Food Glorious Food!

So I chose the holiday season or as I prefer to call it, Christmas - to go on a calorie controlled diet. I started out strong, very strong in fact mainly because I had miscalculated my weight in kilos leading the online programme to categorise me as 'marginally obese' and setting me up with the corresponding daily calorie limit - LIMIT being the operative word. Of course what ensued was an uncontrollable obsession with food and hunger.   I lived for legitimate sustenance times.  Bedtime couldn't come fast enough because the sooner I was asleep - well the sooner breakfast would come.  And so on all the live long day.  Until, one day, I just didn't feel as hungry.  Ah, I was beginning to see how this whole diet thing worked.  Then came the lethargy, then the short fuses, then the temptations.

It was by pure chance that I met an Italian fellow at a friend's art show who explained that if he (at 6 ft 4 inches) weighed 94 kilos I (at 5 ft 1) could not possibly weight 155 kilos and that on that basis, I was probably not eating enough which would explain the whole feeling hungry all the time.  Rocket science.  Needless to say the man saved my life.  I promptly updated my profile - ready to make up for lost Kcals - only to find it gave me the exact same calorie limit.  Hello Stupid!

I've since been told these websites will all basically just recommend the average daily recommendations to everyone - regardless...which I think is a bit fresh really because if I (and I'm really only looking to lose 5-10 lbs) was delirious with hunger, imagine a proper ten tonne Tessie.  It strikes me as terribly dangerous No?

Anyway none of it mattered in the end because within 2 weeks from starting this weight loss lunacy, the office, friends and client Chrismas lunches/dinners began - which was not so much a slippery slope as a gullet avalanche with me standing at the bottom of the hill, mouth wide open. 

Yesterday was the last of those binges at my delicious South African mate's house who is partial to a little tipple of white wine and doesn't like to drink alone (aside from alchys - who does?)

So it's back to celeriac soup and Yoga.  Actually, I can't live without Yoga and the last few days of not being able to do it have left me feeling a bit shyte - hey! there are worse things I could be addicted to.

I'm aiming to not touch the sauce now until Christmas Day and even then  I might get all anal about it.  I can be like that when I really want to - ask any of my old friends, it's probably the one thing they hate about me (she says deludedly). 

Actually, it's very possible I may not drink until New Year's Eve...and then again I may hit the bottle in the next half hour.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Even flow

Oh my Christ! Christmas crept up on me this year.  Woefully unprepared as I am - I do feel that it will be a great Christmas all things said and done.  What a year it's been my delightful supportive friends.  This time last year I was pretty much in the depths of despair wondering whether I had bitten off more than I could chew in what was then my new job.  Crippled by the push-pull of work-parenting and unclear really on what it was I wanted from life now that I'd managed to drag my family back over the Atlantic to London.  Things with The Silverback were as you might expect them to be when you find yourself adrift in the sea of guilt and resentment.

Today - a full year later (you need to take a deep even breath here....and exhale) Oh it's like the difference between night and day.  To say it is much improved would be to do the evolution of it all a great injustice.  To put it in moronically simple terms:  Happy has come home. 

A combination of even flow, persistence, resistance, reluctant maturity, massive amounts of yoga and - hell yeah - a truck load of karma and luck has brought me to this place of content.  Jesus, I don't think I've ever known calm that has felt this sustainable. But it did take hitting Rock Bottom first. 

It's the only way, I guess, for someone as famously (among my circle) fickle as me will ever commit to long term decision making.  Wow - could it be that at 40 I've finally overcome the crippling case of arrested development that has plagued my adult life so far?  Could be my friends, could very well be.

Back to where I once belonged

I had my office Christmas party on Friday at the Paramount bar in Centre Point (the heart of London)  - this is the view that greets you when you step out of the lift:



Pretty spectacular eh? The night started on a literal high and ended on an emotional one as I was singled out for an award - the first and only award I've ever been given in the whole of my working life.  That to me is the best validation I could ever ask for and proof positive that I am in good shape professionally.  What a nice feeling after a decade of floundering and 5 years of what I can only describe as career wilderness - albeit self inflicted.

The last time I really felt like I was in control was 2002.  I had just turned 31, was doing really well at work but in retrospect not so good in my head.  I made a now or never decision to go travelling.  Travelling at once released me from the career stupor I was falling into and at the same time eventually derailed me.  I checked out of conventional society and for a while had no intention of returning to it.  Then of course I met my husband and the rest is, well the rest is a tale of the unexpected.

And since then, I've never made a secret of the fact that I have found life a little bit of a struggle until quite recently if I'm perfectly honest.  I'm not sure when the 'a-ha!' moment actually happened, I just know that I reached a point where I decided to restrict making decisions for anyone other than myself and all of a sudden I found my stride again.  My mojo.  Don't get me wrong, I get bored every now and again, forget to live in the moment, forget to be deliriously grateful for everything I have, but those moments are fleeting these days.  Thank god.  And I'm sure the Silverback, if he is reading this will no doubt be catching flies in his mouth, incredulous at the hypocrisy as he recalls with complete clarity how I pretty much lost the plot over a cordial juice stain on the wooden work surface in the kitchen... people with stride and mojo can still be neat freaks no?

Don't get me wrong, I'm still occasionally crippled by the drudgery of some days - the utter monotony of the same old routine but I do fairly quickly snap out of it with thoughts of how much worse it would all be if I didn't live in the relative sanctuary of tedium. I do not want drama - that much I do know.  I still harbour many dreams and I send out cosmic orders all the time to have these fulfilled - before you go thinking I've had liposuction of the senses or something.

No so, unlike many of the past few years, as I stare at the horizon into 2012, I look forward with anticipation at how much more I will achieve next year.  It's been a long time coming.

The Month of Blah

If February was the month of BLAH in Canada - and it was - then November is definitely the UK's very own delightfully quaint version of it.  Both have one thing in common, death inducing boredom - albeit for very different reasons.

Every November in the UK, my motivation slips down the back of the settee.  Last Saturday, granted I went to see The Damned, but for a while I wasn't sure I'd make it (long story involving planes, trains and automobiles) so the day had initially started like most weekends - early, wretchedly and centred on The Lish.  Usually the most we'll manage is a trip to the park (when the park was a 6 minute walk away, you know - in 'dream area' home) but we now live in 'it will do area' home where we're not really walking distance from any nice parks...which sucks donkey balls.  Or is that the Month of Blah talking?  I mean, I should point out that the nearest nice park is Hampstead Heath, so can we have a little perspective here?  Ahem.  And I bet that when the sky finally changes colour from suicide grey to Om Shanti blue all of this will seem a little silly. 

Still, last weekend after dragging myself, knuckles and chin scraping the pavement, to our nearest high street I slept walked through the usual routine of charity, coffee and nik nak shop browsing (I hate this feeling, I know it too well), you know the type of thing.  Anyway, the point comes when you either decide to DO SOMETHING or go home and usually I'm really good at doing something but on this occasion, I couldn't move. It was like a form of  thought paralysis. Urgh.  The park was too far, Kensington High Street too twee, Oxford Circus WAY too manic and my usual mainstay - a good museum -  just too much like hard work.  Luckily I was saved by the sudden arrival of tickets to this Damned gig.

Still it beats the shit out of the Month of Blah in Canada - and we're back to my favourite subject: Canada bashing.  February is the coldest month after 3 months of cold.  It is the bell-end, no, the frozen cheese under the foreskin of the knob of winter.  It was too cold to do anything except drink and plot ways to kill yourself that didn't require you having to leave the house.

I turned to Yoga in the end which is lucky because I could very easily have fallen into alcoholism.  Very easily indeed and on occasion I did turn to Manhattans on my really low days.  But that's ancient history beside I'm way too vain to be a proper alcoholic.  All jokes aside - it was the lowest of times.

Yep, I just need to snap out of it and I will soon enough.  I know how much more I have today then when I was stuck shaking up cocktails in The Tundra.  I also have yoga which I continue to do every day and is I might add my secret weapon because as I write this, I already feel that heavy cloak of sad lifting - and I've also just remembered I have a box of After Eight Mints in the fridge.

Punk not dead...but it ain't about to run a marathon either

Fresh from having been to see The Specials playing at Alexander Palace a couple of weeks ago, I barely caught my breath before it was time for another trip down memory lane with a gig at The Roundhouse to see The Damned.  From the rude boys of ska to the bad boys of punk/goth in almost seemless fashion - except that punks have not appeared to have aged quite as well (and I make this comparison with many MANY caveats) as the fattie bum bums who now make up the legions of ska fans that attended The Specials gig.

Vanian and Sensible with the godfather of punk - Joey Ramone

A couple of things struck me about the aged Punk/goth crowd too that I had not ever noticed before (t's not my first punk gig but it was the weirdest thing).  It appears Punk of this gothic ilk is apparently a man's domain.  How do I know this?  Well, I saw something I've never in my whole life seen before - a queue for the man's toilets.  Have you ever heard of such a thing?  It's not myth or legend - it simply is not part of the real world we live in...unless you are at a Damned gig.  I have to say, this was THE highlight of the gig for me.  A queue for the men's, NO queue for the women's - I said WHAT?  And at a punk gig - HA! the irony of it all. Actually, when you think about it, Punk is totally made for women.  I can't think of a better scenario at a gig than to not have to queue for the loos. YA HOO!

Dave Vanian (lead singer of The Damned) - the original Twilight

As for The Damned...well, Captain Sensible lived up to his name probably for the first time too.  The only thing missing from the stage was an armchair. And Dave Vanian? Well, he still has the big voice but playing an album of obscure B sides was possibly the biggest mis-step of the night.  Apart from Eloise - which is less Punk than it is New Romantics, I didn't know any of the songs.  They didn't even play Smash it Up... I mean what is the world coming to? Or maybe I just need to listen to more music.

Captain Sensible - his royal punkness

Old punks not dead..but about to win medals at the Olympics

Hey listen - that's not bad for 35 years in the business - that's a lot of hairdye.

Not so simple pleasures

The TV is finally here and I got to say, there is no better way to mong out than to wedge oneself into a nice firm corner of the sofa and zonk out to some bollocks or other at a 90 degree angle. I'm talking TOWIE, Jerseyshore and any cookery programme going. Let me put a little context around this.  We moved house, as you know and in anticipation of all the cage style fights that would otherwise happen without a TV for distraction, we ambled to John Lewis well in advance of vacating "dream area" home to place an order for a TV so that it would arrive BEFORE we moved in to "it will do area" home.  Clever eh? And it worked.  The TV and sofa were both ordered at the same time with this genius strategy in mind and they arrived just in time.  Happy happy, joy joy.


The TV broke within an hour of connection.  It broke.  Inexplicably and in the most heartless manner, halfway through one of The Silverback's most favourite mong out programmes, Mantracker.  This is a programme where real people are dropped in the middle of the harshest terrain in Canada with nothing but a compass, a granola bar and the kind of directions you get in India - no, not racist, anyone who has spent any time in India will have a truck load of logic defying stories - so nothing personal unless you are India itself and then yes, I mean YOU - but I digress. 

So this programme -  a couple of imbeciles are left to fend for themselves in the wilderness of The Tundra with the aim of getting from point A to point B whilst being hunted by a man on a horse - - The Mantracker.  There is no prize for winning by the way - I did warn you it was utterly pointless viewing and that's the way we like it around here.

So the Silverback lives for the programme.  And after the ball-ache of moving and the 6 hours of hanging around for Mr. Cableman, Mr. Dump Truck and the one and only Mr TV and Sofa (we worship the very poop that curls out of your noble bottom) he settles in the firm corner I was telling you about only to have the TV malfunction in the unluckiest turn of events ever.  It just stopped working.  Just like that, no explanation, no calls, no goodbyes.  Then it just sat there...watching us.  Laughing.  And there it remained,  taking the piss for a whole 10 days before John Lewis was able to bring a replacement by which time The Silverback and I could not be in the same room for more than 3 minutes without wanting to smash each other's faces in.  So whoever said TV is bad for you lives alone.

Anyway, I forget where I was going with this.  Oh yeah - so the new TV is here and it rocks out with its cock out.  Harmony has return to Silverback Gables.  Ahhhhhhh.

Now all we need is another sofa cos frankly we don't like each other enough to perch this close together when we're trying to unwind.

Welcome to my new abode

I apologise for this appalling dereliction of duty...a whole month without so much as a fleeting look in on this here poor little blogspot.  However, in my defence a shed load of stuff involving cardboard has been taking place and it ain't over yet but I have now cleared a space on the floor of OUR NEW FLAT! to spend a little time updating all 4 of you on the recent tedium that makes up my day-to-day.  The time will come when I will turn this blog into a resource, a positive repository of really useful information - but until that day comes you are going to have to settle for this monotonous crap.  Count yourselves lucky you don't have to live it.

So let me start by saying - saving money and being able to invest (such as in a home) is over-rated.  Everything feels too far, too small, too dirty or too crowded...by comparison.  Warwick Avenue has become the idealised ex-boyfriend that you find yourself measuring every new boyfriend against - even though there must have been a good reason you broke up in the first place.

See I was very spoiled in Warwick Avenue and I never for one single second took it for granted.  I one hundred per cent appreciated that I was living in one of London's most prestigious areas, that I was a mere stumble from the tube and that it took me 18 minutes door to door to get to work.  So, with this all front of mind, I knew there would have to ensue some sort of psychological concession; an emotional resignation that I was not going to be in Kansas anymore once I moved to West Hampstead. 

It's crazy.  We own - finally (again), we are paying ourselves rent essentially, we no longer pay storage and we're generally better off all round - and yet...and yet. 

Maybe it's the dark nights drawing in that are causing this immaturity.  I'm in the best place mentally, emotionally and professionally I've been...well since I can remember.  I can remember actually but the point is, it's been a long time. Sheesh.  And I'm sure when the cardboard is gone and all the lights function properly and I have figured out how to work the shower - which currently only has two settings - hypothermic or broiled in your own skin - things will seems very different. 

Christ on a cracker, with cheese -  what is wrong with me? It's everything I've wanted since I got back to London and by the way might I remind myself that two years ago I was living in a freaking hotel near Paddington.  A little perspective here.  So, I take it back. It's all good.  I'm just a big tool.

But not so big a tool as to bore you with the dreariness of the unpackingdetail .  Let's say it was a royal ground-to-air ball ache and leave it at that. 

And now, leave me please to fantasize about my old place for just a little longer.

Theatre as therapy

I went to see Ruby Wax's show - Losing it - which is a very candid and very funny confessional cabaret about the conditions that led to her mental illness. After the interval the women (she is accompanied on piano by Mrs Hank Azaria - Judith Owen) engage in a dialogue with the audience. Only then did I feel we began to get close to the reality of the subject.  And also realised depression is a far wider reaching condition than you might imagine - such is the stigma.  So much depression in the world!  So many articulate people in the audience whose lives are or have been blighted by this crippling brain disease.  And it is a disease.  And like any disease it doesn't discriminate.

One woman in the audience who had suffered from depression pretty much all of her adult life and who was also a cancer sufferer said she preferred the cancer to the depression.  If that doesn't give you a clue as to just how incredibly paralysing the condition is - well, then you are just a very lucky person - don't waste that luck.

The whole event felt a little like what I imagine an AA meeting might.  I doubt anyone was there just for the fuck of it and while Ruby Wax is a very talented comedienne, she has long had her comic day - so that can only mean that every single person in that theatre (full house, I might add) had some interest in or connection to the topic of depression.  I say! What a lot of sad people.  Me included.

The show was like nothing I'd ever experienced.  Stephen flipping Fry was there - himself very well known for a very public case of bi-polar.  Our very own Britney. 

In poignant contrast, it did take a comedienne to demonstrate that depression is no laughing matter.  It can literally destroy your life and any potential you might have if you leave the condition unchecked.   I certainly will never try to battle through another episode without professional help though my aim is to avoid. avoid, avoid!!!  That's possibly where all the eastern spirituality comes in. 

And that's when it hit me - I can't remember the last time I felt myself sliding into a dark phase.  I used to get that horrible sinking feeling every couple of weeks but now that I think about it - and more to the point - ever since I started doing yoga every day, I haven't felt down.  I get stressed, yes - who the fuck doesn't? but that awful slide into oblivion?  Not for a while!! Oh JOY!!

If yoga can help me with my depressions, perhaps it can help others.  There's a thought.   I might be onto something here.  No-one understands a depressive better than a depressive - I could do some real good here.  And that's why I'm now seriously determined to get out of the office and into the studio fulltime.    I know I've said it before and I even have a logo!  But you know I fell at the first hurdle maybe because of my own problems with the flipping disease.

That was then.  I've never felt so driven.  Thank you Ruby. I'm thinking yoga therapy through the national health service.  I'm thinking working with schools.  I'm thinking working with young people.

It's going to take a while, but I'll get there.  Always do.  You better believe it. 

London Calling

221 2704 - this was my telephone number growing up.  No area code, well not unless you were calling from outside London when you were required to dial 01 in advance.  I remember the ad campaign's strapline was "don't forget the 1".   That was bad enough but then they introduced  the 07/08 area codes and with it came a certain smugness if you happen to fall within the 07 catchment area since this was considered central London whereas 08 was for the provincial backwaters of zone 3 and beyond (for the long suffering Canuck readers of this drivel, I advise you look at the London Underground map for the meaning of zone 3).

And if all that malarkey wasn't enough to twist your melon, the authorities decided to mount a scaremongering campaign warning Londoners that unless more numbers were added to landlines, well, we'd simply run out of lines.  And like the playground bully that was British Telecom at the time - in glorious monopoly, in came the 0207 and 0208 codes.  Of course since then they've also added the 0203 to this mish mash of numbers (the latter popular with businesses in central London).  Of course by then no-one really had landlines anymore.  Oh the irony. 

You're probably thinking what this is all about?  Frankly, I'm not sure.  I just happen to have the day off and am currently doing what I enjoy most in life - daydream - and I found myself thinking about my old telephone number and about 10 others that I still know off by heart, though I haven't dialled them in 19 years.  And then I got to thinking about how I don't know anyone's number off by heart any more and whether this is a reflection of the state of society or whether it's just a sign of progress but most of all I wondered what would happen if I dialled that number, my old number today.  Would my mum pick up?  Wouldn't that be lovely.  Yes, I'd like to think my mum would pick up and say "Ay mi chicha!" (rough translation - Oh my little sausage).  Of course I know it would never happen - she died in 1993 - but for today, let me have this one concession, let me have this one indulgence.

I have a few hours to kill before I indulge my other passion - picking The Lish up from school and all I really want to do is to check out the biography section of the local library.  I guess that is what working fulltime does (to me at least) reminds me of life's simple pleasures.  Is that boring? 

Ok so maybe it is.  But this isn't.  On my other day off I went to the crown court in Snaresbrook (Zone 4 - definitely not an 0207 area code) where one of my Wum (working mum) chums works as a barrister.  She's currently  prosecuting an attempted murder trial...how's that for boring?  I can tell you I've NEVER been so overwhelmed by the venerability (this is a word - I checked.  It's a noun.  So shut up) of it all and to see my friend donning a barristers wig, was almost too much. I actually went to the toilet so I could squeal with excitement.  Then the judge spoke.  I would have admitted guilt there and then, except I've done nothing wrong - but that is the effect this austere man's voice had on me.  I was less than 2 metres from a person who held the future of the defendant's life in his hands and I was less than a metre from the witness box. 

I noticed the defendant looking over at the public gallery where I was sitting and my blood froze.  What if he thinks I'm there to gloat?  What if his family and friends decide to teach me a lesson later?  I tried to look all studious - my cover would be that I was merely a lowly law student - nothing more.  Yes, that would be my ruse, just as soon as I've managed to pick my chin up off the floor.  Formidable.  No other way to describe this or my barrister friend.  

But let's not get carried away here this is still a girl who couldn't handle her drink the other night.  In that department, I rule. 

And that's why she's the barrister and I'm not.

 

In which I give myself a double hernia

As you may know, we bought a flat (well the bank bought it, we're paying it back at length and leisure) and into this flat must now go a shyte load of "effort" - a task I am straining at the leash to get started on NOT.  But first, as they say, the place needs a little lick of paint.  Nothing too extravagant, a simple whitewash to cover evidence of past owners - otherwise the place is in very good nick - well apart from the "significant subsidence" which the solicitors have assured us is historical.  The Silverback will have to live with the fact that the master bedroom is...well...on a slope.  I digress.  The place is fabulous in every other way  not least because it means we are no longer pouring money into the black hole of rent, though technically speaking if the world economy continues in the same vein, the status quo remains.  Nobody likes change - unless you're begging on the underground.

First things first - we paid someone to do the actual painting but the least we could do was provide the paint - (I'm unhinged not certifiable).  That said, I got it into my head to go to the local hardware superstore and get said paint (plus all the accessories that go with) on my own, you know because I could.  Have you ever tried transporting a 10 litre bucket of paint?  in heels?  And without a car. Well don't - unless you need longer arms and don't trust surgery.  Oh, and I took my 5 year old daughter with me.  What larks!

After popping an intestine and sweating a kidney out,   we did eventually  make it to the bus stop and with the bus nowhere in sight, I conducted a little stock take not that I had any intention of returning to that warehouse EVER again.  In dentist spit bowl fashion, the blood drained from my head when I realised I had in fact picked up the wrong colour paint.  Instead of white - Magnolia.  The colour of old age and piss.  I contemplated for a long time whether I could live with this colour wagering with the bus that if it came in the next 30 seconds I would learn to love this colour.

It did not.  I was forced to lug the dead weight back to the shop and then go through the rigmarole of exchanging it for an identical product but in a different colour. And good job too.  I would not have been able to live with magnolia.  Nor would it have taken less than five hours to paint the whole place - THAT is the beauty of white.  Life is too short for edging.    The Lish spent the next day shouting "pure white!, pure white!"  I think I may have been murmuring this in my sleep. 

I say it again: Life is too short for edging.

Spoke too soon

Why, when I so know that thought precedes action, did I go and jinx myself by harping on about how great things were; how smoothly everything was going and how I needed it not to so I could have a few issues to keep me awake and deliver those oh so attractive dark circly bags under my eyes.  Yes, well it serves me right for not living in a simple attitude of gratitude - the result? I have just had one of the most stressful weeks this year - an I can tell you there have been some corkers since Christmas.  In fact it's been so bad, I think I will make sure I delete this week out of next year's calender.  I won't bore you with the detail but the pressure of it all has sent my antibodies packing.  I've ended up with a slight eye infection, bloated stomach, tension headaches and a feeling that in trying to do to much, I've ended up doing nothing at all.

Actually that's misleading  - it's the sheer amount of things I've had to do this week that had led to my current state of mania. I've been mummy, daddy, career woman, mediator, cleaner and property mogul all in the space of 4 days and I'm fucking exhausted.  I've said it before, if "having" it all means doing it all - I want no part of it.  My priority has to be The Lish and yet by allowing myself to get caught up in the business of life I really fear that her life will simply pass me by.  Next thing I know I'll be down to seeing her every other Christmas .  Oh god, what a depressing thought.

So here I am again, fretting about my decision to go back to work.  I see it two ways - I want to work (does that make me a bad mum?  well it hasn't exactly made me a good mum this week) and secondly, I want to provide for Lishy in the future be it to get to college or on the property ladder.  I want to leave her a legacy and that means accumulating wealth now before I'm too decrepit.   It's weird because as I write this, I can see immediately that none of this matters.  None of it.  What matters is finding peace of mind and being kind and loving.  So before I jerk that knee and jack in the job - I must come back to my truth.  I like working.  The Lish is doing great.  And yes - there will be weeks like this one when you just want to chop off your own head but ultimately I'm not doing too bad a job.

There is a balance, I know how it can be achieved and I need to work towards that goal.  So I'm going to employ the old thought precedes action by putting that thought into my head.  I will find the perfect balance.

I owe it to myself.  I owe it to The Lish.  And I always pay my debts.

So, what now?

The build-up to my 40th over, I've steadily sipped through the bottles of champagne generously given, made a good dent in the Lush products gratefully received, John Lewis vouchers spent in one fell swoop (on one single product - it's well worth it I guarantee you).  There are just the Space N.K vouchers to go.  I shouldn't imagine it will take more than 15 minutes to dispose of those.

What else? Well, school's started and I've miraculously sorted out the childcare dilemma with the help of my godlike friends; we get the keys to the flat in a week...pffff...I really don't know what to do with myself now. I guess I'll just slip quietly into old age?

God, now that is a depressing thought. I read that Monday 12 September is the worst Monday for complaints.  So if you work in customer services, don't take it personally, apparently it's all do to with seasonal cycles.  But what do I have to complain about?  Do you think I could be at that stage in life when nothing much happens anymore? Oh god - is this the mid-life crisis thing that parents and other adults talk about?  And to top it all off, I'm addicted to Jerseyshore.(http://www.mtv.co.uk/shows/jersey-shore).  What next -  a Feng Shui consultation?

Then the other day I found myself thinking about winter.  In my youth, I'd be planning the 2 week break to India right about now, but instead all I could think of was how much better TV gets and how now, as the nights draw in, would be the perfect time to watch the director's cut of The Lord of The Rings. Again.  Does that make me old? boring? or just happy?

I think I'll go with happy.  It's the yoga folks - I know it.  I do it everyday.  I do a head stand every single day (I almost broke my neck a couple of nights ago but goddamit, I do a goddam headstand everyday).  It's better than trepanning.  So I guess what I'm saying is that if I wasn't doing yoga I'd be a fucking mess or a drug addict. 

I might get botox.

Ah, that's more like it.  Issues.  Can't get enough of them.

What it takes to raise a child

So we made it through the first year of The Lish's schooling as working parents.  No small or cheap feat but you can't put a price on good childcare right?  Well, not quite, and especially not when the childminder 'forgets' to pick up her charge but we'll get to that later. 

We even made it through the yawningly long school summer holidays thanks to the most amazing and hell, why not? cheap adventure playground (about time parents were thrown a bone).  I don't mind telling you that I did not sleep the night before Lishy's first day at this place with its open door and no roll call policy.   Scenes from 'Missing' tortured me all night long and the next day I was so on edge I started a fight with the childminder for no good reason (I apologised immediately and profusely) but I was scared shitless at the prospect of leaving a 5 year old in a place that was not allowed, by law, to stop your kid from walking out of the front (or back or side) gate into the waiting arms of a psycho.

I considered doubling the already ludicrous amounts we were paying the childminder to take Lishy fulltime knowing this was obviously not possible, I even thought about jacking in the job - we all know what I really want to do is teach yoga (but yoga won't pay for the Lish to go to college) - so there it was, the stark reality - I was was going to have to live with the situation - at least for now. 

I fretted all morning until I could stand it no longer and cracked calling the place demanding the manager put Lishy on the phone and then I called again at lunchtime.  To be fair, they were very understanding. And when picking up time came, I texted the childminder for an update.  What can I say? Mummy feared for her cub's wellbeing.

As it turned out it wasn't the adventure playground I needed to worry about.  The place turned out to be the very best thing about the summer break with The Lish looking forward to it every day and more than a little sad when the inevitable end came and she had to go back to school.  And the open door policy?  Brilliant!  Genius! It makes the kids feel all the more responsible.  We were just one day from the beginning of school, breathing a sigh of relief that despite it all, we had made it through one full academic year, holidays and all with no real childminding headaches when the childminder pisses off on holiday, doesn't tell me, leaves her 15 year old in charge who promptly forgets to collect The Lish.  It's ok,  Lishy was thankfully spared the trauma of knowing the truth by the wonderful staff at the playground who hung back until I could get there, playing with her as if it really wasn't long after the end of the day and she really wasn't the last child there. 

When I got the call, my first thought was that something bad had happened to the childminder - I was actually almost more concerned for this person than for my little sea cucumber, generous fool that I am.  To top it all, there was a signal failure on the underground meaning I was stranded in a tunnel unable to communicate with anyone and pretty much pulling my hair out by that point.


When I finally made it to the playground, I was close to nervous collapse but there she was my smiling angel, unaware of the frantic race I'd just run.  Mania subsided into relief to be replaced by anger.  WHERE THE FUCK WAS THE CHILDMINDER?  I guess she thought a couple of paranoid fools didn't deserve to be consulted. 

When confronted, she accused us of over-reacting about something that could have happened to anyone, that could have happened to us.  So just to be clear, this person thought that it was possible a parent could forget they had a kid. 

- Honey, what's for dinner? 
- Oh I don't know, what do you fancy?
- Uhm, something light.  Say, I can't help feeling we've forgotten something...

Where is the accountability? WHERE!  I suppose some people actualy believe the world owes them a living.  Well, let's just say that childminder is no more.  One day before the start of another school year.  So close!  but no cigar. 

Lost for what to do, afraid that I would afterall have to leave my job, I discovered I have THE most amazingly supportive network of mums who pulled together to help a sister out and proving  that it really does takes a village to raise a child.  I offer up thanks daily to these women.

We have a wonderful new woman now looking after our little pencil who I might add would sooner forget to breath than abandon her duties towards a child.  I believe she was literally sent by god. 

The dog days are gone.

Eat me

I have just got to show you this.  That's me.  On a cupcake.  I had 40 made for my birthday.  Yep.  Not at all egocentric.

I was born under a wandering star!

If you are wondering what it's like to turn 40, I gotta tell you - it rocks.  And I know this because I am 40 today.  I think it may well have something to do with the fact that by the time you reach 40 you've probably already done quite a bit of living (for better or worse) and quite frankly at this point, you're on the age equivalent of the "night bus" (next milestone marks your ticket to a place on the mobility bus) and you pretty much just want to get home - in other words: Am I bovvered? No, not really.   Least not as bothered as I was when I turned 30. In retrospect, I have to say, 30 was my scary age and I spent the rest of my 30s bemoaning that age.  I have no intention of wasting my 40s on that sentiment.

Besides which I'm in great shape.  Don't take it from me - see for yourself:

 (that's me on the right - the 25 year old Romanian au pair I borrowed is on the left...)

Tell me I don't look ravishing at 40!  And that's the other thing that happens at this age - self-esteem appears to peak because...yep you guessed it - 40 year olds (for the most part) don't give a monkeys what anyone else thinks.

I want to take a moment to thank the Silverback (so you can go ahead and add "humility" to the list of new sentiments that begin at 40) for organising the dog's bollocks of a birthday party yesterday at the local tennis club where a constant stream of friends, old and new and all cherished, just kept on arriving.  I had friends from primary school there and friends I've just met this year. 

Old ties like these that tether us to the happy innocent days of our early youths are so incredibly special, they verge on the mystical.  And that is what I have with this special lady:

and this one:

But by the same token my working mum chums who are brand new friends are equal in stature to me for all the support they have given in the short few months I've known them - in fact this motley crue, one hopes, will join the league of "old" friends when I'm celebrating my 50th. 

And these are just the ones that posed for piccies.  There are more!  Yes, it does seem like a lot of bragging over a few friends.  Big deal - we all have friends, right? Actually no, we don't all have good friends and even when we do have good friends, they should never ever be taken for granted.  I should know I've F-ed this up in the past and learnt the lesson the hard way.  So all the more reason to rejoice in gratitude for these and let's leave it at that.  (Note to self: add " get all preachy" to that list of stuff that happens).

So, this is what it feels like to turn 40. 

No but in all seriousness...take care of yourselves...aaaaannnn eachother. 

 

The Silverback - cheers!

Milestones and miracles

Flippin' eck it didn't take long to go from "I wouldn't say I was missing work..." to doing nothing but.  Still, I like to remind myself when the going gets tough and I start to obsess about the Euromillions, that it felt far far worse to have nothing to do and little money to spend on women's fripperies.

So, we got the flat - did I say? After 5 months of to-ing and fro-ing with the solicitors about "stuff" we finally exchanged. We get the keys in mid September and so we must bid farewell to this unbelievable area...for now at least and move into the NW2 postcode - the last postcode lived in by UK's most prolific serial killer, Dennis Nilsen. Which is just marvellous.  No joke.  Still, he is behind bars and he lived 2 full streets away.  (Note to self: stock up on karma purifying incense).

So with contracts signed and bank account emptied, I feel I can rejoice.  A home owner again with that all important anchor in London.  For the silverback it's a nice investment, but for me...it's home. And here it is: (well the front room, kitchen and couple of the bedrooms)




Nice ennit?  Sadly this isn't my furniture but I'm taking note.  Usually at times like this, you know milestone markers I would normally not be able to resist a little melancholia and think about another thing I can't share with my mother who has been gone 18 years this month.  Hard to believe, even harder to accept.  But you know, whether it's the yoga, the enormous amounts of Vitamin B Complex I ingest daily, the 'maturity' that finally comes with turning 40 ( as I'm doing this Sunday) or maybe it's knowing what rock bottom really feels like (thanks Canada - I owe ya) that I'm just grateful.  No more no less.

It's a fucking miracle.

I wouldn't say I've been missing work...

No, your eyes do not deceive you.  Yes this is a scene of a hotel pool in the UK...and it's sunny!!  Scorching in fact.  I would post a picture of myself but I fear it would be one brag too far, the brag that broke the blogspot's back, however do take my word for it when I tell you that I am roasty toasty brown and it's mainly due to the last week spent lolling about the pool you see above.  This is the pool of The Redcliffe Hotel in Paignton, Devon.  Credit to The Silverback.  I had my doubts about his choice of destination and don't get me wrong, we were the youngest people by ooohhh 40 or so years and outside the talcum powdered perimeter of this 100 year old hotel exists a world inhabited by fag smerking, chip scoffing, oxygen cylinder carrying, motorised wheelchair-using, tracksuit wearing, donkey riding folk who haven't seen an honest day's work since the end of the second world war -   but that only served to make the surroundings that much more relaxing.  I mean, you can let that depress you or you can accept that this is life outside of London and let it mellow. 

And once you've learnt to live with this, you just need to make peace with the doddering pace of a septuagenarian waiter and you're home free - conquer the hand trembling, pigeon step speed of service and you very quickly found the mood shifted from one of irritation to one of relative zen. It's a bit like being in the Dominican Republic except there you might wait forever for a margarita that would never come.  Here at least, the British sensibility dictated that while you might well be checking out by the time you get it, your vodka tonic would eventually come.

I have no bone to pick with this endearing generation.  In fact I have the address of one and I intend to keep in touch with the delightful great-grandmother to be and her effeminate male friend.  Yes sir, I do.

Rewind to a week earlier, to a much more bohemian week spent at the Kawan Camping village in Mesnil Saint Pere, Champagne, where a week was spent bunking up and bonding with a group of like minded people and our respective herds of children.  It exceeded all expectations and ok, I had my doubts about camping...but I'll let you into a little secret, while we were at a camp ground, this dog did not camp.  Did you really think I would contemplate a holiday in a fart filled bag?  What do you take me for?  No darlings - this is where we "camped".... ahem.  I mean really!


But more to the point, it turns out The Silverback is a proper "Mr. Group Activity" and I have to say, after a week of al fresco eating with everyone pitching in and kids living like free range chickens, Devon was a rather lonelier experience by comparison.  Still, we managed.
I for one, hope this is the beginning of a long group tradition.  For now, it's back to the old grind tomorrow and you know what? I'm looking forward to it.  Jesus, how much cough medicine have I had?

So the moral I think of this story is...dare to step out of your comfort zone you might just be dazzled by the results.

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside!

With one day to go before holi-woks for two whole weeks, I'm remarkably calm considering these are contenders for the most random destinations since the time I decided to go to Helsinki...one November... but that was before the lobotomy.  The first week promises a commune-like week at a campsite in Champagne where we are hooking up with my circle of Wums (working mums) and their offspring.  I'm keeping an open mind about group activities though I draw the line at naturism.  I mean this is France.  Last time I looked, the French weren't big on shaving.  And besides, I don't have any accessories that go with nudity.  No. So we'll see.  I have bought a vintage kimono for the occasion.  It will be my multi-purpose garment and if nothing else, should distract from the Cesarean scar. 

I have a romanticised vision of hazy, lazy days and cool evenings with a perfectly behaved child and a charming husband.  Yep.  Pass the beernuts.

But it doesn't end there, hell no.  Then we're coming back to the UK and heading down to Paignton in Devon.  Boo-yah-kah!  P to the A to the I to the...Brrap!  The English Riviera!   I'm expecting a week of dodging mobility chairs and pikeys; little toothless simpletons with their Shetland ponies - but I might be wrong.  I gave The Silverback free reign to choose a destination, and he chose Paignton.  The last time the sausage-fingered destroyer of all manmade things - A.K.A. The Silverback chose a holiday destination, we ended up in Brussels.  So, every cloud....

At the end of the day, it's not where you are but who you're with and the effort you make right?

Yeah, I think I'll go horse-riding in Paignton...in my kimono.

#6 - Perfection and beauty and...wood

Well, The Silverback and I have made it to our 6th wedding anniversary.  I am told it's the year of wood, and puns aside - yep, wood is as good a description of last year as anything. Sometimes we've worked with the grain and sometimes against.  Sometimes we've had to work hard at not beating the shit out of eachother with the wood and other times it was only the wood in a stripped back frame that kept us together.  So all in all.  Yes, wood is about right.  That said, the number 6 in the Tarot also symbolises perfection and beauty.   And there is much of that too in this last year of marriage though, I suspect those moments have very subjective interpretations. Perfection  for me is being back home, in a job I like, in an area of London I love and looking at the very imminent prospect of becoming a homeowner once again.  Beauty is seeing The Lish become a confident and happy child, in a good school with a great bunch of friends.

And as we enter the 7th year, I'm hoping to avoid the itch that tears people apart to instead scratch the itch that propels people into new adventures. But let's not get ahead or ourselves.

For today, the day we tied the knot 6 years ago, we plan on just being nice to eachother.  Not as easy as you might think when there's a broth of resentment bubbling away in the background.  Resentments that stem from bad life decisions in the past and a whole lotta immaturity.  Slowly the broth is evaporating but it has taken a lot of 'wood' to keep that fire burning and no doubt will continue to do so. Lucky then that 6th anniversaries are symbolised by the stuff. 

In many ways I do believe that The Silverback and me are destined to live our lives in reverse.  Getting pregnant on your wedding night doesn't leave much time for a couple to bond and enjoy that part of the journey.  We will have to wait until the other end, when the kid leaves home and we're into the winter of our lives.  I'll admit it's a huge risk.  So many variables at play, but this wasn't exactly planned so the least I can do is go into this with a completely open mind, and heart.  Having made it this far despite the turmoil and continent hopping, I don't think it's overly ambitious.  Is it? 

Today then is all about spending it together, as us.  You know to make up for lost time.

Getting a complex

...a B complex that is.  For years, pretty much since I had The Lish, I've never really felt right, for want of a better word.  At first I just put it down to post baby stuff, I have to say, it took me ages to lose the baby weight, so long in fact that to be honest, I never really did.  I mean, I'm not frumpy or anything, but I was for a while.  I was also anaemic for the longest time and I guess it must all take its toll.  Then I moved to Canada and I know this is going to sound really weird, but I felt like I was walking on foam for most of the time I was there.  Heels were out, trousers looked wrong and nice dresses has to be flowy to hide the rolls!.  It was the oddest feeling all round, like I was in a bubble walking on foam.  That said, it was actually in Canada where I lost the worst of the baby flab with a personal trainer but because I never really followed a diet - although I was fit and firm, I could have been slimmer.  The same goes for me today, though now back in London I feel the ground beneath me in a way I didn't in Canada.  I'm not talking metaphorically either, I mean literally.  It's mad isn't it? What can I say? 

See the thing is I just can't seem to resist carbs and sugar and my metabolism isn't what it once was.  I've also always suspected that my moods were most definitely connected to diet but I never did anything about it.  Call it laziness, denial, call it what you want I finally decided to do something through what I eat.   I'm now following a special diet that starts with a cocktail of vitamins and minerals designed to boost your neurotransmitters and balance hormones and enzymes.  8 pills daily (1 x B Complex, 1  B6, 1 x B3, 3 x calcium, magnesium and Vitamin D3, 1 x Gingko and 1 x St. John's Wort.  This means, in theory, I shouldn't get the sugar lows that usually lead me by the nose to the nearest newsagents for a bag of Skittles or Maltesers.  And by balancing the hormones in the body, the idea is to also banish the mood swings and depressive episodes.   Early days yet to say whether it's worked.  Today for example, I stayed off the sweets but did blow up at my boss over something...

Wonder if there is a pill that makes the boss disappear?

39 Steps

I turn 40, yes my dears FOUR ZERO in September.  Do not pity me for I am in fabulous shape, mentally and physically.  In fact, I'm feeling positively excited at the thought of this milestone.  Of course, long gone are the days when I could get away with wearing polyester mix material and my teeth don't quite fit the old gums as snuggly as they once did.  I've even found 3 grey hairs in my unmentionables (to add to the gagillions on my head - thank god for modern hair dye) as well as the stray whiskers on my chinny chin chin (though with modern technology those too have been exterminated)...gosh don't I just sound an absolute catch? It's a pity I don't have a sister, since I'm married (don't you just envy The Silverback?)

But by the same token, I also have an inexhaustible supply of healthy self-esteem.  I am secure and sure of myself and happy in my skin. I am doing exactly what I want to do, living exactly where I want to live surrounded by an ever increasing circle of mummy entrepreneurs and making only the sacrifices I want to make.  Sickening isn't it?  Well, not really, since this is all bourne of the experience that comes with being 39.  So you could say, I 've earned my stripes in this sense and now I am looking forward to the lookout point the next 39 steps may offer.  And if they produce the wisdom, friends and experience of the last 39 - I reckon I'd be quite happy to hang up my clogs there and then.  I think 80 is a very respectable age to check out.  The Lish will be 45 and hopefully have had the same rewarding experiences - none of which I hope should come too easy - because of course by definition, they wouldn't be rewards.   

So back to turning 40.  I am going out in style. Cheese style.  The Silverback is organising a party at the local tennis club (I know sounds very chic - and it is - proper Mannequin chic).  To which I am inviting old friends and new.  Including one girl I went to primary school with.  The icing on the cake will be a mini break to New York City. I am aiming for a proper 80s flashback time of my life.  I've been gearing up for it by watching all the 80s cheesoid films like Desperately Seeking Susan, Ferri Bueller's Day Off, Dirty Dancing, About Last Night, Pretty in Pink...oooh I could go on...WHAT?  I have a 5 year old!! I don't get out as much.

Sadly the second hand shop that features in Desperately Seeking Susan, Love Saves The Day, no longer exists in NYC...BOO!  but there will be other cheesoid locations.  All ideas welcome!!!



I will end with the wise words of Ferris Bueller:  "I've said it once and I'll say it again; life goes by pretty fast, if you don't stop to take a look around every now and again - you're going to miss it."

One more day, one more hour



If having it all means doing it all, and I believe that is exactly what it means, then I'm sorry. Not interested.  When you work, have a child and your other half is away on business and half the team at work are on annual leave, time doesn't fly - it transponds.  Last week was so incredibly manic that between school runs, frantic news generation (I work in PR)  and you know, a little thing called life (shopping, cooking, eating and maybe fitting in the odd shower and yoga session), Monday became Friday in the blink of an eye.  In fact I was convinced it was only Thursday on Friday because I needed one more day to fit everything in. That will be my epitaph.  Just give me one more day.

Of course come Saturday morning, all I wanted to do was loll around in bed - preferably asleep - but the chances of that, with a 5 year old (seemingly into paganism) around are pretty slim and this morning was no exception however I knew that in order to buy myself an extra hour in bed, I'd need to get Lish Losh set up with breakfast and children's TV.  It sort of works in that you do get to stay in bed a little longer but once you've been roused from that beautiful state of REM sleep, it's pretty much Game Over.  So I got a coffee and reached over the side of the bed for my book.  I'm currently reading about the life of Isabella Blow - stylist, icon and fashion guru. 

The rest of the day did take a much more laid back flavour.  Library. Park. TV. 
 
Here's a curious thing.  At the library I went to check some more books out - I admit to being a total book junkie.  I read two, sometimes three at the same time - always have.  It's weird I know, but I can't help myself, and the librarian points me in the direction of what looked like a soft drinks dispenser.

Piss take

Turns out it's a self service customer point.  A nice way of telling you to: Do it yourself!  So now you can check out, return and pay overdue fees without the can need of a person.  Already you can reserve and check for books online.  You can renew books online too.  Am I the only one here worried about the fate of the round-shouldered, tofu eating, bicycle riding, leather patch wearing humble librarian? 

I have a librarian friend, who sometimes reads the drivel I post here and I wonder what she makes of these machines? Whatever next?  Reading circle via Skype?  That's what I remember most about my childhood library - weekly visits with my school class for reading time followed by the mad rush to borrow the handful of copies of the book the librarian had just read to us from. 

Anyway, tomorrow is Sunday and I'm hoping to get a proper lie in.  I hope that having allowed Lishy to stay up a little later than usual, she will be so amazingly exhausted, she won't wake up until oohhh at least 8am tomorrow. 

I wonder when the tipping point happens? - you know - when kids stop acting like Pagans up at the crack of dawn like they're celebrating the summer solstice or something to the scornful, loathesome bags of hormones that can't get out of bed before 11?

Actually I'm not sure what's worse; sleep deprivation or life with a teenager?

The Staff Jolly

And just like that two weeks have gone by with very very little to report.  I say very little - it depends what constitutes "news" to you.  I mean, if hangovers and overindulgences are of interest, then perhaps I might be able to oblige.  The head of department decided it was high time to get the Tech Team, as we are known, out for a jolly around Soho. This was achieved with the ease of a hot knife going through butter.  Since you can't flick a bogey without hitting 10 pubs in Soho, a pub crawl is a) the obvious choice and b) with the exception of a show at the peelers, drinking is pretty much the only thing worth doing.

It was a night with multiple choice endings. The first ending (should you choose to select this one), was at "Byron at The Fox"a burger place in Wardour Street, today an upmarket diner that serves posh burgers and is located in what was once The Intrepid Fox pub.  OH THE IRONY! If that wasn't once the greebiest pub in London.  I do believe I spent my whole 16th - 17th year loitering in the general vicinity.  It was a legendary punk pub on the street where the original Marquee Club used to be before it moved to Tottenham Court Road and then finally went the way a lot of the old school cultural landmarks - up in a puff of gentrified smoke.  It sure was weird to sit at a table in a place where furniture was once banned and the closest thing to food was crisps.  The carpets (or what was left of them) were so sodden with beer and vomit that standing in one place for too long was as difficult as walking in quick sand and almost as dangerous. But....

That was then...

This is now...

...today you won't find a tattoo or piercing within 10 metres of the place

You could choose to end the night there.  You could.  But you don't.  Instead you say your goodbyes to the boss and the out-of-towners and then there was 3.  We slip down a side street to fit in a couple more pints, because we just can't help ourselves.  We just don't know when to stop.  We're just having too much fun and we're feeling way too sober.

But not for long.  And then the morning after pays a rude visit and you want to die.  We all make it into work - though I dare say very little of the stuff (work) got done.  Still, if the aim of the Tech Team jolly was to bond with work colleagues? I think I can safely say: Mission Accomplished.

And just as soon as we bond, the first casualty.  One of the team resigns and of course, we must celebrate, Soho style.  Can you guess what we did?

So that's really the long glass and shot glass of that.

 

(A belated) Day 4: Browning the Beef

I had high hopes for today, it being the last and the sunniest of the half term week.  I wrestled with my conscience over not taking Lish Losh to the jungle jim but it was more than I cold stomach.  The connection between indoor playgrounds and the frosty years in Canada was too disturbing.  In fact it all made me realise that there is a real possibility I might never be able to visit that place ever again. The Silverback will freak.  On second thoughts I might have to go.  I'll walk that plank when I need to. 

Moving on - please.  The day began in a leisurely fashion.  Midday I think it was before we actually set off.  So long term it would appear this staying at home lark would stagnate at some point.  In fact, I know so having been there before I was working full time.  There were days when it was pushing 3pm and we still hadn't left the house.  So all the more reason to celebrate how lovely this week was and appreciate why that was.

It was a scorcher yesterday so I knew at some point a park or fountain would make the itinerary but first we had an appointment with fear.  The dinosaur exhibit at the Natural History Museum.  The first time we went Lishy had a full blown panic attack when it came time to file past the 'real' dinosaur.  Here:



I kid you not my friends, this animatronic full size T-Rex is flippin scary.  Even more than a good scare myself is watching other people shit themselves.  Lishy was one of these the first time round.  She covered her head with a bag (not a plastic one  - put the phones down) but afterwards she pledged that next time, she would look the bugger in the eye. 

So we set out, as I say, like people who had all the time in the world.  I decided to bus it - it's a chance for The Lish to calm the freak down and rest a little while watching the world go by.  It's usually a very Zen experience.  Today (or yesterday to be exact) the traffic was murder.  It took a long-assed time to get there only to find the kind of queue you find outside embassies to countries people actually want to live in.  The sun was now hanging like a succulent peach, dripping it's sticky hotness onto us.  I lobbied hard to go to the Victoria & Albert next door which had no queue (never a good sign) but nonetheless.  The Lish was adamant.  We were going to see the dinosaur.

So we stood in line. For a long time.  Eventually we made it into the cool main hall.  Sweet relief. 

"I don't want to see the dinosaur," said The Lish.  Now, the Natural History is a busy place and that is the only thing that prevented me from drop kicking her into the iconic giant dinosaur skeleton that greets you on entering. 

Suffice to say, we went to see the dinosaur and after a little bit of sheer unmasked terror, Lady Lish came round and stared, if from somewhat an awkward angle, at the very realistic eyes of the beast.  Well done cockerliscious.  I don't think we'll be visiting the exhibit again.

Then it was a hop skip and jump and walk and stop for a pee-pee and a mummy, I'm hungry - you promised me a popsicle to Somerset House in The Strand.  This is a water park that puts all other water parks to shame.



It was slightly busier than this but I want you to feel the grace of the place.  And luckily for mummy there was an exhibition of zodiac heads by kidnapped artist Ai Weiwei which I flippin love. They are freaking amazing.  Such a mystery what's happened to the poor man. 



The day scorched on and I browned the fat a little bit more.  In fact, I will look like I've actually been away at this rate. 

I revelled in the sculptures but before you start pegging me as one of those namby pamby, arty farty types - all I could think was: I wonder is Ai Weiwei is pronounced I wee wee. Which just goes to show that you can take the girl out of the council flat and give her an education yet she will still take the most base route to humour.

Day 3: Chlorine popsicle

I woke up this morning, correction, I was woken this morning at an ungodly hour, I should add, by who else? - The Lish - demanding I put a DVD on.  I'll admit, I cracked.  I did all the things I've been trying hard not to do all week and then I put the DVD on. But I've decided I'm setting a new rule that no-one, talks or moves before 8am on a holiday or weekend.  To help the little one understand what 8am looks like, I'm buying one of those alarm clocks with eyes, specifically designed for whacko kids who, no matter what time they went to bed, no matter how tired they were (or tired out) the night before, still wake up at 6:30am.  You can set the eyes to open at a specified time.  So basically - you don't so much as fart before those eyes are open or there will be hellfire to pay.

After that little morning battle, I just couldn't face a jungle jim despite having proposed the activity myself. The fact is, I hate the damn places. They remind me of the loneliest and most depressing time of my life in Canada.  They also smell of feet.  Canucks prefer to call them, indoor playgrounds and since most of the country is under 9 feet of snow for 6 months of the year, you can understand why there were so many of them over there.  Yet every time I took The Lish, I was usually the only person there besides a bewildered Bangladeshi at the checkout, no doubt questioning the decision to have left a warm (if somewhat humid) paddy field for this shit.  What or where other Canadian children do for 6 months of the year in Ontario remains a secret.  And no, they are not slicing the powder on some breathtaking slope cos there aren't any worth skiing on in Ontario.  None.  So I imagine they are all sitting in the basement eating Cheetos practicing for a life of obesity. 

But I digress.  So I vetoed the jungle jim on the grounds of emotional trauma and instead decided to take The Lish to one of London's few open air pools.  It's in the heart of London too.  One could say the capital's best kept secret.  One could say that or one could say it's not going to win any prizes any time soon. 

Here see for yourself.  That 3-tier gallery around the side there? Not a gallery.  They are council flats full of gypos that overlook the pool 365 days of the year.  Smoking their fags and having their dole arguments in full view of the unsuspecting Londoner who thinks he's just hit the jackpot by finding this place on an otherwise stuffy summer London day.



Also, the sun decided to hide behind the clouds the moment we stepped into our swimming costumes and didn't come back out until our lips had gone a deep shade of purple and our bodies began to show the first signs of hypothermia. By which point, we were done. Nice try. At least it only cost a £1 to get in.  Again, you can  understand why.  We found the nearest park and lay like sardines for 2 hours as we waited for our core temperatures to rise enough for circulation to return.  Again, I do believe that was the nicest part of the day for me.


So tomorrow, while like today the forecast is low 20s - I think I'll believe it when I see it and instead am planning an activity that does not require the removal of undergarments.  I'm thinking museum.  There are so many to choose from in London, we are really spoiled and they are all free.  So I may just mosey on down to South Kensington and do a kind of museum crawl.  The Natural History, Science (which has a kind of jungle type jim for eggheads and boffin children) and Victoria & Albert museums are within a minute's walk from eachother.  Or I may just go to the Southbank to the Tate Modern to see the Miro exhibit.   Or I may just lie on a rug in the park as this has by far been the most rewarding of all activities...nice to know children still do ultimately appreciate the simple pleasures in life.

Whatever we do end up doing, it will mark the end of the first ever holiday utterly dedicated to mothering since I became one.  I shall reserve judgement and Lishy's review of it all until then.

Day 2: Paedo-watch

So end of day 2.  Pass the morphine.  I know it's Wednesday which technically is day 3 in a typical week, but Monday was Bank Holiday and The Silverback was on hand, so I can't count it.  This is day 2 of hardcore 'mano-a-mano' single parenting.  I managed to eek a day at a fountain in a park until almost 4pm.  That's art.  I should point out it's not just any fountain, it's the Princess Diana Memorial Fountain in Hyde Park designed with children in mind.  Children or seals - the water is sub zero temperatures but the children do not seem to mind.


And what a motley crue of kids they were.  All shapes and sizes with very independent thoughts on the correct attire for public swimming.  The Lish went Canadian - shorts and T-shirt.  The Brits let it ALL hang out and with some of those kids verging on the oldish side to be that naked, it made for uncomfortable viewing.  Put it this way, it's a good job Muslims very generally speaking do not seem to bring their kids here.

The Lish went mad.  No hesitation, she was in like Flynn.  Up and down, round and round.  I decided at the start of the week that there would be no reading on duty.  I just watched her chase her tail and with good reason, this is a park.  At best you get mentalists who like to do tai chi in orange jumpsuits from the 2009 Guantanamo collection but at worst, parks and particularly places designed for children draw the nasty and depraved.  I kept a sharp look out for paedos all afternoon, not once allowing Lishy to leave my line of sight and almost willing some arsehole to come between mummy bear and her cub.  I was ready to rip his bollocks off with my bare hands.  Luckily I didn't see any - but then again, what was I really expecting? A fat, bald sweaty fuckwit with bottle end glasses and trousers round his ankles?  I dare say they were around, quietly taking it all in.  Makes my blood boil.

So cleary, I enjoyed this part of the day immensely.  But in all seriousness, I didn't obsess - it was just, you know, there, in the back of my mind.

Onto brighter subjects - the day was one of those days that get immortalised in photographs of your youth, when it seems it was only ever sunny.  Except of course today I forgot to bring the camera.  So you'll have to make do with me telling you - it was a bloody lovely day.  Warm, dry and sunny.

After what seemed like 3 weeks, Lish finally came to sit with me and eat her sandwich and this is the bit I will fall alseep to tonight.  We lay together - she wrapped in a towel like a piglet in a blanket and me cuddling her from behind - munching our lunch while sedately watching the park life unfold around us.  It was idyllic.

Then another age passed as Lisherlicious went in for a second dip.  Meanwhile I kept watch like a meercat.  I managed to persuade her that an icecream truck was about to leave if we didn't move fast at about 4pm.  It did the trick.

We hiked back to Queensway, via the wild part of the park which I somehow convinced myself  was full of grass snakes.  To distract from this I got The L to lead the way a la Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz kind of way.  In retrospect, had there been any snakes, I'd be feeling pretty rotten for sending the kid in first.   I made up for it with a strawberry ice cream ( I had mint chocolate chip) which we enjoyed to the symphony of the traffic on Bayswater road and the heady exhaust fumes.  Bangkok has nothing on Queensway.  Still, we had ice-cream, we didn't care.

It was 6pm by the time we got home.  So no need to bake today thank god.  I rushed the pleasantries of bathtime, dinner and bed - rattling through 2 books blocking Lishy's every attempt to stall.

Kiss kiss, click and slump.  Over and out my friends.  Tomorrow I have Jungle Jim planned.  I'm already feeling naseaus.

Day 1: Half term - "baker extraordinaire"

I only said fuck once today.  This is excellent. .  As you may have gathered it's half term this week when all God's little children get a week off school; A week I have meticulously planned - to the minute.  As a working mum, it stands to reason that I would embrace this week with sincere openness and enthusiasm.  And I believe I have.  Like I said, just the one 'fuck' today. 

The day started well with The Silverback taking on all the morning duties while I had a lie-in.  Unlike other days, I got up immediately on hearing the front door click behind him.  The Lish dutifully installed in the front room with children's TV and breakfast, I made my own breakfast in a leisurely manner as I referred to the day's agenda.  Hackney City Farm. 

And indeed it was a joy to execute - it took almost no time (for London) to get there despite being on the other side of town.  I made sure to engage all the way with The Lish.  Usually I will read but not today.  Either she has matured or I've succumbed to what' I've always known I've had - a bad case of arrested development - but we got eachother.  She asked her usual obtuse questions like :  Is daddy 10? or her favourite, Am I (her) older than daddy? to which I usually answer yes to both but not today.

Today, imbued with the passion and desire to be the mum I can't be when I'm working - I explained that daddy was considerably older than 10 and no, she couldn't possibly be older than the person who made her.  Right?  To which she answered - but you're still older than daddy right?

Yes.

To Hackney Farm then.  I wasn't expecting much, it being a city farm and in Hackney.  And in that respect I wasn't disappointed.  I remember thinking two things.  1. If the owner has even bothered to read the Trade Descriptions Act - this place probably just made the legal requirements and 2. It doesn't feel like 21 degrees today.

Still, I conjured up a secret garden with fairies for The Lish and what's even more amazing was that she bought into it pretending to see fairies in the most unlikely of places.  There were also chickens, two giant pigs, some lambs and a goat - which Lisherlicious mistook for a giraffe somehow.  Then the obligatory visit to the farm cafe.  Irritatingly expensive to say the produce used in the kitchen was less than 10 feet away and I imagine would take the cook less effort to harvest than it takes me to floss my teeth. 

As luck would have it, we just made it around the "farm" and into the cafeteria - managing even to get the comfy seats when it started to pelt it down with rain.  So I wasn't wrong about the weather.  When I say pelt, I mean Cats & Dogs, which to me made the whole experience that much more organic.  The Lish took her shoes off and lay her head on my lap as we watched the sheets of water run down the sky light. 

Once the rain stopped we bolted to the bus stop.  Large pools had formed at the sides of the roads - it had rained that much - and we narrowly escaped getting drenched as some fuckwit bus driver ploughed through the water causing a hip height wave of gutter water to splash onto the pavement. 

Being a life-long Londoner used to a.) the odd downpour of rain and b.) fuckwits in charge of public transport, I'd more than half expected it.  Lisherlicious on the other hand almost had a cardiac episode.  I have to say, it did make me chuckle though I made sure not to let her see this as she can get quite haughty about these things. 

I looked at my watch - it was 12:40pm.  How could this be?  Surely not? ONLY 12.40?  I'd grossly miscalculated how long you can keep a kid at a farm.  I had to think fast - the prospect of getting home at 1:15 with nothing else planned filled me with terror. 

What take ages?  Think! Woman.  Cupcakes.  Two-for-one activity.  It takes ages and then mummy gets to eat most of them.  So I put the idea of cupcakes into her head and it worked.  A little too well because for the rest of the journey home it was:  mummy, can I mixe the cupcakes?; mummy can I lick the bowl?, mummy can I eat the frosting?.  This is sadly the point where I momentarily lost it and said the F word - just low enough for anyone but my conscience to hear but she got the message.

As promised she got to mix the cupcakes, she got to lick the bowl and she go to eat the frosting...and let's face it when they look like this - that is where the culinary experience has to stop.  What do you think of my collection of bum cracks and fannies? Genuis no?

Though I say so myself,  these are not the kind that look shite but taste really rather delicious.  No these look shite and taste of shite.  I would go as far as to say they are fucking awful cupcakes.

Let's see how far off the mark I am, shall we ?  Compare my latest creation to a shop bought cupcake:

Yes, one might say, I have a little way to go before I win Cupcake Wars.  But you know what? We enjoyed making them and The Lish enjoyed getting her own back for the bus splash by pointing and laughing at my baking skills.  And, I've just enjoyed throwing the whole lot in the bin.

All I can say is:

I'd better get some sleep - day 2 of the half term tomorrow and I'm now conscious of the fact that I didn't bargain on kids doing things quicker than anticipated.  Frankly, the prospect of having to bake again to fill time is just too humiliating.