine.”

There’s something to be proud of on the darkest of days. Night night.

_______________________________________________________________________________

“This isn’t a trek; this is just taking the bloody thing for a walk.” Claire looked up at the creature trying to eat her hat. “Cut it out!” The llama smirked at her down its long nose, and chewed insolently.

Claire caught sight of Maggie, her expression somewhere between amusement and disapproval. She held her finger to her lips and Claire looked round guiltily, realising there were children in earshot.

She tugged on the lead and the animal trotted on behind her, like the twisted off-spring of a dog and a giraffe.

The children laughed and giggled, as they walked the llamas along the country lane. At the front, a guide chatted about the local plant and animal life, although the children paid little attention. Maggie paused to let Claire catch up.

“Not what you were expecting?”

“Well, no. I went pony trekking in the New Forest. I was on the pony, not pulling it along behind me.”

“This is for the children, not you! They’re only 8 and 9 years old. Grooming and walking a llama is just their level. Plus we don’t have to worry about the health and safety paperwork if one of them were to fall off! Anyway, the fun comes later.” She threw a cheeky glance at Claire, who felt a heavy feeling in her stomach.

“Why did I let you talk me into this?”

“Because you were bored and wanted some company, some fun? Admit it, you’re having fun?”

Claire shook her head, her lip stuck out in a pout.

“Now you look like a nine-year-old.” The women laughed. “So, where to next, Claire?”

“Ironbridge Coalport, wherever that is.”

“Ah, that’s over in Shropshire. Lovely. Visit the Blist Hill Victorian Village, it will give you something different to write about on that website of yours. You can go for a ride in the horse and cart, if you’re tired of walking!”

With a nod, Claire tugged the lead of her llama and followed the giggling children back for lunch, wishing that Maggie could come with her to her next hostel. There was something infectious about the woman, something warm, that made her happy.

“Come on, Miss Carleton!”

Claire looked over her shoulder at the girl behind her and resisted the urge to swear. She gripped the rubber handles tightly in sweaty hands and willed her creaking knees to try harder. I will not lose to a nine-year old. She glanced over at the blonde-haired girl to her right, who was giggling so hard she didn’t hear the instruction to go.

Pulling hard on the handles, Claire bounced the space hopper along the grass towards the marker. Behind her she could hear her other team mates yelling and urging her on. Her thighs burned. I’m going to kill you, Maggie. She couldn’t see the woman, but she knew she was grinning, just as she had been when she volunteered Claire to take her place in the races.

I’ve seen her tramp along the road quicker than I could run. Playing the old-age card, so that I have to endure sack races and space hoppers: That’s just low. She scowled, but somewhere deep inside a sensation bubbled. Claire didn’t need to analyse it, she didn’t want to. Maggie would be too smug.

The feeling bubbled up higher, until the words were in her mind.

This is fun.

***

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.

________________________________________________________________________________

“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.

________________________________________________________________________________

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)

Editing Frenzy: 2013 365 Challenge #162

A busy day editing and scrapbooking

The lovely Pat Elliott has made me doubly happy today. She has reviewed Dragon Wraiths, over on her blog, saying – in her candid way – “There are a few minor editing errors, but you know, they didn’t stop me loving the book. I’d definitely read another by this author.” Big grins.

Pat has also, very kindly, read my chick lit novel Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes, and provided feedback. Despite having no intention of spending time on the novel this year, it galvanised me to work on it today, incorporating the suggested changes (unsurprisingly mostly to do with grammar.)

The frustrating part, for me, is that all three of the main formatting changes suggested by Pat involve reverting back to the way the text was before I began editing it last year! One is to do with commas: I know I don’t really understand commas, so I purchased a book on punctuation and learned as much as I could. As a result I removed a whole heap of the little buggers, figuring it was better not to have them than to put them in the wrong place. Pat’s main formatting suggestion? More commas!

I never quite found the right image for Helen

The second one is to do with layout: putting *** where the text breaks and there is a shift in time or location. I did that originally, but it looked messy, so I took them out and left just a paragraph break.

I’ve spent today putting them all back in.

They are more important in an ebook, as you have no idea what the pagination looks like. With a print book you can put them in only where it isn’t clear that there has been a shift, such as over a page break.

The third grammar point has me puzzled. Pat informed me (and I trust her judgement) that modern publishing no longer uses double quotes for dialogue. Apparently standard form is now to use ‘ rather than “. This poses a problem. Partly because that, too, would involve changing the entire manuscript back to the way it was originally – before an early Beta Reader told me to use double quotes (preferably smart quotes), as that was standard form.

Sharni, Derek and Maggie

It also poses a dilemma for me personally, because I have come to prefer smart/double quotes. A quick flick through the other ebooks on my iPad showed most of them to still use double quotes.

I Googled it, but still haven’t discovered a definitive answer. The best I can tell is that it is a UK/US thing, with the UK using single quotes and the US double quotes. As the majority of my sales are in the US, I think I will leave the double quotes. (Plus, that means less work!) I’m definitely going to keep Googling for publishing standards, though, as Pat raised a point I hadn’t previously considered. Self-publishing is full of hidden pitfalls and, thankfully, lots of lovely people with maps and compasses to help guide the way through!

The final style point was that my writing has too much internal thought in italics. I agree that such is probably the case, and I spent a chunk of today toning it down. It does make me worry about Two-Hundred Steps Home, though, as it’s probably 20% in italics! I’m not sure where it came from as a writing style, but if it is mentioned by other Beta Readers I’ll have to train myself to write a different way. This is the amazing thing about good Beta Readers – they don’t just help you with that novel, but with all your creative endeavours!

All this has a) given me a headache and b) reiterated that I need a copy editor. As I can’t afford to pay for one, that takes me back to my original plan: trying to find an agent to publish traditionally, so I get that stuff as part of the deal. In the mean time, it’s back to the Penguin book on Punctuation and some paracetamol.

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The steel light of dawn crept in through the curtains and lit the room. It took Claire a moment to realise where she was and what had woken her at such an ungodly hour. Loud, rasping snores resonated through the room. They sounded as if they were coming from behind her, which wasn’t right.

The acoustics in this place must be crazy. That woman needs to consider getting a single room; I feel like something’s sawing at my skull.

The next thing Claire noticed was how narrow the bed was. She felt precariously close to the edge of the bunk, with only a short rail separating her from a four-foot drop. The third fact permeating her foggy brain, seeping through the thudding pain, was the arm around her waist.

Bugger.

Like a movie on fast forward, the events of the previous evening sped past her eyes in brutal clarity. The gin. The quiz. The random questions she’d got right, to much applause. The congratulatory hugs from the group when they came third.

The Scotsman.

Bugger.

The weight of the arm pinned her to the bed. Claire tried to work out if either of them were naked. As far as she could tell, she was still wearing her t-shirt and pants from the day before.

Phew, that’s something at least.

A brush of warmth against her back informed her that the Scot wasn’t so well clad.

Oh, Christ. This is a single-sex dorm. I’m going to be in so much trouble.

Claire lifted the heavy arm and slid it behind her, holding her breath as the man murmured something unintelligible and rolled over to face the wall. Claire clung on to the foot of remaining bed, not wanting to fall in a heap and wake her room mates.

She peered over the bunk, looking for the ladder, and saw a girl asleep on the floor.

What?

Remembering how unsteady the beds were, Claire flushed as she imagined being in the bottom bunk with any sort of shenanigans going on above.

Crap. Poor woman.

Fully awake, adrenalin pushing the alcohol from her fuddled mind, Claire surveyed the room below. She hadn’t unpacked, so that helped. All she had to do was climb down from the bunk and retrieve her bag and clothes, without waking the girl on the floor or the naked man hogging most of her bed.

With the stealth of a ninja, she moved, one limb at a time. A loud creak filled the room and she stopped, breath held, listening. Ever nerve zinged like a live wire under her skin. She felt she might hear a mouse breathing or the trees growing outside the window. No sound of censorious women could be heard.

Deciding all or bust might be the better option, Claire flipped down from the bed, narrowly missing the sleeping woman. In one movement she grabbed her jeans, handbag, rucksack and shoes. Anything else would have to be marked up as lost through misadventure.

Cheeks flaming and ears ringing, Claire fled the room. Pausing only to pull on her jeans and shoes, she strode along the clean, silent, corridors and headed for the car park.

So much for an extended stay.

With her phone confessing that it was only 5am, Claire was behind the wheel and on her way.

***