Boots

If I had lots of money and time, I would buy boots.

I would buy black boots, dark brown boots, tan boots, burgundy boots, navy boots, grey boots. I would buy two-tone boots. I would buy some of those lovely boots that are black with a wide tan cuff round the top.

I would buy baggy boots, tight boots, straight boots, flared boots, zipped boots. They'd be ankle-high, knee-high, mid-calf, or over the knee. Thigh boots! I've never even tried on a pair of thigh boots! And ankle boots. Do you remember how we used to call them "pixie" boots? I'd buy those.

I would buy plain boots, fancy boots, fur-lined boots, boots with elastic sections, boots with buckles, straps, buttons, or laces. I would buy cowgirl boots, yes, to remind me of my years in the Midwest. I would buy high-heeled boots, stiletto boots, kitten heels, wedges, low heeled boots, and maybe even, in a moment of generous inclusivity, Uggs. I would buy leather boots, suede boots, imitation boots, plastic boots, and rubber boots. For let's not forget WELLIES.

I would buy many pairs of wellies. I would buy posh wellies, green ones with buckles, with a brand label that says something to people who know these things. I would buy tartan wellies and spotty wellies. I would buy girlie, flowery wellies (does Cath Kidston do them, or better still, Gisela Graham?). I would buy wellie socks, and send a congratulations card to the brilliant person who invented them.

I would buy cheap boots, expensive boots, classy boots, fun boots. Boots that are chunky and statementy - Doc Martens perhaps. Boots that are elegant and refined, and say "die for me" - Russell and Bromley, or Carvela. I would buy plenty of boots made in Italy. I would even buy CFM boots, because when I was young, a friend pointed some out to me. Having no access to Urban Dictionary on the internet, I had to suffer the ignominy of asking her what the initials stood for. High time I had some of my own!

I would move to Woking in Surrey, telling all my friends, "these boots were made for Woking". I would build an extension to the house: the Boot Space. Then I would line up all my boots, and wander carefully along the shelving areas every morning, asking "Hm... Which of you lovely boots shall I wear today?" I'd walk up and down the rows, running my hand over their shiny toes, taking down the ones that caught my eye, cradling them, and softly stroking their rounded shapes.

Then I'd have to employ someone to do all the polishing, and brushing, because my boots would have to live their lives in mint condition. They would have to have proper boot-stretchers for the calves and for the feet, so that they would hold their beautiful forms when my own calves and my own feet were not in them. I'd have to employ someone else to dust them, because I would have so many that I wouldn't get round to wearing each pair more than a few times a year. I think the Duster would have to be someone who would also talk to them, so they didn't get lonely. "Just look at your beautiful chestnut tones!" she would say (for surely, it would be a woman, even if the job was openly and fairly advertised). "How smooth your suedey sides are!" "You're so burnished, I could light a match just by putting it against your glowing toes."

Can you guess what's on my Christmas list?

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Ideas on a postcard, please

What do you buy your 14 year old son for his birthday?

Even he himself told me the other day that he has everything he wants. Yes, we have Sky TV (previous joint birthdays with brother, or some deal or other, I can't quite remember). Yes, we have an Xbox, but he only likes playing FIFA and NBA and has those, and doesn't want any other games. Yes, I've told friends and family to get iTunes cards, so won't be buying one myself. Yes, I've looked on the website of the football team he supports, and have considered mugs, calendars and the like. No, he doesn't read many books or play many board games any more (waaah). No, he doesn't even use his Nintendo DS these days. No, I'm not getting another dog.

So apart from a trip to buy trainers of some description (what is it with boys and trainers?), I am at a loss. I'm not a believer in spending money for the sake of it, but you have to mark your off-spring's birthdays.

Does anyone have any experience of slacklines? They seem to be the in thing. Could be fun?

And for those of you with a younger boy, relish the birthdays, is all I can say. Enjoy looking on Amazon and agonising over the myriad of options, all of which you know would be a hit. Enjoy diverting your trolley into the toys aisle when you're at Sainsbury's, and having to resist piling into it more and still more things you know he'd love. Enjoy going into your local toy shop for a few little extras, and finding those hidden treasures at pocket money prices: fake dog poo, key rings, wind-up figures, plastic things that have no purpose other than to light up and look interesting. Enjoy it all, because a Sky TV subscription is ruinously expensive (after that oh-so-tempting introductory offer for the first year), and you can't wrap it up and watch his face when he opens it.

Alas. The passing of time...


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A small thing that annoys me

Here is a small thing that annoys me.

When I collect my youngest child from school (the older two are self-transporting), I wait in the school reception area, with many other parents. The children come down the hallway, and are often heavy-laden with the gear of school life: backpacks, violins, sports bags, swimming bags, coat or sweater trailing on the floor. The child deposits an item or two, or sometimes all of them, at the feet of the parent. The parent picks up the luggage, and they set off towards the car together.

Parents, please do not do this. It really annoys me. Quite apart from that, it is a practice that encourages your child to see you as a porter, or servant, or some invisible life-facilitating entity. Your child is not a toddler, when picking up after them is a more reasonable task. They have carried their stuff around quite adequately all day, without you doing so on their behalf.

I understand that they are weighed down with it all, and you have two free hands. Helping out is sensible. So what I suggest is this. Either teach them to ask "Mummy/Daddy, could I ask you to help me carry my bag?" and to wait for your reply, before dumping the bag in front of you. Or say to them "Would you like me to help you with all that stuff?" and wait for them to reply (using the word please or thank you), before unloading some of it from them.

I try not to be a preachy parent, because we're none of us perfect, and you never know who is reading your blog, but well, this one annoys me. We signed up to be parents, not pack horses.

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Pulled pork and onesies

We are having pulled pork for lunch. It's in the slow cooker as I write, and just about beginning to release lovely aromatic fumes into the kitchen.

Here's the thing, though. I'm quite annoyed with pulled pork. When we were in the US, it was a staple, and always popular. What a lovely way to eat pork, I invariably thought. None of that sawing away at a slice of grey meat that's a little bit tough, under some gravy that might or might not taste of anything nice. So I had plans. Plans. Not for world domination, or anything like that, but for pulled pork in the UK. I was going to magic up that little number when I did a Sunday lunch for visitors, or was catering for a number of hungry teenagers. "Pulled pork," I was going to say. "It's an American thing."

But waah. Pulled pork preceded me across the Atlantic. Pigs might fly, and they obviously did. I got back to a nation already in love with pulled pork. I am so yesterday already. Even owning and using a slow cooker isn't as raunchily "ranch" as I'd thought.

The same thing happened with onesies, though my plans for those were not to introduce them and enjoy their novelty. No. I was all ready to share with my British friends a good laugh, as I described to their wonderingly unbelieving faces these ridiculous baby-gros that were being marketed to grown-ups in the US. I was looking forward to many a smug "they don't really buy them, and wear them, surely" moment, full of cultural superiority, and what do I find? The onesie had done a reverse Christopher Columbus and discovered Britain while I was away. Gaah.

What about you, fellow expats? Have there been new things that you've come across on your travels, only to find them already back in Blighty?

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How technology has eased the path

In this information-ready era, there are so many things that our children will never have to face, that we did.

1. Mum not having a clue how to do a French braid. There's Youtube. And now she's watched the French braid video, you can browse together the many other complicated braiding possibilities. Many!
2. Going to the public library to get a book out on a topic for a project at school, only to find that there were two relevant books, and guess what? They've both been taken out by other children. Because there were two books and thirty children. 
3. Not knowing what a rude word means. Not finding it in the dictionary. Being too embarrassed to ask your Mum or a friend. That's what Google is for. It might not even be a rude word. Just a super-cool one. Urban Dictionary will tell you.
4. Not getting a joke. Why is everyone laughing, and you didn't understand it? Again, Google.
5. Sitting in a cafe on your own. Whether it was filling in time, or waiting for a late friend, there used to be an exquisite awkwardness about being on your own in a cafe. Do you nip out and buy a newspaper to read? Or do you carry a paperback in your handbag, for just such moments as this? Do you fiddle endlessly with your coffee? Do you go to the loo - again - to fill in a few minutes? This next generation will never have to worry. They have their phones.
6. The indecision as to whether to buy a Filofax or not. Filofaxes polarised us. They were either the ultimate cool, showing that you had lots of friends - in fact, so many of them that you had to spend serious money on a leather-bound book to keep all their details in. Or they were just too cliche for words, and you stuck with your old address book, which had a picture of Salisbury Cathedral on the front. There was no half-measure. Either you were a Filofax person, or you weren't. But whichever you were, you were expected to show great sympathy when you heard the story of someone's friend or sister who had lost their Filofax, or had it stolen. All those friends' details stored carefully between the leather covers, gone! I suppose that is one thing that has been carried forward into the technological era, and intensified. The lost phone. That must be much worse than the lost Filofax.
7. Endless conversations devoted to giving directions. How did we manage before mobile phones? 
8. The need to be punctual. If you couldn't contact the person you were meeting, then being 5 or maybe 10 minutes late was ok, but you wouldn't expect them to be happy for longer than that (see 5 above). No mobile phones meant no potential for last-minute apologies, or re-arranging of venue to fit in with your inefficient travel plans. Maybe this one is a loss rather than a gain of modern life.

Can you think of any others?

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So Husband was right

Husband was right. The No vote prevailed. He had guessed it would be 47% vs 55%. I, on the other hand, was wrong, and quite wrong. For all the closeness of the polls predictions, I had guessed the Yes vote would have a decisive yes, and put a figure of 65% vs 35% on it.

I'm relieved, but, because I am a contrary soul with something of a natural inclination to rebel (it's genetic), I feel a kind of weird disappointment too. I voted No, staunchly and whole-heartedly. But I'd got to the point where I really believed Yes was going to win, and so I'd prepared myself. So now, though I'm pleased to stay Better Together, and though I rejoice at the political change that this referendum has sparked, I also can't help feeling like I might feel if I was dressed up in warm clothes and wellies, and trudging out in the rain to a firework display, that's cancelled at the last minute because of the bad weather. I know. I'm a contrary soul.

I was trying to explain to Husband, and I likened it to this. For the last two and a half years or more of living in America, we were trying to get back. Trying hard. Husband would occasionally get a job interview, and we'd think "surely this is it!" I mean, who pays an air fare for a candidate unless they're pretty serious? (We're talking church or academia, not banking or big corporations, by the way, just so you see the context.) And then he wouldn't get the job (loyally, I feel at this point that I need to point out that he's not just rubbish at interviews, which is what you, dear reader, might conclude). Anyway, on one occasion in particular, after a whole string of disappointments, he was interviewed, and, though I deeply wanted to return to the UK, I was not that keen on the opportunity. It was in a city I felt no connection to at all, in a part of the UK that I felt no connection to. I'd googled local house prices and schools, and it just looked... meh. And at that point, I was really enjoying life where we were. I knew we would say yes, and, though the job seemed a bit meh too, I was gearing up to be thrilled for Husband, and I couldn't forget that deep down, I should be glad to be returning home. It had felt like a very long, long two plus years at that point. I really, really didn't like the look of the other side of the divide, but it was, at least, on the other side, and I knew that I would have to find the energy to jump over, and carry the family with me. So when he didn't get that job, I was both mighty relieved (secretly, not able to tell even him), but also disappointed. And I learnt that it's possible, ok, and frankly quite normal, to feel conflicting emotions at the same time. There isn't a "right" emotion to feel. It's not as if you have to choose which one is the proper one, or that one is deeper than the other. You acknowledge them both, as your friends, and let time filter them out.

So, this morning, though happy and relieved, I am all a-jangle. Churned up. I want to acknowledge the pain of the Yes campaign, individuals who have passionately and self-sacrificially worked towards the other outcome, though I'm glad they didn't prevail. But heck, I admire them, and I would have given an independent Scotland a good go. Passion is infectious.

I am also very irritated by the BBC coverage, and the way the story has been hijacked. It's like Scotland has been allowed its moment, and now, guess what? It's all about England again. It's happened with indecent haste. Have you learned nothing, you down South? David Cameron has talked of the "so-called West Lothian question". Well, David, actually, it was and is the West Lothian question, not "so-called" at all. You've just hijacked it, and called it the English question, and now, the BBC seems very determined to talk about England again.

I guess both sides need to shift their attitudes, and that is hard to do. For every one Scot who bears a grudge and spits the word "Westminster" as if it were some axis of English evil, there is a clutch of people in the south of England who think of Scotland as a bolt-on extra, somewhere beyond even Northumbria, nice for walking holidays and romantic scenes in films. There's definitely bridge-building to be done on both sides.

Hurrah for democracy, though. That these questions can be raised, and everyone have a voice. Hurrah that the turn-out was so high. Hurrah that the result was relatively even throughout Scotland, so that the result looks like a wiggling worm round the dividing line. Hurrah that the result was decisive enough, and not 49% vs 51%. But let's take heed. 45% vs 55% is hardly a landslide. The Union is secured, but needs to work harder.

This is what I really feel. I LOVE living in Scotland. I was thrilled to return here from America (we didn't think we probably would). I love having the best of all worlds. I love living near enough the hills that, in a day, we can go and bag a Munro. I love knowing what that even means. I love living in a capital city that thinks parking is a problem, because it doesn't know what living in London is like. I love the sea, and that I can be walking the dog on the dunes, 40 minutes after leaving the city centre. I love the Edinburgh Festival. I loved going to the Commonwealth Games. I love the long light days of summer. I bloody love The Proclaimers. I even love bagpipes (kind of). I love being the only English person at my work, and that being ok (though it's felt a little uncomfortable of late). And now, I love that my children will have the choice, to pursue an English life, or a Scottish one. I love that.

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A bet

Husband and I have made a bet. Well, not so much a bet, as a guess. He thinks it will be a No vote. I think it will be a Yes. We put percentages on it, but I don't want to say them out loud. Not that it could possibly influence the result, but somehow, it doesn't feel quite right. I'll tell you after the event.

I'm getting up early to vote before taking 10-yo to school, and going to work. No reason to do so, because I could easily vote in the evening. It's just that I know I won't be able to settle to anything all day, until I've voted, so I might as well sacrifice a half-hour in the morning, rather than the whole day.

I hope we stay together, "Better Together",  but I think I've also made my peace with the idea that this northern ship will be sailing away on its own, if the Yes vote prevails. I'm not starry-eyed about what that will look like: economic recession, parties fighting, politicians not delivering what they've promised. Why would the politics of Edinburgh be any different to the politics of Westminster, when all is said and done? But I have, in odd minutes, felt myself sprinkled by the occasional splash from the wave of optimism - ill-founded though I believe it to be. Whatever the Yes/No outcome, isn't it time for change of some kind? You'd be a hard person, indeed, if you remained unaffected by the mood of the moment.

If Scotland becomes independent, I will seek to make it a success - for my children and grandchildren. Two of my children have never lived in England, and maybe they never will. Their children may never hold a British passport. I'm grateful for the time I lived in America, because it did prise me away from some deep sense that I never even knew I had, that being English is somehow best. I know I can be at home north or south of whatever kind of border tomorrow's vote forges between the two nations.

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Please, No

I am English. I live in Scotland. I have one child who was born in England, and two who were born in Scotland. There are getting on for half a million English people living in Scotland - a little under 10% of the population, if my maths is right. There are about 800,000 Scots living in England (figures from the BBC). The history of our countries has been united for over 300 years. It took a long time to get there, and we all know that it wasn't a happy journey. So let's not go back. We could unpick in a few years what it took centuries of bloodshed to forge. We have so much to offer each other. There is so very much to lose, and I can't see much to gain.

It's not hard to imagine a situation in years to come, when my children leave education, in which the oldest can get a job in England if he wants to, but the other two have to apply for a visa to work south of the border. Unless Scotland joins the EU, that is a very real proposition. I see independence as a narrowing of opportunities. I don't want to be alarmist, but if the 20th century taught us anything, it surely taught us that political stability is fragile. More fragile than it seems. Surely stable union as neighbours is better than unstable separation? A narrowing of opportunities might be the least of our worries.

I've listened to Radio Scotland phone-ins on the way to work over the past few months. Several times I've had to turn them off, irritated by yet another person talking of how they want "freedom for ma grandchildren, freedom that I've never had in ma lifetime". What is this "freedom" that the Scots feel they don't have? Up here, it seems to me we have double democracy. We're represented in Westminster, and at Holyrood. What other part of Britain has that?  

I am feeling agitated. I think we all are, up here. This has moved from being a subject of interesting intellectual debate to being a walk along a painful knife edge. I just want it to be over. I want to know which way it's going. I'm nervous because whichever way it does go, it's going to be a close result, and that means that there will be a large number of people who don't get what they want, and who will be disappointed, frustrated, angry. 

Please vote No. We really are Better Together. Or if you do vote Yes, do it because you are excited by the prospect of building a new independent country. Do it because you have a positive vision for what Scotland could be. Don't do it because you're carrying on your shoulders a 300 year old grievance. How many generations have to pass before a nation can move on from a past?

I do have a suggestion. Too late now - we should have done it years ago. Did you know that there's a verse in the National Anthem that goes like this:

Lord, grant that Marshal Wade, May by thy mighty aid, Victory bring.

May he sedition hush, And like a torrent rush, Rebellious Scots to crush.

God save The King.

I know. Who's ever sung that? Who even knew that there exist several verses of the National Anthem? Well, some of the Scots do, and they think it reveals what the English feel about the Scots. So please, could we not get this verse formally struck out of the National Anthem, in a symbolic gesture like the raising of the Saltire above Downing Street? And then, in return, could Scottish rugby supporters please not sing about sending proud Edward's army home "tae think again". That stray verse of the National Anthem dates back to the 1700s (thank you Wikipedia), and English Edward's army was defeated in 1314. 1314! It's time we all moved on, people. 

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Infants vs Teens

When my children were infants, one thing I used to hate was when parents of teenagers said things like "Make the most of these baby years... This is the easy bit... Just you wait till they're teenagers... At least when they're this little, you don't have to worry about where they are". I vowed I would never say that to anyone. And I haven't. But I'm allowed to blog about it, right?

Infants vs Teens

• Sleepless nights:  Yes. When they're babies you lose out on sleep through the night. But you have EVENINGS. When they're teens, kiss goodbye to the sofa, the tv, space to yourself, time to yourself in the evenings. This is all-day parenting. 
• Size:  That baby that dominates your life, it fits into the crook of your elbow. Your teenagers don't. They take up whole sofas (is that the second time I've mentioned sofas already?), you wake up in the night because they bash the bedroom wall the other side of yours when they turn over, you will bump into them in doorways, they can hardly fit into the back seat of your car, they sprawl on the floor so that there is no floor left.
• Food:  Baby-led weaning? Mushed up veggies? Organic or non-organic? Home-made or shop-bought? These, my baby-parenting friends, are little tiny questions (though, yes, I know they don't feel so at the time). Feeding teens is LARGE. VERY LARGE.  You buy a packet of cereal, and it's gone the next day. That advert that implied that no-one, not even Ian Botham, could eat THREE Shredded Wheat was for wimps. Your teens will get through packets of Shredded Wheat like there's no tomorrow in the wheat world.
• Laundry:  Gorgeous, teeny-weeny sleepsuits to hang out on the washing line. Breaks your heart each time. These have become huge trackie bottoms that take a week-end to dry, and socks that smell of last year's camembert and which you have to peel off the sitting room floor or hunt down in rancid corners.
• Expectations:  Yes, your baby cries, and poos, and spends hours breast-feeding, and needs you. But you knew all that. Your teenager will be hopeless at washing up, be grumpy, make you feel small, and still needs you. But somehow, you expected it would be different by now.
• Support:  You've joined the NCT, the "New Mums' Group", you've found friends at Baby Massage Class, and a couple of years later at "Mums and Toddlers". You have appointments, at which your baby's weight and height and milestones are written in a little red book. You have Health Visitors, who are more strictly speaking, Health Visiteds (don't you usually have to go to them, rather than host them at your house?). With teens, there is no support group. You can have a whinge with a friend with similar aged off-spring over a coffee, but that's about as good as it gets.
• Your body:  Your pregnancy tummy will shrink, and though there may be some stretch marks, you think of the awesome strength of that body of yours that grew a baby and pushed it out. When you have teens, your stretch marks will seem like the least of your bodily failings. Most of it is heading south, and, unlike migrating birds, will never head north again.
• Expense:   Yes, that cot was an outlay, and the stroller, and the Moses basket, and all that other stuff. But you had bagfulls of pass-on clothes, didn't you? And the local "Swim Babes" or "Monkey Music" cost a couple of pounds a week. With a teenager you have no pass-ons because they're in adult sizes, and the equipment they want is sports gear, and Sky TV, and an Xbox game. You'll also need to fork out for visits to the cinema, a Duke of Edinburgh expedition, or a trip to a far-flung university for an open day. When you eat out as a family, there's no more "kidz meal only £3.95!". Oh no. You're paying full adult whack for everyone.
• TV:  Bob the Builder, Postman Pat, Tweenies. Yes, they were limited in scope, and you had to watch the same episode over and over. But do you really prefer Liverpool vs Man City? And having to look interested for 90 minutes? And being tested on it afterwards? Come back, Bob, all is forgiven, (and did you ever get together with Wendy, by the way?)
• Public support:  You're bleary-eyed, you're fed up, you're grumpy, but when you go shopping, someone always stops you in the supermarket, engages with your gorgeous baby, and tells you how lovely she/he is. When they're teenagers, you're bleary-eyed, you're fed up, you're grumpy, but when was the last time someone stopped you in public, reminisced about their own experience, and said "Make sure you enjoy every moment of these teenage years; they fly by so quickly"?
• Internet:  You can blog about your baby to your heart's content. She/he can't read, or use a mouse. But if you blog about your teenager...  Let's just say that this post isn't going to be up here for long.

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Seven years on; two years back; five years out

Well, life trots on, doesn't it? This blog started off, in May 2007, seven years ago for heaven's sake, as the witterings of a lonely expat Brit mother, deep in the heart of the Midwest, trying desperately to make sense of her new environment, and heartily grateful for every other expat blog, and every other parent blog, which made her feel not alone. We called writers of parent blogs "Mummy Bloggers" in those days, and I seem to remember I used to put a hyphen in "expat". Things change...

What I'd never really thought, until I read this post, was that I was one of a small number of women, who got the whole Mummy Blogging thing going in the UK. It was pretty well established in the US, but I guess I was part of the small wave that traversed the Atlantic. I feel a bit proud of that.

I haven't really kept up with the great surge that that small wave became. Blogging for me was always about writing, and the social media side of things didn't really appeal. I'm now having to get to grips with social media, as I'm in charge of "Commmunications" in my job. I've been saying for this first year that fundraising has got to be my priority, and that's right. There'll be nothing to communicate about, unless the money comes in and the salaries are paid. However, I'm thinking that in time, I can get myself off on a few training courses, and maybe develop a new interest and expertise. The organisation's website is hosted on Wordpress, and though I've never used Wordpress myself, my experience in blogging has given me a definite headstart there. If nothing else, it means I can talk to our lovely volunteer who is revamping it, without sounding too totally ignorant.

Life, as I said, trots on. I'm now two years back from my expat adventure. I always think it takes two years to settle in a place - especially if you have children and are bound into the school year. The first year, everything is new and you feel like an outsider, and it's all a huge effort. Life is exhausting, just trying to be in the right place at the right time, with the right child, and armed with the right equipment. Because you're trying to make friends, you're having to be super-friendly all the time. Yes, it's tiring. Then the second year is much easier. You're no longer the newbie. The new newbies don't know if you've been there one year or ten. To them, you're just part of the fabric, and so you begin to feel so. There's still that sense of newness though - this year it's become a sense of relief, that you know what to expect at each event you go to, each thing in the school calendar. You won't be the person in jeans, when everyone else has dressed up. But that sense of relief is in itself a signal that you're still a bit new. It's a detachment, as if you're looking on yourself from outside the action, reflecting "this is better than last year, because last year I was new, and now I'm not so new". I always think that it's the third year when you feel properly settled, because you stop stepping back and analysing. You're just getting on with your life.

But here I am, in blogging indulgence as ever, by which I mean that blogging always allows you that stepping back and analysing. Two years back... Yes, we're settled here, and I don't miss my life in the US any more. Just occasionally, like when we were driving through Normandy on holiday, and it was so flat, and the way the light looked and felt as evening drew on, at the edge of the flatness, made me think of the Midwest, and our long road trips there. But it feels like a memory now, not a loss.

The other milestone that I've passed this summer is that I'm five years out from my cancer diagnosis. That really feels odd. When you're going through the treatment, the idea of being five years out seems like a long-distant mirage in the desert. Life will be all well, if only you can reach it. Well, it's not quite like that. For me, approaching the five years made me rather agitated and churned up. I found a thickening around my mastectomy scar, which I went and got checked out, and which was nothing. It's probably been there for most of the five years! But of course that was quite an anxious process to go through. The doctor was so nice and kind, though. I asked him whether other people get panicky in the run-up to the five years anniversary, and he said, yes, it was very common. He gave me the impression that his diary is littered with women finding unnerving lumps and bumps, just as they approach that five year point. It's always so reassuring to know one is normal!

I've got an appointment later in the autumn, to assess what medication is best for me, and I'm not relishing that prospect. It's so long since I've had to make decisions about cancer, and it's often a trade-off: side effects of medication versus percentage risks of not taking it - those kinds of things. It always used to give me that feeling of "But I didn't want cancer in the first place!", and though I'm not in the same place emotionally now, I'm guessing those feelings can come flooding back.

However, I'm making it sound all a bit negative, and it really isn't. I do think that coming through cancer has given me a bigger zest for life, and an ability to tap into a well of joy that sits deep within me. Is this what people call "faith"? It was always there, but I can access it much more quickly now. And because life is full of joy and hope and is to be celebrated, I'm having a big party in the autumn, when I turn 50. It'll be a birthday party, and a thanksgiving. It's going to be a ceilidh, so there'll be dancing. Also curry, puddings, and wine. The guest numbers are a little out of control, but I'm in exuberant mode. I'm celebrating!

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How to get things over the Atlantic: people and money

Well, our American friends did make it. They had two nights on the West Coast instead of four, which was a shame, but then we had a lovely few days together here. Lovely.

Speaking of the difficulty of getting things over the Atlantic, I don't think I ever told you about the woes of getting our money over, when we sold our house in America. It's a bad enough feeling to be paying a monthly mortgage on a house which isn't shifting, but when you've finally sold it, have been to the American Consulate to sign all the papers in front of a notary, and spent an anxious day waiting for the confirmation email from your realtor, the last thing you want to find is that you can't get your money over to join you. That's a very bad feeling.

Before we left the US, we checked with the Bank of America (with whom we'd had a current account for 5 years) how we would get our money over into our UK account. Oh, no problem, they said. Hah. What they hadn't told us was that we would spend hours and hours... and hours... trying to work out how to transfer a large sum of money abroad. Hours spent online, and hours spent on the phone, getting through all their security systems, and trying to speak to an actual human, and then indeed speaking to an actual human or two, before finally admitting defeat. I suppose, to be fair to them, as a bank, you're always setting up systems which have to juggle ease of customer use against security. A tough balancing act. I'm trying to be fair-minded here. The last thing I would have wanted is for someone else to have nabbed that money. However, I have to say that the last straw wasn't the hours of frustration (at least a full working day...), but the fact that ultimately we couldn't even do it - I don't like being ultimately thwarted. It also rankled that we'd taken steps to check in advance, and had been assured there'd be no problem.

I can't even remember all the details, but I do recall that the bank wanted to send us a security code by mobile phone. The mobile phone had to be a US mobile phone. We, of course, didn't have one by that stage. We were working on some cunning plan whereby we gave the number of a friend's mobile phone in the US, and then they emailed us the code, and then we phoned the bank, but there was some reason why we couldn't do that - I can't remember exactly. Foiled again! Whenever we found some possible way, there was always a ceiling which was a few thousand pounds, and having sold a house, we needed a higher ceiling than that. We must have been desperate, because I remember at one point working out with Husband what would be the cost of getting the money out of a cashpoint till in the UK, little by little, over weeks, using our Bank of America debit card. Not a great option, and we worked out it would be hugely expensive.

What we did in the end was to set up an account with a company that specialises in money transfer. It felt a bit risky, but Husband did lots of research online, and the reviews seemed ok. World First worked fine for us. It didn't have that nice, solid, big institution feel to it that Bank of America did, but I guess we're the last generation who will feel emotionally drawn to that kind of big bank for safety. Those big institutions have really let the consumer down over the past decade or so, and they're going to have a lot of competition from people like World First, who we found to be very customer-focused and efficient.

Travelex is another foreign currency exchange company who specialise in international money transfers. I have no direct experience of Travelex, but if you're on the learning curve that we had to climb up, then do yourself a favour and take a short cut. Read some reviews, have a look at some expat chat forums. These new, lean, internet-based companies have a lot to offer the expat.

Disclaimer: For writing this post, I received a small payment from Travelex. The views are my own.
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Planes, Trains and Automobiles

Spare a thought for some American friends of ours. They are people we knew when we lived in the Midwest, really special friends (don't want to be too gushy here). They made it over to see us, and tour round Scotland a little last year. This year, they are going to Spain, but stopping off in Scotland again for a few days en route. Or so they thought...

Their story really is like that film. You know the one. Steve Martin trying to get home for Thanksgiving, and the journey being full of just about every twist and turn imaginable.

Our friends (parents, travelling with a 9 year old and a 7 year old) were going to arrive at Edinburgh airport at 8.00am yesterday. I was going to meet them, spend the morning with them, help them turn round, hire a car, and see them on their way. They were going off to Girvan on the west coast for 4 nights, coming back on Sunday, to spend 5 nights in Edinburgh, seeing us, before heading off to Spain. Just to recap, they were due to arrive at Edinburgh airport at 8.00am yesterday. They are currently in the departure lounge at Atlanta airport.

1. Their flight schedule (via Chicago) was randomly changed, pushing it 12 hours later, which they were notified about by electronic voice message over the phone. Frustrating, but not too bad, as it was actually a better flight schedule (via Dallas). 
2. Storms over the Midwest meant that their new schedule was badly disrupted. They were re-booked (via Chicago).
3. Randomly, the one connecting flight to take them from their city to Chicago was cancelled. Not a weather issue (the storms were over), no explanation given. It was the only flight cancelled that day. Just random. They were rebooked (via Atlanta).
4. They contacted me from Atlanta airport. The plane pushed back from the stand, but encountered some problem in one engine. They sat for 3 hours while mechanics worked on it. They then disembarked, and are now sleeping on the floor of the departure lounge. 

With luck, they'll make it to Heathrow this evening, in time to get a flight to Edinburgh. But they may well have to spend the night at Heathrow and come up tomorrow instead. That will represent a delay of 48 hours. Yes, you read that right: 48 hours. Instead of spending 4 nights in a cottage in Girvan, it will be 2. Though luckily, this whole sorry saga won't have eaten into the time that we will be spending with them, which would have been much more tragic.

Not so much Planes, Trains and Automobiles, as Planes, Planes, Planes. Spare them a thought.
 

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Boring Friday? Want some fun?

This is right up all your streets.

Revamping Beatles' songs by changing one letter.

It's hilarious, and you can join in, in the comments.

Ah, the riches that are on offer in the Blogosphere! Along with The Advice Shack, I'm going to have to set up The Word Games Hut.

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I think you'll be surprised

First off, thank you all so much, you fabulous peoples, for all the gems of advice. Pure gold, it all was. What I really want to do, is to move you all in here, so that you're on hand for any future dilemmas I may have. You wouldn't all fit, what with us not having a spare room, let alone 15 of them. I'm thinking I might buy a big property down the road, and you could all go and live there. I'd call it "The Advice Shack", and I'd pop round every time I needed a decision on anything. I could hire out your services to cover costs: "Top Notch Advice for All Life Situations". On the other hand, you probably would miss your families, and maybe this doesn't look to you like a job opportunity that you can't resist. OK. Stand easy. You can stay where you are, and I'll just tap into The Advice Shack in a cyber way. Probably simpler all round.

Well, peoples, I stayed. I did. I stayed. I rather surprised myself, and reading back that last blog post, it does sound as if I was pretty much on my way out already. However, I was glad to have 10 days or so before I had to make the decision, and I just hung loose. I kept deliberately putting the conscious decision to one side. Every time my rational self wanted to pick it up and get it sorted and tick it off the list, I would tell her to put it down and leave it alone. I'd done all the listing out of the pros and cons, so I tucked that information away in my head, and used it as a background to pottering on, doing the job, and trying to see which way the path would lead.

I can't explain why I stayed, because I'm not entirely sure. I think, when it all came down, I had a strong feeling that having something outside the school, something mine, something that might lead on to other somethings, was more important to me than I'd realised.

The meeting at which I had told my employers that I was applying for other jobs, and discussed options, was extremely annoying. I felt patronised, unappreciated, voiceless. (At one point, I said the following: "I've been in this room for 15 minutes, and I haven't finished more than 2 sentences. PLEASE would you let me say what I want to say." for yes, I do work with people who can talk at me for 15 minutes without pausing, and then interrupt me when I open my mouth.) I came home furious, and it took me a couple of days to calm down. But I did calm down, and Husband said "You've got a great offer on the table. I couldn't quite understand why you were so angry at being offered totally flexible holidays..." Having calmed down, I realised that I do like fundraising (bits of it, anyway), and that no job is perfect. I did think that I ran the risk of being a little bored and  isolated in the Library Assistant job, and though, of course, jobs are always what you make them, my gut feeling was that in a year or two's time, I'd regret the choice. A shrinking of horizons.

A boarding school can be a rather intense bubble, and I tried to imagine what it would feel like, sitting at the library desk six mornings a week (yes, six... Saturday morning school included), when Husband or one of the children has got involved in some wrangle or other, and I imagined it could feel claustrophobic. My current job is two days a week, and then I can walk away. Arrangement of hours can be quite a significant factor, I think, and I don't underestimate the freedom I have at the moment to fit my job round my life, rather than the other way round.

Those elements were important, but I also had a deep-down sense that I just wanted to win this battle. Something gritty inside was telling me that I do have a bit of a pattern of leaving difficult work situations, instead of working through them, and, while I wouldn't have sacrificed family happiness or the chance for an easy life for that gritty something, nonetheless, I did listen to it, and the more I listened to it, the grittier it became. It felt like I'd turned some kind of corner. Perhaps it was that moment when I told someone to shut up and listen to me, or perhaps it was that over the following week, I found a way of working that was ballsily focused on making my own job a success, rather than worrying about other people's situations or the future of the organisation, or perhaps it was that I had in writing an acknowledgement of what I'd been saying for months about the fundraising target. (Yes, ballsily is a word.) Anyway, I felt the corner I'd turned was an important one. I'd done a lot of leg-work in a new job situation, creating order out of the chaos that I'd inherited (my predecessor lasted 7 weeks, and then there'd been a long gap), carving out my role, making sense of it all, developing a workable strategy - I didn't want to waste it all. I stayed, and I'm glad I did.

A rather odd thing has been happening. I've found that I've been treated with more respect than before. I've been listened to (just about...), appreciated, supported, and my judgement backed. In return, I've tried hard not to close down defensively quite as quickly (though who likes being talked at without pause?). This week I'm about to pull off (here's hoping) a large funding coup. If successful, it will make a big difference to the organisation, but more than that, I feel that in the process of working on it in its final stages, collaboratively with certain individuals, important things have shifted. A colleague said to me "I think you've been an agent for change in the organisation", which was a nice thing to say, and yes, I think probably true.

That's all got a bit touchy-feely hasn't it? The other factor that's helped is that I've booked 6 weeks off, through July and August (not the entirety of the school holidays, but good enough, and to work the other 3 was my choice), and now I feel I can look forward to enjoying the summer, whereas before, I was looking on it as something to be got through.

So, till next time in The Advice Shack...

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Not quite so long and rambly a post

I love blogging. All that free advice, and so very wise.

OK, here's a quick update. I'm not asking for comments, really, because I think I've got to find my own way through this, and because you all came so good on the last post, I hate to consume more than my fair share of your time and thoughts (though if you have a word of wisdom, I'm always grateful!).

Turns out that instead of fundraising or library work, I should really be in negotiation. I told my current workplace that I'm looking for jobs, and have an interview in the offing, and explained why, and the net result was that they offered a fabulous package which involved:

• re-allocating one or two bits of my job which are time-consuming
• an acknowledgement that I've said what I've said about the fundraising target, so if I don't meet it, then it's the Board's responsibility and not mine, and (and this one's the gem)
• as much holiday as I like, (yes, even the 15 weeks I mentioned which is what the school hols are) so long as I fit in my two days a week around it.

I mean, blimey. Blimey O'Reilly.

Seems like something of a no-brainer*, but meanwhile, I've been getting keener on the idea of the Library Assistant job too. I didn't really know what it involved, so went to have an informal chat with the Librarian. I have an interview not this coming week (half-term), but next. I used to feel I would keep my sanity by having a life outside the school bubble, but I'm beginning to see that there is a lot of sanity to be gained by jumping into the bubble more whole-heartedly and belonging to it more fully. And I like libraries.

Incidentally, I didn't get the other fundraising job that I was interviewed for, but quite honestly, I'm not going to find a part-time fundraising job that is a better package than the one now on the table where I am. Good to rule that option out, though, in terms of the decision-making process.

So at the moment, I'm just trying to hang loose of it all, and stop spinning my mental wheels, in the hope that if I disengage my conscious mind, which is never going to reach an answer on this one, then my subconscious might come up with the goods. Go, Subconscious, go! I've stripped back the decision of all that extraneous stuff, like what will other people think, and what battles for working mothers I'm representing (the personal being political, and all that), and what role model I am. I'm just trying to feel my way into what would be the nicest life for me and those near and dear to me in the here and now, and then I know the rest will follow.

What already feels nice, is looking at July/August, and being able to make a few extra plans, without the pressure of having to zoom back from holiday or seeing family, or having to go into work while our friends from America are visiting.


* I don't want to look this particular gift horse in the mouth, but actually, it's not quite as simple as it might seem. I can't say too much (blogging never being anonymous and all that), but you'll get the gist of it if I say that in a small workplace, much depends on the personalities and working practices of a few key individuals... I won't say more than that. But a gift horse is a gift horse, and this one is laden with goodies, so I'm trying my best to avert my gaze from its open jaw - whilst also being realistic about how it might all work out in practice.

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Long rambly post in which I ask for your advice

OK, great Wisdom of the Blogosphere, help me out with this one.

The story I tell goes like this:

Husband is Chaplain in a boarding school. That's great, because it means he gets long holidays, which always match the children's holidays, and that means that I've got the freedom to take on a job and not have to worry about childcare in the holidays or half-terms. And anyway, it's not like my children are small any more. Oldest is 16, nearly 17, and next one is 13, so both well beyond holiday club ages. They just like to veg out at home, and do a bit of sport here and there. Youngest is 10, but she's pretty self-sufficient, and anyway, it's lovely for her to spend that extra time with her Dad. They're going to climb a munro this half-term (weather permitting).

It's great for me to be developing myself in a job that plays to my strengths. I like that I'm being a role model for my kids, showing that women can work outside the home, and it makes for a balanced life. I always planned to work in some shape or form, once they were a bit older. It's good to be investing for the future, and this job will open doors to other fundraising jobs as and when the children leave home. It's great to have found the opportunity to return to my previous career, and be keeping it ticking over. I like having a job outside the school, which, like any small community, is something of a bubble.

The real story is more like this:

I'm exhausted. I don't know how people do it. I'm "only" part-time and I can't fit it all in. That makes me feel terribly inadequate, because lots of couples out there have two full-time working parents and make it work ok, and as I believe I mentioned, I'm "only " part-time. And yes, we do have it easy regarding the childcare situation. It's not the domestics (though they have to be done), or the dog (who does take up at least an hour a day), or the provision of food (though with teenage sons, I do sometimes feel like I should put up an "Open" sign on the kitchen door - they need a lot of stoking), or the fact that wider family is geographically far flung and so a visit necessarily involves several days or air fares. I don't really know what it is. It's just that there isn't enough of me to go round.

The job is stressful and demanding, and leaves me with a small level of bubbling worry most of the time. Yes, I do have days when it's rewarding, and yes, I do like being in an office and having colleagues, and getting out of the bubble. However, as sole fundraiser in a small organisation where the management structure won't listen when I talk about "unrealistic expectations" (which I've been doing for months now), it's not a relaxing situation. I like the world of fundraising, but it's not a great passion, and when I left it after having babies, I always said I wouldn't want to go back. I'm not career ambitious; I've always been more interested in the rewards of the job in itself and of itself at any given point in time, rather than looking up the ladder.

Boarding school life is busy and intense in a way that's hard to explain until you've experienced it. Husband doesn't have a day off during the week during term-time, and works most evenings. In effect, we get a Sunday morning and/or afternoon together, but he's often having to prepare for the evening chapel service, or just crashes out and sleeps. I'm not complaining: it is what it is. But I have worked out that, of all the couples who live on campus, all the non-teaching spouses either work in the school in some kind of capacity, or are teachers in other schools. All bar two, who (interestingly) are men, married to housemistresses.

I don't really want to work for the school, because of a healthy desire to get out of the bubble, mixed inextricably with some kind of bolshy pride in doing my own thing. I prefer it when I say to people "Yes, I work. I'm the fundraiser for a small family centre", rather than the idea of saying "Yes, I work in the school office/school shop/school library". I suppose this means that I don't have a very healthy regard for women who do those jobs, and of that, I should be ashamed.

I do like the fact that my children have to be a little more independent because I don't have the time to run round after them as much as I used to, but I don't like the fact that I live with a perpetual feeling that I'm not quite coping. I've moved a family to America and back. How can I not be coping with a part-time job, for heaven's sake? And because I'm tired, I see that they're all tired too. I don't know how this works logically, because I'm strict on bedtimes. I just think that a child's inner life reflects their mother's. Home isn't quite as relaxing a place as it used to be, and there are consequences to that. Don't shoot me for saying so.

The denouement, with which I need your help, is this:

The position of Library Assistant in the school has been advertised, and I've applied. It's term-time only, and 19 hours a week. Do I really want it? (Of course I might not get it, and I know there've been many applications, so I'm absolutely not presuming.)

On the plus side:

• Long holidays. Fifteen weeks a year. Yay.
• I like libraries, books, and related things.
• It would be a low-stress job.
• Who knows? It might open doors to other things, for that "empty nest" time of life that I want to plan for.
• I wouldn't feel exhausted all the time (at least, I don't think so).
• The long holidays.
• The long holidays.
• The long holidays.

On the minus side:

• It would involve a pay cut, but not too significant, and one we could absorb.
• It would mean I am sucked in the vortex bubble that is boarding school life, and I might never get out.
• I feel like I'm compromising, and that somehow feels like a negative thing, rather than a positive choice. 
• I feel a failure. I don't know why. I guess it's my own demon. When I look at my cv, it reads like an impressive list of demanding jobs that I've done well in. But in each one, I felt like I was vaguely ok at it, good in patches, and when I left, felt I was leaving under a personal cloud. I have no idea why I feel this. It feels important to me to succeed at this one, even though it is (and I've said this from very early days in it) set up for failure.
• I feel a failure because women are meant to be able to do this, aren't we? Juggling. Whenever I think about it, I see how easy my lot is compared to most: a husband who has school holidays, flexible after-school care on-site, the convenience of living on the school property, "only" part-time work. I should be able to make this work (and most of the time, actually, I do - but looking down the barrel of a 9-week summer holdiay, in which I will have 2 weeks off, or 3 at a pinch, I seriously doubt that I want to make this work any longer). Perhaps I can make it all work, but it might take a few years to get there, years in which precious family life is ticking by, years which I won't get again.
• I will have to say to people "I'm Library Assistant at the school", and they will think "she only got that job because her husband is the chaplain", and I will have to swallow my pride (this, of course, might actually be a plus, not a minus!)

The other possibilities:

• I've applied for two or three other fundraising jobs, and even had an interview for one. But there are very few part-time opportunities. And it won't solve the long holiday issue.
• I've been very up-front with my current job, told them I'm applying for other jobs, and have a meeting this week with my manager, and the chairman, in which one of my strategies is to suggest I leave the job, and then work for the organisation on a consultancy basis (I'm thinking long holidays...). I think it is extremely unlikely that they will agree to this, or that it will work out very well even if they do. But I thought it was worth a try. 

OK, so what do you think? (I think I've decided what I think, by virtue of writing this post, but I'm interested, truly, in your thoughts.)

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I suffer from piles

I suffer from piles.

There. I've said it. It's not a complaint we like to discuss, but I'm opening up here, in the hope of finding support from fellow sufferers.

There are piles of paper on the desk. There are piles of magazines, and catalogues, and junk mail, and more paper on the bookcase in the hallway. There is a pile of books on my bedside cabinet. There's a pile of coins and receipts on my bedroom window sill. There's a pile of laundry on my bed. There's a pile of ironing in the kitchen. There's a pile of clean washing outside each child's bedroom door (the rule is, they put it away). There's another pile of papers on the kitchen window sill.

Every now and again I have an attack on the piles, and get rid of them. But they grow back.

I aspire to a minimalist house, where there's a place for everything, and everything has its place. Everything is away, out of sight, or tidily arranged and decorative. But I've been aspiring for several years... decades... and I think I've just got to accept that I'm just not a minimalist. How do you minimalists do it? Do you spend hours a day wandering through your clean lines homes, admiring the grey and white colour scheme, and pouncing on every stray item with lioness alacrity, before settling down to your hour of solitary evening meditation? Did you go to minimalist training school, where they rooted out all your cluttery habits, teaching you better, sleeker ways of living? Or were you born so strongly minimalist that you were able to resist the onslaught of untidiness and disorder? Perhaps you just have a lot of visitors, and therefore a high incentive to keep your house looking lovely.

I have come to the conclusion that, for me, an alternative strategy is more realistic. Instead of trying to fit my square peg self into a round minimalist hole (it would be round, wouldn't it? No sharp corners or edges, just a perfect smooth circle), I think I need to learn to love my inability to keep the anarchy of the piles at bay. I must accept that flat surfaces, of their very nature, attract things being left on top of them. I mean, at least the chaos is in piles, and not just strewn randomly around. I should learn to understand a pile of stuff not as a failing in tidiness, but as a beautiful demonstration of a busy life. I should look around and see a cosy, relaxed home, where items are able to find their own space and chill out, without fear of being hustled out of sight into an unwelcoming cupboard or drawer, or - worse still - the recycling.

Or I need to make the acquaintance of the piles fairy. How do I do that?

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A blog on the move

One of my favourite blogs is Happy Homemaker UK. She's an American mom living in the south of England. She's just about to return to America, and I will miss her beautiful posts all about English life. If you want to feel good about England, scroll back through her blog, and see all the wonderful places you can go, and all the amazing things you can visit. I wonder, has she been in the pay of the British Tourist Authority?!

To me, she has exemplified the approach that I tried to maintain, when I was living in the US and this blog was called "Not wrong, just different". Her acceptance of, and fondness for, all things British is evident in all she writes. I've found it affirming, reading her posts over the years. Yes, Britain IS lovely, isn't it?

I haven't been blogging much lately. I've got busy with other things, and I do quite a lot of writing in my job, which makes me less inclined to write at home. I was interested to hear my job described as "Grant Writer" the other day. That's an American term, which I'd not heard this side of the Atlantic before. I like it. It's not technically accurate - the job is writing applications to get grants, not writing grants. However, it's good shorthand for what is involved, and "Application Writer" really doesn't have the right ring. The British equivalent is something like "Trusts Fundraiser", or you quite often see job title variations such as "Trusts Manager", which is all wrong, as you're not managing the trusts at all. You're trying to get money out of them. Sometimes it's "Trusts and Foundations Manager" which is a case of tautology, really. I mean, does anyone know what the difference between a Trust and a Foundation is? Incidentally, they're all called Foundations in the US.

Job titles are often ridiculous, though, aren't they? I mean, what does a "Knowledge Manager" do? I remember being quite shocked the first time I heard that a company had a "Human Resources" Department, rather than a "Personnel" Department. How could you treat people as just another category of resource? Rather telling, really.

Meanwhile (since this has developed into a rambly updating-you-about-my-life kind of a post, rather than one that is coherent in any way), 16-yo is starting GCSE's proper tomorrow. Two week of an inordinate number of exams. He had his Spanish oral a couple of weeks ago, and as he left the house, I said to Husband "We have a son who's doing GCSEs. How can that be?"

10-yo has decided she's going to start giving a small proportion of her pocket money to charity, and put another small proportion in a savings account. "I'm sure I'll need money when I'm old", she said. I was impressed. I mean, most of us hardly bother to think much about our pension before the age of 40, so to start at 10 seems very responsible. "I think it will be useful to have some money saved up for my gap year, don't you?" she continued. "Old" is a matter of perspective.

13-yo is trying a dairy-free, sugar-free diet, recommended by a homeopath, to combat his hay fever. What they call in America, "seasonal allergies". The sugar-free bit is hard to get round, though he's thrown himself with gusto into the deprivation of cakes/biscuits/chocolate that it involves - all credit to him. The dairy-free bit isn't too bad. You know why? Because I am a blogger, and I know that when you need advice on these kinds of things, blogs are great resources. Thank you, blogging world, for being so full of ideas on everything from how to organise a Harry Potter party for a 10 year old, to how to cook dairy-free toad in the hole.

I hope you feel you've caught up with my life! Rambling over. I'm off now to walk the dog, and buy white underarmour for cricket-loving son.

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Not such small talk

I was at a social event last night, and got chatting to a couple about my time living in America. I have a stock of things I say, phrases that have become set phrases, thoughts that I can articulate without thinking about them. Five and a half significant years of my life, processed into small talk material. Nothing wrong with that - you don't want to be baring your soul to everyone you meet, and it's inevitable that your personal reflections on a place, a culture, a way of life, will become honed by repetition, into digestible fodder.

The couple I was speaking to asked me if I kept in touch with American friends, and I surprised myself. Usually my response would be:

"We made some really great friends. Mid Westerners are very open and welcoming, and we were sad to leave behind some close friendships. Yes, we're definitely keeping in touch."

Last night, I found myself saying:

"We've kept in touch so far, but it's getting a bit thin now. Inevitably. You can't keep in touch with everyone, and as you get busy in your new location and your new life, you can't carry all your friends from your previous place along with you."

I surprised myself, but yes, it's true. I'm not keeping up with friends in America as much as I was this time a year ago. It's nearly two years since we left, and life moves on. It's appropriate and good to be spending less time feeding old friendships, as new ones develop and take up more of your time and attention.

But I felt sad, nevertheless. Small talk suddenly became not all that small.

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Some things I haven't learnt

We're getting used to a new situation in our family. I have a job. I have four weeks holiday a year. My workplace operates a flexi-time system, so I can build up time to take off and extend those holidays, and I'm only part-time* so a week at work is only three days, but even so, my holidays are never going to match the children's school holidays. Luckily, Husband has school holidays which match the children's, and so we're never having to struggle for childcare. But it's a new routine, and it's taking a bit of time to get used to. This week, Husband has taken the children to see his parents for three nights, while I've stayed at home for a working week.

I've really been looking forward to this time. I've imagined myself going to the supermarket, buying a ready meal as a treat, or an interesting salad in a box. (No family dinner to cook!) I've thought of watching films - maybe even TWO in the same evening. (No screen-time negotiation, no boys to oust from live football or recorded Dr Who!) I've pictured myself luxuriating in long, hot baths. (No daughter's reading to listen to and diary to sign off!)  Ha! The house to myself!

It hasn't turned out like that at all. I haven't bought ready meals. I've cooked myself frighteningly healthy suppers (baked sweet potato and spinach tonight), congratulated myself, and then picked all evening at not-so-healthy snacks, including dark chocolate, which - it turns out - doesn't taste so nice unless you share it with a Husband. And it's taken me ten pieces (TEN!) to arrive at that conclusion.

I didn't watch a film. I put Girl with a Pearl Earring in the dvd player, but couldn't quite be bothered, and ended up channel-hopping rubbish tv instead, as I hung the laundry on the rack.

I haven't had a relaxing bath. I've pottered about the internet, ordering school name tapes, vaguely thinking about our summer holiday, and now I'm blogging. Even the dog is restless - does he pick it up from me?

This is something I haven't yet learnt. I remember leaving my first baby with my mother, and going off for what would now be called "me time", but in those days was called " a break". Just a couple of hours. I ended up in a department store, looking at baby clothes. I remember going to a wedding, leaving a toddler with my husband, planning the day to the nearest minute, and catching a train at some unearthly hour to get from Buckinghamshire to Yorkshire and back in the day. I sat and watched a mother with a baby on her lap in the train, and - though I was looking forward to the treat of a long train journey and reading a book - I chatted to her instead.

It's not that I never switch off from being a mother. There are times when I can really enjoy my own company, and do things that are self-indulgent and glorious. But I haven't learnt that it doesn't always come to demand.


* Why do I say that? Why have I gone from being "just" a stay at home mother to "only" part-time?

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And the winner is...

Chosen at random, the winner is...

... Kelloggsville, who writes at A Guiding Life. Glad you were guided to this chocolate, Kelloggsville. Congrats to you. I will be in touch, and I hope you enjoy your egg!

Thanks to Hotel Chocolat for providing this giveaway.

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Free chocolate here!

Yes, thought that would get your interest.

Do you remember that before Christmas I reviewed some chocolate from the lovely Hotel Chocolat? Those lovely people have given me the chance to show you one of their yummy Easter products, and they're going to give one of you a free sample. It's this:

Looks delicious, huh? And it's so witty, which is one of the aspects of Hotel Chocolat products that I love. Look at those chocolate toast soldiers - white bread that's been dipped in a soft boiled egg! How clever is that?

You can buy one of these "You Crack Me Up" delights at the Hotel Chocolat website, for £28.00. Alternatively, you can leave me a comment, and on 27th March, which is 9-yo's birthday, I will have her pick a number at random out of a hat, and we will tell you who gets the prize. So entries please by midnight on Wednesday, 26th March. To enter, you have to leave me a comment telling me a happy chocolate memory - and it can be anything, because remember, the winner pick will be random and not based on the quality of the memory you share.

And while you ponder your own chocolate memories, I'll tell you one of mine. For my 21st birthday, I went out to dinner with 9 friends. We were at university at the time. We went to a fondue restaurant, and when we were all stuffed to bust with melted cheese and raw veggies, for some reason, inexplicable except that we were young and having fun, we ordered a chocolate fondue for dessert. I remember walking back to my college room afterwards, and feeling like really I should carry on walking all night, just to get rid of that weight of rich food in my stomach.

Share a happy chocolate memory with me, and you might receive that lovely "You Crack Me Up" egg! (You can enter the giveaway wherever you live, but the prize can only be posted to a UK address.)

Disclaimer:
For this post, I am receiving no chocolate. Just the egg (retail value £28.00) that is going to one of you lovely readers of my blog. (Incidentally, just so you know how much I love you all, I might mention that I was offered the choice of receiving the product for review, or running a giveaway, and I opted for the latter. We had free chocolate at Christmas, and I believe in spreading the love a little.) The opinions of the product are my own.

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Why use one word, when...?

We British English speakers love to use words. We do. And in my opinion, we're right to do so. I mean, they're free! You don't have to pay tax on them, or count them as you use them. They're not a finite resource like the world's oil supply, and they don't leave an environmentally damaging imprint. Lovely, lovely free words! Why not use as many of them as you like?

It does mean, though, that when you first arrive in America, everyone sounds as if they're being just a little discourteous. Their language doesn't have that lovely British floweriness, that makes us seem so ultra polite. Where I would say "Oh, thank you very much indeed, that's so kind of you", they would say "thanks".

You get used to it after a while, but at first, I did notice it all the time. So much so, that when I overheard a conversation in the changing room of the local swimming pool, I wrote it down. It went like this:

A: Are you swimming?

B: I did.

A: Oh, you swam already.

Doesn't that sound odd to British ears? Now, in a British changing room, the same conversation would have used so many more words to convey the same information. It would have gone something like this:

A: Are you here for a swim?  

B: Actually, I've just finished. 

A: Oh, you mean you've already been swimming. 

See what I mean? American brevity is so efficient, but I like the way we do it over here. Now I'm back in the UK, I still notice our over-use of words. Not so much in conversation - that just seems normal. But in public signs and information.

On the London Underground, for example, a recorded announcement tells you to "Stand clear of the closing doors".

But why bother with the word "closing"? For a start, all the doors are closing at that point. It's not as if you have to look at the doors you're standing next to, and assess whether or not they are the closing doors referred to. You don't turn to your neighbour and say "We're ok. These doors aren't closing. We don't have to stand clear.".  I'm guessing that a committee in Transport For London came up with the idea of combining the two ideas (the doors are closing, and you need to stand clear of them) in one short phrase, and probably felt rather clever. But I bet you that in America, the recorded message would say simply "Stand clear of the doors", because that would do the job.

I saw a sign today, on a gate to a construction site, that read " Before attempting any reversing manoeuvre, drivers must use a banksman". "Attempting any reversing manoeuvre"? Couldn't you just say "reversing"?

Supermarkets provide rich pickings for the spotter of over-wordy signs. All those ones that begin "We regret to inform customers that...". I'm sure Wal-Mart would be satisfied with "Sorry." They probaby wouldn't even bother with that. 

Once you start the game of spotting over-wordage in signs, I'm afraid it's rather hard to stop. If you see any examples of redundant words in signs in the next few days, do share them.

And if you like chocolate, keep an eye on my blog for a fab giveaway coming up soon.

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Iota, the game

Review post

You may remember that a while ago, a friend spotted this game in a shop.

I wrote to the company, Gamewright,  and asked them if they'd like to send me a free Iota, and if so, I'd review it for them. They did, and here is the review.

Iota is like a cross between Uno and Scrabble. The cards are categorised by colour, shape and number. So it's a red triangle with the number 5, or a green circle with the number 2. See? It's Uno's cousin.

You play by laying down on the table a row of cards. They have to be either all the same, or all different. Get it? You can put down a row of 3 red cards, or 4 triangles, or a row consisting of a 3, a 4, and a 2. It then becomes like Scrabble, as each player lays down cards forming new rows, but using what's already on the table as a starting point, and you're able to make two or more rows in a turn.

What we liked:

• It's a good game for a spread of ages. We have often struggled with this (what teenager wants to play snap, and what 3 year old can join her older siblings in Monopoly?). Iota seemed to work for 9 to 16.
• I really like the dinky little square cards, in a dinky little tin. It's nicely produced. Iota can fit in your handbag (and that's a sentence I never envisaged writing). The tin is 5 x 5 x 2.5cm - really dinky.
• It's a mental challenge, but not overload. The game moves quickly enough, and a round is finished before you start to feel it's dragging on.

What we didn't like:

• Scoring. Oh dear, yes, it's one of those games where add up the scores at the end of the round, and need to have a pencil and paper to keep track. I've never liked that in a game - but perhaps that's just a personal thing.
• I thought that Iota didn't know what it is. It's a hybrid looking for an identity. It seems like a travel game (dinky and handbag-sized), but you need a flat surface to play it, and it has to be a large flat surface. We found we were falling off the edge of our kitchen table as the grid expanded in one direction. So that rules out trains, planes, or camping. Come on, Iota, sort yourself out. Are you a travel game, or a home game? I have to add, though, that Husband couldn't see my point here, ("It's just a game. It doesn't have to be a something game or a something other game.") so maybe this is another personal thing. (I had no idea I have such fixed likes and dislikes in games!)
• It didn't quite work. Perhaps we haven't quite understood the rules, but there were occasional turns where we looked at the grid and couldn't work out whether the move was allowed or not.

The verdict

I wanted to love Iota. Of course I did. But I couldn't love it. I did like it, though, and given that it's not a serious financial outlay at only £7.00 on Amazon, I would say give it a go as a stocking filler. Not much to lose, and maybe for your family it'll be one of those games that's addictive over a holiday, and you'll think it was the best £7.00 you spent that Christmas. Whether a game catches on with a family or not is a very personal thing, and though my family didn't adore it, I think the elements are there for other families to do so. And since it's "Mensa Select", you'll be able to enjoy the notion that you are enhancing your children's brainpower as you play.  "Enhance your brainpower with Iota" - that sounds rather good.

Another thought

The Gamewright game that we have loved as a family is Sleeping Queens. I don't know what it is about that game, but though it looks quite girly, it was a huge hit with my two sons when they were 6 and 10, and their interest in it lasted a good 2 or 3 years. I would always take it away on holiday, because it would keep them quiet, guaranteed, when they'd run out of other things to do. My daughter has enjoyed it too.

The game was invented by a child, who wrote to the company with the idea. I like that aspect of it. Didn't we all invent games as a child, and think that they should be produced by a games company? Good for Gamewright for picking up a child's idea. There are a few quirky rules in it, so you have to persevere until you've memorised them and they've become second nature, but I'd say that only takes two or three rounds. The cards are nicely designed, so there is interest just in looking at the pictures. Also available on Amazon, and also an excellent idea for a stocking filler.

Note: I received a free copy of the game Iota (retail value £7.00) to review. All the opinions in this blog post are my own.

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New blog on the block

Well, since writing that last blog post, I have NOT been able to get I'm Your Man out of my mind. If you're going to do it do it right, right? I might even have found it on Youtube and danced round the study to it. Actually, dancing round the study to Youtube is strangely energising. You should try it some time.

Anyhoo, what I'm really wanting to tell you about is a new blog on the block. It's written by 10-yo, and you should check it out, for interesting opinions on why the clever children in films and books are always portrayed as wearing glasses, and whether Hermione should have married Harry or Ron. Helping her set it up has been an interesting litttle window into Wordpress, and I'm thinking of joining you Wordpress people. I'm so fed up with the whole Blogger experience.

It's over at this link, and if you wanted to leave an encouraging comment, that would be kind. If you're going to do it do it right, right?

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All about me

I've been tagged to answer a whole list of random questions, by Emma Kaufmann, who blogs at Mommy has a Headache. Thank you, Emma!

1. If you could go back in history who would you most like to meet?

I would like to meet some of my own forebears. That's rather ego-centric of me, isn't it?

2. What was one of the most embarassing things your kid said in public?

I'm going to have to write a post about the time I was in a doctor's waiting room, and joked with my daughter (aged about 5) about a bruise I had on my arm, and how I didn't want the doctor to see it because he might think Daddy hit me (why? why does one say these things?) and... you know the rest of the story. It's actually worse than you think, because this wasn't our GP or anything run of the mill like that. Oh no. This was the Immigration Center doctor, giving me the medical I had to pass to get a Green Card. "Embarrassing" isn't really the word. "Acutely inappropriate, painful, and possibly life-changingly significant" is more like it.

3. If you were an animal what would you be and why?

Elephant. They take life slowly and seem very sociable. Hm... they do have a 2-year gestation period, though, which would have been tough.

4. Have you ever eaten Haggis? Did you like it? 

Yes, I eat haggis regularly and really like it.

5. What's the stupidest thing you have said in a job interview?

I didn't say this, but I thought it so hard that I think it must have appeared on my face in neon writing.

I was fresh out of university, had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, but had applied to the graduate training scheme for M&S. First stage was to go and look round an M&S store, and have a preliminary interview with a local manager. So I went to M&S Aylesbury, and a keen young graduate trainee showed me round. I was horrified. She was so excited about stock control. She talked about how you had to be 100% committed to the company - you couldn't choose where you started. You could be sent to M&S Inverness, or M&S Penzance, or anywhere in between. I didn't have plans for my life, but I absolutely didn't see myself at the beck and call of a big company that sold socks and knickers. And I knew I couldn't get excited about stock control. I mean, I was going to use my life to make a difference to the world. (I have lost some of my youthful idealism about careers by now, you'll be glad to hear.)

After my tour of the store, she wished me good luck and showed me into the manager's office. The manager's first question was "So what attracts you to a career in retail management?" and I must have had "Nothing at all" written across my face for a good few seconds of embarrassed silence, before I managed to mumble something. I didn't get through to the next stage.

6. Do you believe in friendship between men and women?

Not really. And the more someone protests that they are "just good friends, but it really works", the more I know that they aren't and it doesn't.

7. Is Kate Middleton someone you look up to or someone who seems awfully nice but basically completely uninteresting?

I don't look up to her, but I don't think she's completely uninteresting. My mother thinks she is "a dark horse", and my mother is often right. She meant "dark horse" in a good way, by the way.

8. Do you feel like you are a slave to technology?

I try very hard not to be. I went through a blogging addiction phase, but I came out the other side. It's why I don't have a Facebook page, because I know I would spend hours on it. I can happily live for a few days without a computer or phone. No, truly (but only a few...)

9. Have you ever had a chip butty? If not would you like to?

Yes. One was enough. My children invented the Ritz Cracker sandwich (using toast, not just plain bread), which I think is probably similar in terms of carbohydrate overload. One of those is enough for me too.

10. If you were on a desert island what one record from the 80s would you bring with you?

If I could figure out the answer to that question, I would certainly be clever enough to figure out how to get off the desert island. So many to choose from, each with its own set of memories and associations. I think it would have to be something Fleetwood Mac, possibly Dreams, because, yes, I really am that unoriginal. It does sum up a whole era, though, you have to agree. From the point of view of health (physical, not mental), I should really take Wham!'s I'm Your Man. I and my flat-mate used to do DIY aerobics to it, and I can't hear it without wanting to launch instantly into various repetitious actions with my arms and legs. It's amazing how often that song is played in supermarkets these days. I almost have to leave if it comes on, so Pavlovian is my response. It would keep me fit if I took it.

11. Do you understand the rules of American football?

No. Of course not. I only lived there for 5 years. How many Americans living in Britain for 5 years would understand the rules of cricket? The only rule I know about it, if you're a mother, you're allowed to hate it and hope your young son will never want to play it.

Now I have to:

• Acknowledge the nominating blogger by linking back to their blog – thanks Emma, at Mommy has a Headache (I've already done that, actually)

• Invite 11 more bloggers to take up the challenge and give them 11 questions to answer. Please, Bloggy Friends, don't let your hearts sink. It took me about 15 minutes to answer the above 11 questions. This can be a very speedy blog post!

Here goes:

1. What is the view from the window of the room where you are currently sitting?
2. Do you buy lottery tickets?
3. If you had to live in the Arctic Circle, or on the Equator, which would it be?
4. What's the novel inside you (you know, the one that everyone is supposed to have)?
5. Do you still have your wedding dress (if you're married)?
6. Is your big toe longer or shorter than the one next to it?
7. Name a guilty pleasure.
8. If you could change one thing you've done in the last week, what would it be?
9. What's your middle name? (go on, we're all grown-ups now, it's not embarrassing any more)
10. Can you, with Edith Piaf, say "Je ne regrette rien"? 
11. What fairy story character do you most identify with? (don't over-think this one)

(Wow, that was fun, thinking up those 11.)

And I'm asking:

Gappy Tales (because you made a comment recently about having too much time on your hands)
Expat Mum
Nappy Valley Girl
Middle Aged Matron
12 Hours To Bedtime
Circles in the Sand
Ms Caroline
Bod for Tea
Carrot Crush in the Hindu Kush
Plan B
Sticky Fingers

Over to you, Ladies!

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