Those of you who've followed my blog for a while might remember that I love Christmas. I really do. And since I had cancer, I love it even more. Each one that comes round, I think to myself "This might not have been". This is the seventh Christmas since I had cancer, and I've felt it every year, but I don't think I've ever been brave enough to write it - at least not quite so plainly.
The odd thing is, you would imagine that such feelings would tow along anxiety, fears for the future, panic. And yes, those moments come too. I know I sometimes place an unhealthy load onto events, because the desire to create memories gets out of balance with the ability to live in the present. But mostly, "This might not have been" brings in its wake a warmth, a stillness, and a sense of depth.
Last Sunday, for example, we headed off to get our Christmas tree. We go to same farm, where there's an excruciatingly delicious farm shop and cafe. We've got our tree from there three years running now, so I think that counts as a family tradition. We headed out of the city (only a 15 minute drive, though - I can't tell you how much I love living in a small city...). Desert Island Discs was on the radio, and Kylie Minogue was the castaway. She talked a little about her experience of breast cancer, and one of her discs was a recording of her boyfriend reading a poem full of emotion, so I suppose I was primed. As we turned off the main road towards the farm, the view of the valley emerged before us, and was a picture of absolute beauty. Mist lay in the valley, but you could see dark shapes poking up through it - treetops, hedges, farm buildings. If you'd painted the scene, it would have been all greys and whites, and probably impossible to capture. It was winter at its most imaginative, and I think I gasped out loud. We'd left a dirty, damp, grey city, but when we got out of the car here in the countryside, the ground was frosty hard underfoot, and the air was crisp. A perfect Christmas moment. A moment that might not have been.
I tread carefully as I write this. Christmas is a time of painful memories, and thoughts of loss, for so many. There are plenty of blog posts out there to remind me of that. I've had my poignant Christmases too - my first as a mother, stuffing a stocking for a 7-month old baby who had no clue what we were doing, was also my first without my father, and there will no doubt be more to come. But in this chapter of life, each Christmas brings joy and peace and thanksgiving for all that is for me, that might not have been.
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Saturday, December 26, 2015
Saturday, November 28, 2015
Choosing baby names in the digital age
It was all so much easier when I was choosing baby names. You liked a name and wrote it on a list. Or you had a book of names, and you flicked through it. Now, you can get websites to generate names for you, and avail yourself of naming wizards, and really, you only have yourself to blame if you don't find the perfect name.
Another consideration, these days, is the digital form your baby's name will take. You might take less pleasure in calling your new baby Katharine, for example, if you thought she'd be signing herself K8, or K8EE. I really liked the name Elsie, but now I'm glad I didn't choose it. It lends itself too easily to LC.
Any name that ends in an x (Beatrix, Max, Felix... there are some great ones in this category), now looks to me like it's got a kiss at the end of it, somehow.
Then there's the pitfall of the autocorrect. I have a friend with a son named Fingal, and every time I text her, I'm in severe danger of enquiring how Fungal is.
Anyone else with any stories of autocorrect woes, in the area of names?
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Another consideration, these days, is the digital form your baby's name will take. You might take less pleasure in calling your new baby Katharine, for example, if you thought she'd be signing herself K8, or K8EE. I really liked the name Elsie, but now I'm glad I didn't choose it. It lends itself too easily to LC.
Any name that ends in an x (Beatrix, Max, Felix... there are some great ones in this category), now looks to me like it's got a kiss at the end of it, somehow.
Then there's the pitfall of the autocorrect. I have a friend with a son named Fingal, and every time I text her, I'm in severe danger of enquiring how Fungal is.
Anyone else with any stories of autocorrect woes, in the area of names?
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Saturday, November 21, 2015
Getting to know a city
I have always enjoyed getting to know new cities. I loved having an A to Z in my handbag when I lived in London, and rising to the challenge of finding the easiest and quickest way of getting from one place to another using the various public transport options. When I got a car, I had a big-scale street atlas, and I'd plan routes before I set off to try and identify short cuts. I'd have the atlas open on the passenger seat, and dip into parking spots here and there, getting the next segment of the journey imprinted in my brain. I became skilful at spotting "rat runs" while driving - sitting in a traffic jam, and noticing how a stream of cars were turning down a seemingly insignificant street, following them in faith, and emerging quarter of a mile further along the busy blocked road, feeling triumphant.
On foot, too, I always enjoyed exloring back ways and by-ways, discovering little corners seemingly forgotten. I was always amazed at how, in a city of several million, you could take just one or two turns off a busy thoroughfare, and be in a near-empty street.
I suppose all this has got very much easier with phone apps and Google Maps, though I have to say I derived a lot of fun from working out in my head and through time-worn experience, what the satellites above us calculate in seconds in their efficient algorithms.
Each time I've moved during my adult life (which has been a few), I've really relished getting to know a new town or city. I like finding my way round the traffic systems, the public transport, the parking, in a way that I think probably deserves the adjective 'geeky'. I can tell you, for example, at what point the parking zone changes between where I live and the city centre, because I've looked at the parking zone map buried deep as a pdf on the council website. (In my defence, I wasn't working for the first year we were here, and had plenty of time on my hands.) I love finding the nicest parks, the funkiest shopping streets, the best coffee shops. My children tease me, because I have a rule that if we can, we should always support local coffee shops not the big chains, but to me, that has significance: I like getting to get to know the personality of a city, and you can't do that by hopping from Starbucks to Starbucks.
I do use a GPS, but I've noticed that it does mean that it takes much longer to learn your way round, and so in my early days here, I chose not to use it. I suppose my brain has learnt to understand a city by looking at a map, and then translating the bird's eye 2D view into human 3D experience. I like to hold the whole route in my mind, in chunks if necessary, and the GPS only ever reveals the next junction. It feels a precarious way of travelling.
I find it fascinating how a city shrinks as you get to know it. Familiarity makes journeys shorter both in reality, and in the way they feel. In reality, you need less time because you know how to avoid the traffic, where to park, and how far you'll have to walk. When you're new in a city, you have to allow generous margins for error. But the journeys are also shorter in how they feel. Instead of concentrating on the road, looking out for signs, focusing on the GPS instructions, you have the radio on, or you're thinking about Christmas plans.
When we first moved to the city where I now live, I found a furniture shop that had a sale on. I looked at a map, and headed off. It felt like a proper venture. I parked in a side street which was a dead end, and got very stuck, having to do a 3-point turn that became a 7- or 9- point turn. I went to the shop, found a cafe for a sit-down, and then headed home, checking first that I knew how to navigate the journey. It makes me laugh inwardly now, when I pass that furniture shop, because it's a five minute walk from my work. I think absolutely nothing of the drive to work (or the bus journey if Husband needs the car). It's fifteen to twenty minutes, door to door. I know where to park (and would never head down that tiny dead end). The cafe which was formed part of a morning's outing when I had time on my hands, has become the cafe I pop into to grab a quick sandwich at lunchtime.
The vet is another example. The first time I had a vet's appointment, I allowed plenty of extra time. I didn't know where the building was, where I would park, how long it would take to get a lively puppy on the lead and out of the car safely, and I wanted to be early for the appointment, as a model puppy-owner should be. The journey seemed quite a trek. Now, I allow about ten minutes to get to the vet, all told. It's really very near: 1.4 miles according to Google Maps and "4 min without traffic". I go straight to a street round the corner which has an uncommonly wide pavement that everyone parks on, and where there's always space. I no longer wonder if it's ok to park there and if I'll get a ticket. I just park. Or I walk - 28 minutes according to Google Maps. If you'd told me three years ago, when I was planning my first drive to the vet, that I could walk there, I would have thought you must be one of those seriously hearty city-dwellers who live in walking boots and an anorak, with a permanent backpack. But it is, indeed, only about 30 minutes, and most of it along a convenient cycle path.
The other factor, in my shrinking journey time to the vet, is that I now plan to arrive at the very last minute, or even a minute or two late, as Hector gets over-excited in the waiting room and barks incessantly. We were once asked to wait outside - oh, the humiliation. Hector gets over-excited, and I sit wondering if someone is going to bring in a snake and planning my escape route for that eventuality - the vet waiting room is not a relaxing place for us. Thus it is that what, in my head, used to be an afternoon's outing, is now a small task on the calendar, to be fitted in easily and quickly between other bits of life. My days are busier, time is more precious and has done that elastic thing that time does, but geography has done it too. The city has definitely shrunk.
.
On foot, too, I always enjoyed exloring back ways and by-ways, discovering little corners seemingly forgotten. I was always amazed at how, in a city of several million, you could take just one or two turns off a busy thoroughfare, and be in a near-empty street.
I suppose all this has got very much easier with phone apps and Google Maps, though I have to say I derived a lot of fun from working out in my head and through time-worn experience, what the satellites above us calculate in seconds in their efficient algorithms.
Each time I've moved during my adult life (which has been a few), I've really relished getting to know a new town or city. I like finding my way round the traffic systems, the public transport, the parking, in a way that I think probably deserves the adjective 'geeky'. I can tell you, for example, at what point the parking zone changes between where I live and the city centre, because I've looked at the parking zone map buried deep as a pdf on the council website. (In my defence, I wasn't working for the first year we were here, and had plenty of time on my hands.) I love finding the nicest parks, the funkiest shopping streets, the best coffee shops. My children tease me, because I have a rule that if we can, we should always support local coffee shops not the big chains, but to me, that has significance: I like getting to get to know the personality of a city, and you can't do that by hopping from Starbucks to Starbucks.
I do use a GPS, but I've noticed that it does mean that it takes much longer to learn your way round, and so in my early days here, I chose not to use it. I suppose my brain has learnt to understand a city by looking at a map, and then translating the bird's eye 2D view into human 3D experience. I like to hold the whole route in my mind, in chunks if necessary, and the GPS only ever reveals the next junction. It feels a precarious way of travelling.
I find it fascinating how a city shrinks as you get to know it. Familiarity makes journeys shorter both in reality, and in the way they feel. In reality, you need less time because you know how to avoid the traffic, where to park, and how far you'll have to walk. When you're new in a city, you have to allow generous margins for error. But the journeys are also shorter in how they feel. Instead of concentrating on the road, looking out for signs, focusing on the GPS instructions, you have the radio on, or you're thinking about Christmas plans.
When we first moved to the city where I now live, I found a furniture shop that had a sale on. I looked at a map, and headed off. It felt like a proper venture. I parked in a side street which was a dead end, and got very stuck, having to do a 3-point turn that became a 7- or 9- point turn. I went to the shop, found a cafe for a sit-down, and then headed home, checking first that I knew how to navigate the journey. It makes me laugh inwardly now, when I pass that furniture shop, because it's a five minute walk from my work. I think absolutely nothing of the drive to work (or the bus journey if Husband needs the car). It's fifteen to twenty minutes, door to door. I know where to park (and would never head down that tiny dead end). The cafe which was formed part of a morning's outing when I had time on my hands, has become the cafe I pop into to grab a quick sandwich at lunchtime.
The vet is another example. The first time I had a vet's appointment, I allowed plenty of extra time. I didn't know where the building was, where I would park, how long it would take to get a lively puppy on the lead and out of the car safely, and I wanted to be early for the appointment, as a model puppy-owner should be. The journey seemed quite a trek. Now, I allow about ten minutes to get to the vet, all told. It's really very near: 1.4 miles according to Google Maps and "4 min without traffic". I go straight to a street round the corner which has an uncommonly wide pavement that everyone parks on, and where there's always space. I no longer wonder if it's ok to park there and if I'll get a ticket. I just park. Or I walk - 28 minutes according to Google Maps. If you'd told me three years ago, when I was planning my first drive to the vet, that I could walk there, I would have thought you must be one of those seriously hearty city-dwellers who live in walking boots and an anorak, with a permanent backpack. But it is, indeed, only about 30 minutes, and most of it along a convenient cycle path.
The other factor, in my shrinking journey time to the vet, is that I now plan to arrive at the very last minute, or even a minute or two late, as Hector gets over-excited in the waiting room and barks incessantly. We were once asked to wait outside - oh, the humiliation. Hector gets over-excited, and I sit wondering if someone is going to bring in a snake and planning my escape route for that eventuality - the vet waiting room is not a relaxing place for us. Thus it is that what, in my head, used to be an afternoon's outing, is now a small task on the calendar, to be fitted in easily and quickly between other bits of life. My days are busier, time is more precious and has done that elastic thing that time does, but geography has done it too. The city has definitely shrunk.
.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
The Forth Road Bridge
We are getting a new bridge. Hurrah! The old one is reaching the end of its life, and so a shiny new one is opening next year. I believe there are a lot of people who don't know much about the bridges across the Forth, so I thought I'd give you a little teach-in.
This one is the famous one. It's the Forth RAIL Bridge. It's the one that people refer to when they say that a project is "like painting the Forth Bridge", meaning that as soon as you've finished, you have to start again. Except in recent years, they've painted the whole thing using a very durable paint, and now they won't have to start again for forty years. I wonder if the expression will be as durable as the new paint, even though it's now not technically correct. I imagine so, as it's such a useful expression, and I can't think of one with a similar meaning that would do instead.
The Forth Rail Bridge was opened in 1890, and is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It wasn't designed by Brunel, though I expect a lot of people think it was (including me, probably, before I started writing this blog post). It has that 19th century big metal engineering structure look about it. Looking at it makes me want to use the word "cantilever", though I have no idea at all what one is.
This is the existing Forth ROAD Bridge, which doesn't have the majestic stature of the rail bridge (I'm trying to avoid the use of the word "iconic" here), but I do think it has a certain chunky dignity. When the new one is open, the old one will stay, for use by buses, taxis, cyclists and pedestrians.
Here is what the new Forth Road Bridge is going to look like. I like its svelte elegance.
There was a competition in 2012/13 to name the new bridge. Anyone could send in a suggestion, and then there was a vote on the top five. I was going to send in the suggestion "The Third Forth Bridge" (geddit?), and didn't, because I assumed a load of other people would, and then I would just be able to vote for it. But I was wrong in my assumption. I happened to cross the new Severn bridge in the summer of 2013, and I was delighted to see that it's called "The Second Severn Crossing". Well done, the Welsh. That's my kind of humour.
So not enough people suggested "The Third Forth Bridge" to get it into the top five, but apparently there was a popular suggestion to call the bridge "Kevin". There's a Scottish comedian called Kevin Bridges, which may help you to understand this seemingly odd idea. Though there is a blogger who calls her book club Kevin, so I guess you can call anything Kevin if you want to.
In fact, the five names that were shortlisted were rather unimaginative. They were:
Over 35,000 people voted (not including me - I thought the suggestions were too boring), and the name "Queensferry Crossing" was the winner.
A lot of English people think that the bridges are a crossing between England and Scotland. They're not. The Firth of Forth is to the north side of Edinburgh, so if that were the case, Edinburgh would be in England. Which it isn't. The border between England and Scotland is a landmark that is much less conspicuous. In fact, it isn't a landmark at all. It's a sign on the A1, with a small layby. It would be nice to have a fancy bridge as the border, wouldn't it? It would make arriving in one country from the other feel a bit more special. I suppose we'll either have to move the border up to the Firth of Forth and then either relocate Edinburgh in its entirety, or let Edinburgh be in England. Alternatively, we could dig a huge channel across the Scottish Borders, and then build a bridge over it. The easiest solution, actually, would be to move the border a bit. It follows the River Tweed for miles and miles, and then just as it gets towards Britain's eastern edge, it jinks north and hits the coast about eight miles north of Berwick-upon-Tweed. This is somewhat perverse and rather a shame, because otherwise, these splendid bridges (road and rail) could be a rather satisfying border crossing.
And that little detour to Berwick-upon-Tweed, my friends, concludes my lesson on the Forth Bridges.
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The Forth Rail Bridge was opened in 1890, and is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It wasn't designed by Brunel, though I expect a lot of people think it was (including me, probably, before I started writing this blog post). It has that 19th century big metal engineering structure look about it. Looking at it makes me want to use the word "cantilever", though I have no idea at all what one is.
This is the existing Forth ROAD Bridge, which doesn't have the majestic stature of the rail bridge (I'm trying to avoid the use of the word "iconic" here), but I do think it has a certain chunky dignity. When the new one is open, the old one will stay, for use by buses, taxis, cyclists and pedestrians.
Here is what the new Forth Road Bridge is going to look like. I like its svelte elegance.
There was a competition in 2012/13 to name the new bridge. Anyone could send in a suggestion, and then there was a vote on the top five. I was going to send in the suggestion "The Third Forth Bridge" (geddit?), and didn't, because I assumed a load of other people would, and then I would just be able to vote for it. But I was wrong in my assumption. I happened to cross the new Severn bridge in the summer of 2013, and I was delighted to see that it's called "The Second Severn Crossing". Well done, the Welsh. That's my kind of humour.
So not enough people suggested "The Third Forth Bridge" to get it into the top five, but apparently there was a popular suggestion to call the bridge "Kevin". There's a Scottish comedian called Kevin Bridges, which may help you to understand this seemingly odd idea. Though there is a blogger who calls her book club Kevin, so I guess you can call anything Kevin if you want to.
In fact, the five names that were shortlisted were rather unimaginative. They were:
- Caledonia Crossing
- Firth of Forth Crossing
- Queensferry Crossing
- Saltire Crossing
- St Margaret's Crossing.
Over 35,000 people voted (not including me - I thought the suggestions were too boring), and the name "Queensferry Crossing" was the winner.
A lot of English people think that the bridges are a crossing between England and Scotland. They're not. The Firth of Forth is to the north side of Edinburgh, so if that were the case, Edinburgh would be in England. Which it isn't. The border between England and Scotland is a landmark that is much less conspicuous. In fact, it isn't a landmark at all. It's a sign on the A1, with a small layby. It would be nice to have a fancy bridge as the border, wouldn't it? It would make arriving in one country from the other feel a bit more special. I suppose we'll either have to move the border up to the Firth of Forth and then either relocate Edinburgh in its entirety, or let Edinburgh be in England. Alternatively, we could dig a huge channel across the Scottish Borders, and then build a bridge over it. The easiest solution, actually, would be to move the border a bit. It follows the River Tweed for miles and miles, and then just as it gets towards Britain's eastern edge, it jinks north and hits the coast about eight miles north of Berwick-upon-Tweed. This is somewhat perverse and rather a shame, because otherwise, these splendid bridges (road and rail) could be a rather satisfying border crossing.
And that little detour to Berwick-upon-Tweed, my friends, concludes my lesson on the Forth Bridges.
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Friday, November 6, 2015
You will be really surprised that I'm posting about this
You don't have me down as the kind of blogger who posts about Christmas ads, do you? You're right. I'm not. I don't like promoting big corporations, I don't like the commercialism of Christmas, and I don't watch much tv. What's more, I don't like receiving emails that call themselves an "exclusive preview", when I know that I'm one of several hundred thousand people receiving the email. But I liked this video, and I'm meant to be posting once a week and already failing at that, so I'm going to share it with you. Lazy blogging. Sorry.
What I like about it is this:
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What I like about it is this:
- it's short (one minute - well done, M&S, less is more)
- it's fun
- it's not smaltzchy (is that a word?) and doesn't romanticise Christmas, but realistically suggests that things like having 40 winks on the sofa are a nice part of the day ("if only"... I hear you all sigh)
- yes, it's full of glamourous women and smiley children, and the parents don't look tired enough and don't show even a flicker of annoyance when their daughter jumps on them and interrupts their post-dinner 40 winks, but they all seem to be having a bit of a lark, rather than being the perfect Christmas family, and the scenes are random and a tad weird
- yes, it's only 6 November and we haven't had Bonfire Night yet, so too early, too early for Christmas stuff, but well, you can't blame a big retailer for being like all the rest of them
- it's made me realise why I always dislike other Christmas ads that get hyped (John Lewis, I'm looking at you here). At some level, they do all send out that "you too could have the perfect Christmas" message, even if it's cunningly disguised as penguins and pyjamas. I like this M&S one because I don't quite understand it, but it's a romp that throws itself full pelt at Christmas, and it stirred up something jolly. Jolly and not too perfect.
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Wednesday, October 14, 2015
Spider phobia
Every blog has its interludes from time to time, when there's a feeling in the air of "where am I going? what's this blog for?". I've had mine, and now I'm back.
Daughter is scared of spiders. I understand. When I was a child (and still now), I had (have) a snake phobia. I never saw a real snake, but that didn't matter. I remember seeing a picture of a snake in a book or on the tv, and the back of my neck would constrict, there'd be a jarring, ringing, grating noise in my ears, and I would feel frozen. It was a visceral reaction. I expect it saved my ancestors from death by anaconda, and was handed down in the DNA as a useful evolutionary tool.
Logic, reason, understanding... they didn't come into the phobia. My brother had a toy wooden cobra, made of a long series of wooden Vs, and I hated it. I hated the way its many joints would allow it to move from side to side in curves, like a real snake. I knew it wasn't a real snake, of course, but I still hated it. He would occasionally silently nmanoeuvre it round my bedroom door, and I'd turn round from doing my homework at my desk and see it, and feel petrified. Turned to stone, is what the word petrified means, and it was like that. The jangling noise in my ears and the freezing sensation in my body. He stopped doing that trick (he was a kind soul), and sometimes I would go into his bedroom, and make myself touch that wooden cobra, and pick it up. Logic must triumph over irrational panic, I would tell myself. But I'd only do that when no-one else was around.
I would only go to a zoo if I knew I didn't have to go into the reptile house. Snakes were the worst, but I didn't like lizards either. I did used to go to Tring Museum, where there was a large display of stuffed animals, collected by one of the Lord Rothschilds (he who had zebras to pull his trap instead of horses). There weren't any stuffed snakes, but there were snake skins. Trouble was, they were opposite the dogs. I loved the stuffed dogs. So I would go round the first few galleries knowing that I had a choice ahead (Tring Museum was a regular holiday treat), and trying to gather my courage. I could avoid the snake skins, but that would mean missing the dogs. I remember the fear, and how only facing it would mean I could manage it. So I would sidle along, looking at the dogs, and then when I felt brave enough, I would turn round, look at those dusty old snake skins, pinned out in glass cases, and prove to myself that I had nothing to fear.
So I understand 11-yo's fear of spiders. I know that saying "it won't hurt you" or "it's probably more frightened of you than you are of it" doesn't help. What I want to do, is to find out how to help - not just for the here and now, because we deal ok with each episode, but for the future. Is it best to help a child root out a phobia like this? Or is it best to live with it, until your chid is a young adult and can make her own decisions about what she wants to face and what she wants to put up with? I don't want to risk making it worse. If I've ever suggested doing anything about it, 11-yo, predictably, meets the suggestion with an emphatic "no!".
The difference between a snake phobia and a spider phobia is this. The snake phobia was unpleasant, but not significantly life-limiting. It would have been problematic if we'd moved to Australia, presumably, or gone on exotic holidays, but we didn't, so it wasn't. But if you live in the UK, and you fear and hate spiders, it's something that you have to deal with fairly frequently. I can see that 11-yo manages very well, and as far as I'm aware, it isn't something that hangs over and colours her daily life. But she'd still be better off without the fear, and I'd like to know what I can do to help.
I was going to put up a picture of snakes and spiders, but if you type that kind of thing into Google images, it really spoils your Wednesday evening. Go right ahead on your own, if you would like to see some. You don't need me to pick one out for you.
.
Daughter is scared of spiders. I understand. When I was a child (and still now), I had (have) a snake phobia. I never saw a real snake, but that didn't matter. I remember seeing a picture of a snake in a book or on the tv, and the back of my neck would constrict, there'd be a jarring, ringing, grating noise in my ears, and I would feel frozen. It was a visceral reaction. I expect it saved my ancestors from death by anaconda, and was handed down in the DNA as a useful evolutionary tool.
Logic, reason, understanding... they didn't come into the phobia. My brother had a toy wooden cobra, made of a long series of wooden Vs, and I hated it. I hated the way its many joints would allow it to move from side to side in curves, like a real snake. I knew it wasn't a real snake, of course, but I still hated it. He would occasionally silently nmanoeuvre it round my bedroom door, and I'd turn round from doing my homework at my desk and see it, and feel petrified. Turned to stone, is what the word petrified means, and it was like that. The jangling noise in my ears and the freezing sensation in my body. He stopped doing that trick (he was a kind soul), and sometimes I would go into his bedroom, and make myself touch that wooden cobra, and pick it up. Logic must triumph over irrational panic, I would tell myself. But I'd only do that when no-one else was around.
I would only go to a zoo if I knew I didn't have to go into the reptile house. Snakes were the worst, but I didn't like lizards either. I did used to go to Tring Museum, where there was a large display of stuffed animals, collected by one of the Lord Rothschilds (he who had zebras to pull his trap instead of horses). There weren't any stuffed snakes, but there were snake skins. Trouble was, they were opposite the dogs. I loved the stuffed dogs. So I would go round the first few galleries knowing that I had a choice ahead (Tring Museum was a regular holiday treat), and trying to gather my courage. I could avoid the snake skins, but that would mean missing the dogs. I remember the fear, and how only facing it would mean I could manage it. So I would sidle along, looking at the dogs, and then when I felt brave enough, I would turn round, look at those dusty old snake skins, pinned out in glass cases, and prove to myself that I had nothing to fear.
So I understand 11-yo's fear of spiders. I know that saying "it won't hurt you" or "it's probably more frightened of you than you are of it" doesn't help. What I want to do, is to find out how to help - not just for the here and now, because we deal ok with each episode, but for the future. Is it best to help a child root out a phobia like this? Or is it best to live with it, until your chid is a young adult and can make her own decisions about what she wants to face and what she wants to put up with? I don't want to risk making it worse. If I've ever suggested doing anything about it, 11-yo, predictably, meets the suggestion with an emphatic "no!".
The difference between a snake phobia and a spider phobia is this. The snake phobia was unpleasant, but not significantly life-limiting. It would have been problematic if we'd moved to Australia, presumably, or gone on exotic holidays, but we didn't, so it wasn't. But if you live in the UK, and you fear and hate spiders, it's something that you have to deal with fairly frequently. I can see that 11-yo manages very well, and as far as I'm aware, it isn't something that hangs over and colours her daily life. But she'd still be better off without the fear, and I'd like to know what I can do to help.
I was going to put up a picture of snakes and spiders, but if you type that kind of thing into Google images, it really spoils your Wednesday evening. Go right ahead on your own, if you would like to see some. You don't need me to pick one out for you.
.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
Old Bloggers Award
So, as I said in my previous post (notice how I didn't say "my last post" there), I was reading Expat Mum's post about old bloggers, and she gave me an award. Just like the old days. The award is the Dragon Award for Loyalty, and it's only for people who've been blogging since 2010. I don't really get it. Are dragons known for their loyalty? Or just for being old? Anyway, here it is, and thank you very much.
I then have to tell you seven things about myself that you may not know. Here goes:
I like listening to The Archers, but I'm not obsessive. If I miss it, I miss it.
Husband has the masculine version of my name (think Paul and Pauline, Richard and Ricarda, Justin and Justine - that kind of thing). I like it, not least because it often provides a really easy conversation opener at a social occasion.
I always hated being tall, and seldom wore heels in my teens and twenties. Husband is my height, so when we first got together, and for many years, that "seldom" went down to "never". Then I bought a pair of heels for a fancy-dress do, and really liked them. The next time I was thinking of wearing them, my daughter (aged about 9 at the time) was watching me dress. I made some comment about not wearing the shoes because they made me taller than Daddy, and she said she didn't think that mattered and I should wear them anyway. That comment completely changed my attitude. I now wear heels if I want to, and I enjoy them. It's not just that I want to model to my daughter a more confident attitude than I have had (it looks like she is going to be tall too) - though that is true. Something in me just shifted, the moment she said what she said.
I don't have lots of favourite films that I can watch over and over. I'd always rather watch something new, because there is so much good stuff out there. However, I do have a very few favourites... Hang on a minute, I think I've shared this in a blog post before... that's the trouble with being an old blogger... you're bound to repeat yourself... but in case you missed it last time, my old favourite dvds are Billy Elliot, The Blind Side, The Full Monty, and Elf (but only the first half where it's just ridiculous and politically incorrect, not the schmultzy second half, and I know you'll disagree with me, Potty Mummy, because you enjoy Zooey Deschanel singing Santa Claus is Coming to Town).
I am a big advocate of the split infinitive, because it's only pedantry that has made it unacceptable over all these years.
I have a colleague at work who shares my taste in names, and we have lots of conversations slagging off other people's choices. We always pre-fix what we say with "of course taste is very personal, but...". I realise this is going to end horribly badly, because one day we're going to be in full raucous humour about a name, and someone is going to come into the room and be offended.
That's six, not seven, but quite enough.
Now I have to name some old bloggers to pass the award on to. Very hard, given that Expat Mum has picked lots of the ones I would pick. But here goes. It's awarded to you, Paradise Lost in Translation, Reluctant Memsahib, Happy Homemaker UK, Motherhood the Final Frontier, Rosie Scribble, Is There a Plan B?, Kelloggsville, Sticky Fingers and Pig in the Kitchen. Blimey, I didn't realise I knew so many old bloggers. Maybe some of you could emerge from blogging mothballs and manage a post.
.
I then have to tell you seven things about myself that you may not know. Here goes:
I like listening to The Archers, but I'm not obsessive. If I miss it, I miss it.
Husband has the masculine version of my name (think Paul and Pauline, Richard and Ricarda, Justin and Justine - that kind of thing). I like it, not least because it often provides a really easy conversation opener at a social occasion.
I always hated being tall, and seldom wore heels in my teens and twenties. Husband is my height, so when we first got together, and for many years, that "seldom" went down to "never". Then I bought a pair of heels for a fancy-dress do, and really liked them. The next time I was thinking of wearing them, my daughter (aged about 9 at the time) was watching me dress. I made some comment about not wearing the shoes because they made me taller than Daddy, and she said she didn't think that mattered and I should wear them anyway. That comment completely changed my attitude. I now wear heels if I want to, and I enjoy them. It's not just that I want to model to my daughter a more confident attitude than I have had (it looks like she is going to be tall too) - though that is true. Something in me just shifted, the moment she said what she said.
I don't have lots of favourite films that I can watch over and over. I'd always rather watch something new, because there is so much good stuff out there. However, I do have a very few favourites... Hang on a minute, I think I've shared this in a blog post before... that's the trouble with being an old blogger... you're bound to repeat yourself... but in case you missed it last time, my old favourite dvds are Billy Elliot, The Blind Side, The Full Monty, and Elf (but only the first half where it's just ridiculous and politically incorrect, not the schmultzy second half, and I know you'll disagree with me, Potty Mummy, because you enjoy Zooey Deschanel singing Santa Claus is Coming to Town).
I am a big advocate of the split infinitive, because it's only pedantry that has made it unacceptable over all these years.
I have a colleague at work who shares my taste in names, and we have lots of conversations slagging off other people's choices. We always pre-fix what we say with "of course taste is very personal, but...". I realise this is going to end horribly badly, because one day we're going to be in full raucous humour about a name, and someone is going to come into the room and be offended.
That's six, not seven, but quite enough.
Now I have to name some old bloggers to pass the award on to. Very hard, given that Expat Mum has picked lots of the ones I would pick. But here goes. It's awarded to you, Paradise Lost in Translation, Reluctant Memsahib, Happy Homemaker UK, Motherhood the Final Frontier, Rosie Scribble, Is There a Plan B?, Kelloggsville, Sticky Fingers and Pig in the Kitchen. Blimey, I didn't realise I knew so many old bloggers. Maybe some of you could emerge from blogging mothballs and manage a post.
.
Saturday, October 3, 2015
Old bloggers never die, they simply write the last post
I was feeling nostalgic about blogging this morning. I think it's autumn that does it. I often feel nostalgic in autumn. I was reflecting on how big a part of my life blogging was when I started in 2007, how intense it felt, how much fun I had. I was thinking how much I miss it, and how I've often thought I would love to carry on writing in some other forum but haven't found the right thing (or even looked very hard).
I also confess to a feeling of failure. My blogging world seems littered with bloggers who have gone on to do great things. Great writing things. They've written novels, or columns for websites of world-respected newpapers, they've continued journalist or writing careers, they run websites that mean they and their family travel the world having lovely holidays, they appear on tv and radio. Me? Not so much. What happened to me?
In my defence... and here followed a list of stuff about my life that I chopped out, because yes, I have a busy life, but that's life, and the point is in the final sentence which is... But I often have moments when I lament to myself that I'm not writing, and I feel like I'm making excuses.
I started doing "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron, getting another blogger to do it with me (always good to be accountable to someone). We didn't even last a week. I have vaguely researched local writing groups, but have never been brave enough to put my joining toe in the water. I've kept this blog ticking over, a slow drip that has almost dried up. Though frequently I do still think of ideas for posts, and craft them in my head. Only yesterday, shopping in Morrisons, I was mentally penning a piece on why sweetcorn tins are sold in shrink-wrapped packs of three, when everything else is sold in packs of two or four, and whether perhaps the person behind the decision had middle child syndrome (things in threes, you see), a working hypothesis which is rather borne out by the Green Giant marketing schtick. If that doesn't speak of sibling envy and an inferiority complex, I don't know what does.
Anyway, where was I? Finding excuses for why I haven't gone anywhere with writing. I mean, I was runner-up for a couple of awards at one point, for heaven's sake. Blogging, for me, changed significantly when it all got social media-ised. It's not possible (I don't think) to run a very successful blog these days, unless you're joined up with Facebook, Twitter, and whatever else might come along. That means it's all a lot more time-consuming, and (here's the nub) you can't be anonymous. I found my writing feet, and flourished, when I could do so secretly behind a computer screen. Thinking back, there is so much that I just couldn't have written, if it hadn't been not only that I was anonymous, but that the whole blogging world was largely anonymous, or at least that it all started out that way. (Remember the boob cake?) I can't get that back, and I'm not sure how to find the freedom that I felt, without it. Though I still feel like I'm making excuses.
So this is what I propose. To remember that it's not a competition. That it doesn't matter what other people have or haven't done from their blogging platforms. That it's not a question of success and failure. That, actually, writing for the sake of writing is ok, even if doesn't go anywhere. And not being anonymous is ok. It makes things different, but not wrong. Just different. So, I will promise myself to write a little each week. I will investigate the group of Blogging Nostalgiks that my old china Expat Mum has told me about. I will investigate another group of "Writers Over 40" that I came across on Britmums recently (though I would have qualified a decade ago, but they're probably flexible on the upper end of the age bracket). Baby steps, I know, but if I'm to get back into writing, I've got to start somewhere. Because I don't want any post to be my last post.
.
I also confess to a feeling of failure. My blogging world seems littered with bloggers who have gone on to do great things. Great writing things. They've written novels, or columns for websites of world-respected newpapers, they've continued journalist or writing careers, they run websites that mean they and their family travel the world having lovely holidays, they appear on tv and radio. Me? Not so much. What happened to me?
In my defence... and here followed a list of stuff about my life that I chopped out, because yes, I have a busy life, but that's life, and the point is in the final sentence which is... But I often have moments when I lament to myself that I'm not writing, and I feel like I'm making excuses.
I started doing "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron, getting another blogger to do it with me (always good to be accountable to someone). We didn't even last a week. I have vaguely researched local writing groups, but have never been brave enough to put my joining toe in the water. I've kept this blog ticking over, a slow drip that has almost dried up. Though frequently I do still think of ideas for posts, and craft them in my head. Only yesterday, shopping in Morrisons, I was mentally penning a piece on why sweetcorn tins are sold in shrink-wrapped packs of three, when everything else is sold in packs of two or four, and whether perhaps the person behind the decision had middle child syndrome (things in threes, you see), a working hypothesis which is rather borne out by the Green Giant marketing schtick. If that doesn't speak of sibling envy and an inferiority complex, I don't know what does.
Anyway, where was I? Finding excuses for why I haven't gone anywhere with writing. I mean, I was runner-up for a couple of awards at one point, for heaven's sake. Blogging, for me, changed significantly when it all got social media-ised. It's not possible (I don't think) to run a very successful blog these days, unless you're joined up with Facebook, Twitter, and whatever else might come along. That means it's all a lot more time-consuming, and (here's the nub) you can't be anonymous. I found my writing feet, and flourished, when I could do so secretly behind a computer screen. Thinking back, there is so much that I just couldn't have written, if it hadn't been not only that I was anonymous, but that the whole blogging world was largely anonymous, or at least that it all started out that way. (Remember the boob cake?) I can't get that back, and I'm not sure how to find the freedom that I felt, without it. Though I still feel like I'm making excuses.
So this is what I propose. To remember that it's not a competition. That it doesn't matter what other people have or haven't done from their blogging platforms. That it's not a question of success and failure. That, actually, writing for the sake of writing is ok, even if doesn't go anywhere. And not being anonymous is ok. It makes things different, but not wrong. Just different. So, I will promise myself to write a little each week. I will investigate the group of Blogging Nostalgiks that my old china Expat Mum has told me about. I will investigate another group of "Writers Over 40" that I came across on Britmums recently (though I would have qualified a decade ago, but they're probably flexible on the upper end of the age bracket). Baby steps, I know, but if I'm to get back into writing, I've got to start somewhere. Because I don't want any post to be my last post.
.
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Monarchy seeks new role
I live near a street that's known for its charity shops. There are about a dozen (I jest not), and they've become quite specialised. There's the Oxfam bookshop, a British Red Cross weddings and evening wear shop, and a Cancer Research designer label wear shop. Even the general shops all have their own flavour - I'd know which one I was in if you took me in with my eyes shut and only allowed me to open them when the door was closed behind me.
There must be a lot of volunteers keeping all these charity shops open. It must be a constant effort, keeping enough volunteers on the books, recruiting them, training them, managing them. Many of the shops have notices in the windows, advertising for volunteers.
One sign I saw the other day amused me. It said
Volunteers needed. Could you spare a few hours a week? Training given.
Come and be part of our team. Duke of Edinburgh welcome.
I know that last bit is short-hand for "if you need to do community service as part of your Duke of Edinburgh award, volunteering here will count, and we'd be happy to have you", but it's a lovely mental image, isn't it? Prince Philip, looking for a new interest in his retirement, popping into his local Barnado's shop with his cv, and being interviewed to see how good he'd be with the public and whether he could learn to operate a till.
.
There must be a lot of volunteers keeping all these charity shops open. It must be a constant effort, keeping enough volunteers on the books, recruiting them, training them, managing them. Many of the shops have notices in the windows, advertising for volunteers.
One sign I saw the other day amused me. It said
Volunteers needed. Could you spare a few hours a week? Training given.
Come and be part of our team. Duke of Edinburgh welcome.
I know that last bit is short-hand for "if you need to do community service as part of your Duke of Edinburgh award, volunteering here will count, and we'd be happy to have you", but it's a lovely mental image, isn't it? Prince Philip, looking for a new interest in his retirement, popping into his local Barnado's shop with his cv, and being interviewed to see how good he'd be with the public and whether he could learn to operate a till.
.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Time
A lovely thing happened to me this week. I was talking to someone whose husband is undergoing chemotherapy, and I told her I'd done the same, for breast cancer, five years ago. I don't tend to talk about it very much, but I sometimes throw my hat into the ring (do you remember those great caps I used to wear when I had no hair?)
After the conversation, when we'd gone our separate ways, I stopped and thought. Hang on. We're May 2015. My cancer diagnosis was May 2009. That's SIX years ago. I said five, but a year has sped by, and now it's six. And how very wonderful, that I'm no longer specifically aware of how many years it is, not without thinking about it.
Time can be an ally as well as an enemy, a restorer as well as a thief. We know Father Time, the slow steady figure who regulates our lives with his measured rhythm. What about Mother Time? She who strives with her whole being to hold on to choice moments as they slide from under her feet, and who drags her heavy heels when the treadmill of life is weary?
Speaking of mothers, I was talking to one the other day, as she held her baby. I asked how old the baby was.
"Seven months on Tuesday week", came the reply.
I smiled. "Six months" would have served the purpose. "Six months" or "seven months". What difference? Either would have told me what I needed to know. But to that mother, every week, every day, perhaps every hour, the baby changes, grows, tries and accomplishes new things. Seven months old, not this Tuesday coming, but the one after. Each day between now and then a precious compendium of the familiar and the amazingly new.
Passports. They're another marker of the perplexity of time. I had to photocopy 14-yo's today, for the purposes of opening a bank account. It was issued in May 2011, and there is his 10 year old face staring out. When you receive your new passport, the date of expiry makes you stop. May 2016! Five years away! It seems hard to comprehend that a document can project so far into life. I probably said at the time
"Goodness! When we next have to renew your passport, you'll be 15! Difficult to imagine! I wonder what we'll be doing then."
And here I am, wondering a little what we were doing back then.
It was 14-yo who, when a small boy, told me that it was unfair being a child, because when you're having fun, time goes very fast, and then when you're bored, it goes slowly. Regretting the demolishing of a piece of innocence, but knowing that Honesty required the deed, I told him that actually, it's the same for grown-ups.
Perhaps instead of characterising Time as Father or Mother, it's best to think of it as Friend. I like the idea of Friend Time, close by our side as we potter along, always there, a shadowy companion who disappears if we turn to look at him (or is it her?), but who we glimpse continually out of the corner of our eye, though it's more an awareness than a proper sighting. Friend Time. Do you like that idea?
'
After the conversation, when we'd gone our separate ways, I stopped and thought. Hang on. We're May 2015. My cancer diagnosis was May 2009. That's SIX years ago. I said five, but a year has sped by, and now it's six. And how very wonderful, that I'm no longer specifically aware of how many years it is, not without thinking about it.
Time can be an ally as well as an enemy, a restorer as well as a thief. We know Father Time, the slow steady figure who regulates our lives with his measured rhythm. What about Mother Time? She who strives with her whole being to hold on to choice moments as they slide from under her feet, and who drags her heavy heels when the treadmill of life is weary?
Speaking of mothers, I was talking to one the other day, as she held her baby. I asked how old the baby was.
"Seven months on Tuesday week", came the reply.
I smiled. "Six months" would have served the purpose. "Six months" or "seven months". What difference? Either would have told me what I needed to know. But to that mother, every week, every day, perhaps every hour, the baby changes, grows, tries and accomplishes new things. Seven months old, not this Tuesday coming, but the one after. Each day between now and then a precious compendium of the familiar and the amazingly new.
Passports. They're another marker of the perplexity of time. I had to photocopy 14-yo's today, for the purposes of opening a bank account. It was issued in May 2011, and there is his 10 year old face staring out. When you receive your new passport, the date of expiry makes you stop. May 2016! Five years away! It seems hard to comprehend that a document can project so far into life. I probably said at the time
"Goodness! When we next have to renew your passport, you'll be 15! Difficult to imagine! I wonder what we'll be doing then."
And here I am, wondering a little what we were doing back then.
It was 14-yo who, when a small boy, told me that it was unfair being a child, because when you're having fun, time goes very fast, and then when you're bored, it goes slowly. Regretting the demolishing of a piece of innocence, but knowing that Honesty required the deed, I told him that actually, it's the same for grown-ups.
Perhaps instead of characterising Time as Father or Mother, it's best to think of it as Friend. I like the idea of Friend Time, close by our side as we potter along, always there, a shadowy companion who disappears if we turn to look at him (or is it her?), but who we glimpse continually out of the corner of our eye, though it's more an awareness than a proper sighting. Friend Time. Do you like that idea?
'
Saturday, April 18, 2015
The Iota Quota, does it floata your boata?
We have a new bit of security on our computer, and it's irritating. Instead of the default page being Google, it's Norton. I usually just type in Google, and go to Google, because the Norton search engine is really quite rubbish. And it doesn't have Google Doodles, which I miss. So that's an extra 2 or 3 seconds added to my first internet browse of the day. I can live with that. It's not really too bad, in the great scheme of things.
It also means that if I want to come to my blog (which is a trip that is getting less frequent with every passing year), and I type in "The Iota Quota", it doesn't come up with the website link, but with an array of not very useful blog ranking sites, or very old mentions on other people's blogs, and so that's an extra few more seconds while I remember it's just quicker to start typing in the URL instead (yes, I know I could set up bookmarks and shortcuts and all those jazzy things, but... this is my way, these are my routines, leave me alone).
The point of why I'm telling you this background (are you still here?), is that this morning, I forgot not to bother with Norton, typed in "The Iota Quota" and it came up with a new thing. As usual, it ignored the obvious and didn't come up with a link to the blog address, but in a rather interesting tangent, high up the page was a list of what Iota rhymes with, and a link to a site called Rhyme Brain. This is what it said:
rota protoiota quota scrota anecdota. Words that almost rhyme with yota. soda coda dopa pagoda jojoba levodopa. yoga lona coma sofa aroma bona notre oa ...
Rota seemed a good start, proto less good (doesn't rhyme). I rather liked "anecdota" - yes, I'd like my blog to be considered full of anecdota (though don't we say "anecdotes"?). But "scrota"? Oh no. Is that the best Rhyme Brain could come up with?
Now, I don't usually blog about politics, but I will tell you this. I am an undecided vota. It all seems such a midden (to use a good Scots word). I can't get behind any of the main three parties, because ideologically they all seem to be going round in circles saying the same sorts of things and it all feels uninspiring. But I don't want to vote for any of the smaller parties because that seems a bit pointless. What to do?
.
It also means that if I want to come to my blog (which is a trip that is getting less frequent with every passing year), and I type in "The Iota Quota", it doesn't come up with the website link, but with an array of not very useful blog ranking sites, or very old mentions on other people's blogs, and so that's an extra few more seconds while I remember it's just quicker to start typing in the URL instead (yes, I know I could set up bookmarks and shortcuts and all those jazzy things, but... this is my way, these are my routines, leave me alone).
The point of why I'm telling you this background (are you still here?), is that this morning, I forgot not to bother with Norton, typed in "The Iota Quota" and it came up with a new thing. As usual, it ignored the obvious and didn't come up with a link to the blog address, but in a rather interesting tangent, high up the page was a list of what Iota rhymes with, and a link to a site called Rhyme Brain. This is what it said:
rota proto
Rota seemed a good start, proto less good (doesn't rhyme). I rather liked "anecdota" - yes, I'd like my blog to be considered full of anecdota (though don't we say "anecdotes"?). But "scrota"? Oh no. Is that the best Rhyme Brain could come up with?
Now, I don't usually blog about politics, but I will tell you this. I am an undecided vota. It all seems such a midden (to use a good Scots word). I can't get behind any of the main three parties, because ideologically they all seem to be going round in circles saying the same sorts of things and it all feels uninspiring. But I don't want to vote for any of the smaller parties because that seems a bit pointless. What to do?
.
Saturday, March 28, 2015
How to be a successful working mother
My new job means I've gone up from 2 days a week to 3, which doesn't sound like a big difference, and I'm sure all you full-timers are sniffing and thinking how pathetic I am. However, it actually feels like quite a big hike to me; it's a 50% increase after all. I have to try harder to get to yoga, I'm not meeting up with friends so much, and we're eating less healthily at home. (It doesn't look too bad, when I see it written down in black and white like that!)
In all honestly, I think fitting any hours of paid employment at all into your life when you have children is quite a lot. I'm glad I've got a job, and in terms of hours and family-friendliness, I think I've got it pretty good. Most of the time it's fine, but when family life is under pressure for any reason, it seems like there's no slack at all. Maybe not everyone feels the need for slack in their life, but I do. So I've come up with some top tips for how to make it work, when you're a working mother.
In all honestly, I think fitting any hours of paid employment at all into your life when you have children is quite a lot. I'm glad I've got a job, and in terms of hours and family-friendliness, I think I've got it pretty good. Most of the time it's fine, but when family life is under pressure for any reason, it seems like there's no slack at all. Maybe not everyone feels the need for slack in their life, but I do. So I've come up with some top tips for how to make it work, when you're a working mother.
- Have your mother living round the corner I can't tell you the number of times I've felt a pang of jealousy when a colleague tells me her mother does the dinner a couple of days a week, or helps out with the school run, or whatever it is. It's just free, top quality childcare, which can be turned on and off like a tap, with added emotional support from your biggest fan.
- Have healthy children Yes, it's fine to take a day off here and there when a child is ill, but don't have the kind of child who picks up every bug going. How will it be when you have a couple of days off this week, and next, and then in a month's time, and then again in another month's time? (This isn't a problem if you have your mother living round the corner, who can morph into a part-time nurse as required.) If you have more than one child, make sure they are all ill on the same day. If one gets a virus, and then passes it on to the other, you can be off for nearly a week as quick as a sneeze. This is, unfortunately, the norm.
- Be healthy yourself Because you're going to have used up all your workplace's goodwill for sick leave covering your children's illnesses.
- Have children near each other in age It makes it much simpler if you are dropping off at and picking up from the same school. Make them do the same activities, in the same place, at the same time. ("What do you mean, you don't want to do swimming? Of course you want to do swimming. Like your brother.") You won't have time to be a taxi driver AND work.
- Go to bed really early every night Otherwise you'll lose your temper when helping with homework or piano practice. After a day at work, who has mental space for that kind of thing? Early bedtimes are the only way.
- Don't be in a job where you need to dress smartly It feels nice, but you'll spend your hardly-earned pay-packet on clothes, because it's so easy to justify:"I need this for work, and I can afford it because I work."
- Be a teacher Otherwise, what are you going to do with the children in those long school holidays? Your five weeks aren't going to cover it, are they? If you have teenagers, you can leave them at home alone, but they'll be on screens all day, and will eat cereal for breakfast, lunch and early dinner too (and then not be hungry for the healthy meal you've made an effort to shop for in your lunchbreak).
.
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
If there's one fictional character I've never liked...
I've started a new job. It's exhausting, isn't it? All those new people, all those new systems, all that tacit knowledge that everyone else has that you don't. And the pressure imposed by the need to appear competent, not to mention well-dressed, cheerful, pleasant, and... most important to this story... consistently alert.
It was Week Three that it happened - the moment that both Miranda and Bridget Jones would be proud of. Or not proud of. I'd had a busy morning. I'd gone shopping at lunchtime. I don't drink caffeine any more. It was the low spot of the afternoon. I had a one-to-one training session on the database with a colleague. The database... From 3.00pm to 5.00pm... In a warm, airless office... My colleague was showing me how to do lots of clever things, and there wasn't much interaction. I was mostly just watching the screen. Asking the occasional question. Trying to be consistently alert (see above).
I nodded off. Only for a few micro-seconds, probably, but who knows? Felt like a few minutes. As I woke up, for some unknown reason, I opened my mouth and said "Henry". I must have been dreaming, of English monarchs, or hoovers. In the split second where I realised that (a) I was awake, (b) I had been asleep, (c) one shouldn't fall asleep in the office, when a colleague is demonstrating the database, particularly when one is new, and (d) I'd just randomly said "Henry" out loud, my brain went into "save, save, save" mode, and I uttered the following:
"Henry... Horrid Henry... Horrid Henry... would be a name we could use if we wanted to set up a dummy record. For training purposes. On the database. Horrid Henry. Would be a good choice of name."
Then, failing to recall the great "stop digging" advice that is universally helpful, I kept on going.
"I was just having a clear out of my children's old books at the week-end, and there were lots of Horrid Henry books, so that's why his name is in my head. Actually, I've never liked the Horrid Henry books, so I was really pleased to be chucking them out, but the name must have stuck in my head. So we could use it. If we wanted to set up a dummy record. Just a thought."
(The bit about sorting out children's books was based on truth, actually.) I don't know whether my colleague was half asleep too, or just terribly polite. Perhaps she had already concluded I'm odd and was merely adding this latest piece of evidence to the picture. She seemed to be valiantly ignoring my jibberings, and continuing to stare at the screen, clicking away at search functions. I left the room, on the pretext of going to make a cup of tea, and as I did so, my brain woke properly, by degrees, until I realised that, irony of ironies, I hadn't actually uttered "Henry" out loud, or anything else for that matter. I'd just sort of dreamt I was doing so, in that half-awake, half-asleep, head-jerking-up moment.
The subconscious. It has a lot to answer for.
If there's one fictional character I've never liked, it's Horrid Henry. And now I like him even less.
.
It was Week Three that it happened - the moment that both Miranda and Bridget Jones would be proud of. Or not proud of. I'd had a busy morning. I'd gone shopping at lunchtime. I don't drink caffeine any more. It was the low spot of the afternoon. I had a one-to-one training session on the database with a colleague. The database... From 3.00pm to 5.00pm... In a warm, airless office... My colleague was showing me how to do lots of clever things, and there wasn't much interaction. I was mostly just watching the screen. Asking the occasional question. Trying to be consistently alert (see above).
I nodded off. Only for a few micro-seconds, probably, but who knows? Felt like a few minutes. As I woke up, for some unknown reason, I opened my mouth and said "Henry". I must have been dreaming, of English monarchs, or hoovers. In the split second where I realised that (a) I was awake, (b) I had been asleep, (c) one shouldn't fall asleep in the office, when a colleague is demonstrating the database, particularly when one is new, and (d) I'd just randomly said "Henry" out loud, my brain went into "save, save, save" mode, and I uttered the following:
"Henry... Horrid Henry... Horrid Henry... would be a name we could use if we wanted to set up a dummy record. For training purposes. On the database. Horrid Henry. Would be a good choice of name."
Then, failing to recall the great "stop digging" advice that is universally helpful, I kept on going.
"I was just having a clear out of my children's old books at the week-end, and there were lots of Horrid Henry books, so that's why his name is in my head. Actually, I've never liked the Horrid Henry books, so I was really pleased to be chucking them out, but the name must have stuck in my head. So we could use it. If we wanted to set up a dummy record. Just a thought."
(The bit about sorting out children's books was based on truth, actually.) I don't know whether my colleague was half asleep too, or just terribly polite. Perhaps she had already concluded I'm odd and was merely adding this latest piece of evidence to the picture. She seemed to be valiantly ignoring my jibberings, and continuing to stare at the screen, clicking away at search functions. I left the room, on the pretext of going to make a cup of tea, and as I did so, my brain woke properly, by degrees, until I realised that, irony of ironies, I hadn't actually uttered "Henry" out loud, or anything else for that matter. I'd just sort of dreamt I was doing so, in that half-awake, half-asleep, head-jerking-up moment.
The subconscious. It has a lot to answer for.
If there's one fictional character I've never liked, it's Horrid Henry. And now I like him even less.
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Monday, February 23, 2015
How language changes!
Thirty years ago, if I'd said "where on earth is my white charger?", I'd have been hoping one of these would come along.
And I'd have been more interested in the knight on top of it.
These days, I say "where on earth is my white charger?" pretty much daily, but now, this is the extent of my hopes and dreams.
Of the collection of wiry things that hang around our house, this white one is the one I know fits my phone. It's meant to live permanently in one spot on the kitchen counter, but it often walks into the sitting room, the study, or the bedrooms of other members of the family.
I've found the second meaning of the word to be less romantic, but more use, honestly.
.
And I'd have been more interested in the knight on top of it.
These days, I say "where on earth is my white charger?" pretty much daily, but now, this is the extent of my hopes and dreams.
Of the collection of wiry things that hang around our house, this white one is the one I know fits my phone. It's meant to live permanently in one spot on the kitchen counter, but it often walks into the sitting room, the study, or the bedrooms of other members of the family.
I've found the second meaning of the word to be less romantic, but more use, honestly.
.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Boots, again
So, you'll remember that I like a good pair of boots. I went shopping in the January sales, and I found these beauties.
Aren't they lovely? I saw them standing there with a half price ticket on them, amongst all the other boots.
As I approached, I heard them call to me, "Us? Is it us? Could you love us more than all the others?"
I bent down close, and whispered, so that the others wouldn't overhear, "I already do".
I inspected them carefully and saw that they were Carvela. I wasn't surprised, because the last time I found perfection and truly lost my heart (sorry, Husband and previous boyfriends), it was to a pair of soft leather Carvela court shoes. About 30 years ago.
Aren't they gorgeous? Plain enough to be very classic, but a little detail in those buckles to catch the eye. I wish they could always be as shiny and unblemished as they are now.
I do stroke them from time to time, and I inhale their leathery loveliness, but I try not to overdo it. They need tending, but these classy boots, you know, are at risk of developing quite a high opinion of themselves, and you don't want them to get too big for their humans.
.
Aren't they lovely? I saw them standing there with a half price ticket on them, amongst all the other boots.
As I approached, I heard them call to me, "Us? Is it us? Could you love us more than all the others?"
I bent down close, and whispered, so that the others wouldn't overhear, "I already do".
I inspected them carefully and saw that they were Carvela. I wasn't surprised, because the last time I found perfection and truly lost my heart (sorry, Husband and previous boyfriends), it was to a pair of soft leather Carvela court shoes. About 30 years ago.
Aren't they gorgeous? Plain enough to be very classic, but a little detail in those buckles to catch the eye. I wish they could always be as shiny and unblemished as they are now.
I do stroke them from time to time, and I inhale their leathery loveliness, but I try not to overdo it. They need tending, but these classy boots, you know, are at risk of developing quite a high opinion of themselves, and you don't want them to get too big for their humans.
.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
It's been a while
OK, so yes, it's been a while.
Husband has had a kidney stone for the past month. The treatment has been patchy. At first it was incredibly good and quick, enabling us to rave about the NHS and feel smug about how great it seems compared to all the health insurance wrangles involved any time you're ill in America. Then the machine which they need to zap it (lithotripsy, if you're interested) broke down, or the scanner did, or something, and they haven't been able to get it repaired for over a week. (And it's the only one in Scotland.) That doesn't sound too long, until you know that renal colic caused by a kidney stone on the move is said to be the nearest a man gets to experiencing the pain level of childbirth. Luckily it comes and goes, and has gone more than come, but Husband has been on painkillers for a month, which have left him washed out and half his usual self.
I've been applying for new jobs and have got one. You know how demanding a process that can be. There was one week where I had a job interview each morning on three consecutive mornings. It began to feel like I had a new job, and the job was doing interviews! And then there were second interviews, and every time, they picked a day which is a day I work (only 2 of them in a week, so what are the odds?) which is horrible, because you end up fibbing. I don't like fibbing, and I'm not good at it. I particularly don't like pretending in a vague way that I'm off work because my husband has a hospital appointment when he doesn't. Anyway, I got one of the jobs, and so I'm working out my notice. Hurrah. I haven't been in a happy place for months. You know it's time to move when.... oh, but I'm not going to share all my baggage on the internet, because we all know how that ends.
Two things I have discovered about myself in the past month or two.
1) When I'm in an unhappy situation, my shadow side comes to the fore. I really can be quite gossipy and bitchy, and even as I open my mouth and some of the stuff comes out to colleagues, I listen to myself and think "What are you like? I can't believe you're saying these things?" I guess we all have areas of ourselves to work on, and this is obviously one of mine. There are plenty of extenuating circumstances; it really has been very aggravating and personal. Nonetheless, I do not like this version of myself. When I go, I feel I want to leave a note on my chair saying "I'm a nice person really".
2) I am strangely motivated by the thought of saving 5p. Scotland has recently introduced a compulsory 5p charge for a carrier bag. Shops aren't allowed to give them out free any more. The 5p's go to charity. All in all, it's a good scheme. A very good scheme. I have found it intriguing to see how incredibly annoyed I am with myself if I forget to take bags with me when I go shopping, and how I will cram purchases into one single bag instead of splashing out 10p on two bags. I stuff items into my pockets, or handbag, or make my accompanying child carry them. It's not that I resent spending the money - it all goes to good causes, and it's cutting down the amount of plastic in landfill, and what the heck, it's only 5p. It's also quite good at making you decide how much shopping you're going to do in advance of arriving at the shop, which is a good discipline. I'm all in favour or it. I just get very cross with myself when I forget my bags. I now have various stashes of bags in the car, and a couple of those ones that scrunch up into the size of a handkerchief and live in a little wallety thing.
And finally...
10-yo, too, has written a blog post, having been away from her Harry Potter blog for a spell (geddit?). No comments yet, so if any of you would like to read about a day at the Warner Brother Studios, then please do head over here (and if you're thinking of going to the Warner Brother Studios, then do - it's a great day out).
.
Husband has had a kidney stone for the past month. The treatment has been patchy. At first it was incredibly good and quick, enabling us to rave about the NHS and feel smug about how great it seems compared to all the health insurance wrangles involved any time you're ill in America. Then the machine which they need to zap it (lithotripsy, if you're interested) broke down, or the scanner did, or something, and they haven't been able to get it repaired for over a week. (And it's the only one in Scotland.) That doesn't sound too long, until you know that renal colic caused by a kidney stone on the move is said to be the nearest a man gets to experiencing the pain level of childbirth. Luckily it comes and goes, and has gone more than come, but Husband has been on painkillers for a month, which have left him washed out and half his usual self.
I've been applying for new jobs and have got one. You know how demanding a process that can be. There was one week where I had a job interview each morning on three consecutive mornings. It began to feel like I had a new job, and the job was doing interviews! And then there were second interviews, and every time, they picked a day which is a day I work (only 2 of them in a week, so what are the odds?) which is horrible, because you end up fibbing. I don't like fibbing, and I'm not good at it. I particularly don't like pretending in a vague way that I'm off work because my husband has a hospital appointment when he doesn't. Anyway, I got one of the jobs, and so I'm working out my notice. Hurrah. I haven't been in a happy place for months. You know it's time to move when.... oh, but I'm not going to share all my baggage on the internet, because we all know how that ends.
Two things I have discovered about myself in the past month or two.
1) When I'm in an unhappy situation, my shadow side comes to the fore. I really can be quite gossipy and bitchy, and even as I open my mouth and some of the stuff comes out to colleagues, I listen to myself and think "What are you like? I can't believe you're saying these things?" I guess we all have areas of ourselves to work on, and this is obviously one of mine. There are plenty of extenuating circumstances; it really has been very aggravating and personal. Nonetheless, I do not like this version of myself. When I go, I feel I want to leave a note on my chair saying "I'm a nice person really".
2) I am strangely motivated by the thought of saving 5p. Scotland has recently introduced a compulsory 5p charge for a carrier bag. Shops aren't allowed to give them out free any more. The 5p's go to charity. All in all, it's a good scheme. A very good scheme. I have found it intriguing to see how incredibly annoyed I am with myself if I forget to take bags with me when I go shopping, and how I will cram purchases into one single bag instead of splashing out 10p on two bags. I stuff items into my pockets, or handbag, or make my accompanying child carry them. It's not that I resent spending the money - it all goes to good causes, and it's cutting down the amount of plastic in landfill, and what the heck, it's only 5p. It's also quite good at making you decide how much shopping you're going to do in advance of arriving at the shop, which is a good discipline. I'm all in favour or it. I just get very cross with myself when I forget my bags. I now have various stashes of bags in the car, and a couple of those ones that scrunch up into the size of a handkerchief and live in a little wallety thing.
And finally...
10-yo, too, has written a blog post, having been away from her Harry Potter blog for a spell (geddit?). No comments yet, so if any of you would like to read about a day at the Warner Brother Studios, then please do head over here (and if you're thinking of going to the Warner Brother Studios, then do - it's a great day out).
.
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