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!