DreamWeave

What's happening?

We’ve all had lucid dreams so I know you will relate.  I am compelled to commit this one to paper, so to speak because it was so incredibly powerful.  Now, I’ve had dreams that turned into premonitions, I’ve had dreams that were visits from lost loved ones  – I think we all have – and those in themselves are truly astounding experiences.  We have all also had those nonsensical ones that leave us over-tired and with a bad taste.  This one was different.

I woke with a start at what I imagine was around 5AM this morning, I couldn’t say for sure since I was too affected to even bother checking.  I remember the dream clearly.  I was visiting the city where a woman lived who in the dream plays my mother.  It certainly didn’t look or feel like her, but I knew this was who she was.  I was at an old, old family friend’s house; a girl I grew up with who was like a sister in that we fought like cats and dogs and we also shared baths as very young children.  I would always opt for the bubble-filled end of the tub while she preferred clear water.  I haven’t seen her in over 11 years. 

I remember her mother being in the dream too, playing herself – this one was not a stand-in like whoever was playing my mum.  She basically told me to go see my mum (for goodness sakes!) and funnily enough this was very much the character I remember growing up – quite a prickly woman but deep down had and has the most generous heart but most people either love or hate her and even those that love her can only take her in small doses.  We called her the Battle-Axe and I’m indebted to her for many things but mostly because she gave my mum a beautiful final resting place.

View from the cemetery where my dear mama rests in peace

I found the fact that I was being told to visit my mum odd because I had the most amazing relationship with her in life – now gone 24 years.  So even within this dream, while I was playing a role, I was also stepping out of that role to have those asides.  Nevertheless, I took this advice in the dream and even though it was very late and not really the safest time to go wandering the streets, I did leave my friend’s house to go see my mum.  I thought I’d surprise her and perhaps even climb into bed with her like I used to do as a child.  Again, it’s odd because in the dream it would suggest that I had somehow become estranged and hadn’t seen her in years.

In any event I make it to my mum’s flat.  It’s dark and I need to use the toilet and it’s while I am on the loo that another woman, butch but fit enters the bathroom to tell me basically I’m not supposed to be there.  I see my mum in the background who guessing I’d come to stay the night timidly informs me that she is sorry but she doesn’t have any spare towels.  I imagine this is her way of saying I can’t stay.  I get a feeling that in the time we’ve been estranged my mother has become gay and the butch but fit lady is her partner.

Mum was often told she looked like Gina Lollobrigida - there was a likeness. 

I do as I'm asked and leave, and it is at this time that I wake up with a start and feel the hot, plump tears of genuine sadness ooze down my face.  My whole face is wet with them and I cannot immediately stop.  I sit up and look around my empty - but for a slumbering cat – room where all I feel is an incredible melancholy.  I realise I still miss my mum so very much even though I’ve now been without her longer than I had her and I’m sure there are many out there who can relate.

What it also did was give me pause for thought that I must never allow a rift of that sort with my own daughter (fast asleep in the next room and unaware of my sorrow).  Apart from the fact that it would break my heart, I really don’t fancy the idea of lesbianism and I mean no offence by it, but it’s just not for me, I hope you understand.

I can relate some of that stuff to things in life – the spare towel is something I always put out for guests as a sort of welcome mat I now realise – even though they feel, I was told once, like 80 grade sandpaper (must get some new ones). 

I did also have a pint of K cider that evening.  7 pc proof – enough to provoke a nightmare nevermind a lucid dream.  I’m not sure why old family friends and the feeling of a rift, other than well, there is a rift between me and them at the moment that I’m not inclined to really make the first move around.  First world problem.  I may live to regret it but so far I’ve been fine with that decision.  Sometimes you have to take a stand when you feel strongly enough about it and I’ll leave it at that for the time being.

I made sure I gave The Lish the longest hug I could get away with later that same morning before she trotted off to school.

Oh and if I ever say I don't have any spare towels when you come round to mine, I guess you better make sure you know what time the last train is running.

Your guess is as good as mine...

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Into The Sort of Wild

Last week marked another little milestone for me and the Lish Losh.  We are officially one fifth of the way into her first year at secondary school and I can’t tell you how much life has changed for us both.  From walking herself to and from school to fending for herself after school for those few hours that mummy is still at work – it’s like we're different people living in another world.  

I had what is known as a 'moment' the first morning she left the flat before me.  For a second I finally understood what people mean when they say: "Enjoy them while they are young." The feeling of loss lasted one full second.  No more manic mornings! No more arriving at work and feeling like I’d already put in a full day.  Yay! Bless Lishy.  

She too is enjoying her newfound independence:  Have Bus Pass - Will Travel.  It is truly remarkable.  A vertical learning curve you might say for all involved but one that I hope is setting her up for later life in this frenzied world.

I decided then, on that basis, to make the very most of half term seeing as we’re now in that phase of life where holidays are the only time you get to bond in any meaningful way as a family.

In my quest to push bonding and quality bonding at that, to the top of the criteria, I knew I had to choose the location carefully.  A week in Portugal, much as we love, love, love it was just not going to cut it this time.  It had to be somewhere removed, somewhere where pleasures were simple and electric outlets in short supply.  I settled on the idea of glamping and booked this place on the Hampshire/West Sussex border: Adhurst Yurts.

All Inclusive Party Centrale

In my head I imagined a magical, enchanted elfin-like existence where courteous male faun creatures gingerly approach doorways and windows full of delicate curiosity.    Yeah, it was nothing like that.  But it was still enchanting.  How could it not be when presented with this view every morning to sip your coffee to?

People Watching

And you needed this mental respite to prepare for a shower under the canopy of Sycamore and Oak trees.  No roof.  It barely had a door.  This was the time to put all your pernickertiness into a plastic bag, hang it on a branch and hope the Monkjack deer and foxes were all otherwise occupied.

The ensuite

I would think of all the brown fat I was using just to keep my core body temperature at minimum survival level and went for it.  Amazingly Mayalicious loved the whole malarkey of open air ablutions and it was the one thing she didn't ever quibble about - which just goes to show the kind of monster I've created.  Who in their right mind likes showering outdoors?

So after the UHT morning special, we'd all set off for a long hike in the woods.  I should point out that I never travel alone with Lishy if I can help it.  To do so would be demented and most likely only lead to a custodial sentence.  No, I need a mate to diffuse and distract.  Lishy is afterall entering 'the difficult age' where I've discovered I'm unable to spend more than 3 minutes with her before thoughts of self evisceration begin to creep in.

Meet the Three Muskateers.  I'm sure the farm owners thought we were New Age lesbians with a child we got through a donation from a 'family friend'.  We're not.

Lesbians

We'd all set off then in search of the sort of peace and calm that only nature brings and you know what?  for the most part we found them (apart from the day we decided to walk down the A272 for 45 minutes instead of through fields and woods).   And when we'd had our fill of tranquil quiet, we'd march on down to any number of pubs that were to be found at the end of our hikes.  Like homing pigeons, we always found a pub.   But I'm making us out to be some kind of feathered yogic George Bests; I'll have you know we also did foraging - we picked wild raspberries and carrots at a nearby farm one afternoon with no pub in sight - mind you that night it was G&Ts all round at the cabin.

Combine Harvester not required

Monty Don's got nothing on me

Oh it all felt very wholesome.  The days were filled easily with "The Good Life' activities but we were always very wary to ensure we were back at camp a good hour before dusk for there were fires that needed building with which to cook and keep warm.  I became a proper little firestarter.

No Fire, No Food

There after as the night time spread its gossamer cover of darkness, thoughts would turn to survival.  Not the kind Bear Grylls teaches - more the sort that involves deciding whether to have one or two bottles of prosecco when it's 10:30 pm and the nearest loo is a long drop privy a good 5 metres from the cabin; Or knowing there were 5 hours before legitimate bedtime with only a pack of cards to keep us from braying at eachother.  But by the 3rd evening,  something wonderful happened.  We started talking; storytelling; playing out scenarios or having conversations about things that were on our minds starting with what we all thought of my ex-husband's new young Eastern European girlfriend, to talking about what to expect from puberty and most importantly which grossly overpriced branded beauty advent calendar we each wanted for Christmas (Charlotte Tilsbury for me and Libertys for Jane, my travel companion.) Maya just wanted slime.  Don't ask.  It's the new thing.

And so the hours would slowly peel away during what grew to become our favourite part of each day.

By the end we had exhausted all topics and played more Gin Rummy than anyone under the age of 55 should ever admit to.  Not once was a mobile phone taken out in the evenings other than to check whether time was standing still.  It was.

As with all good things, this too had to end.  We eeked out the last day by taking the scenic route home via the Jane Austen Museum (that's us in costume earlier on...honest) in Chawton where surprise surprise, we also found a super pub.

Not what it looks like  - just crouching!

Put It On The List

I’ve been a list-making freak since as far back as I can remember.  My early ones consisted of plotting decades out at a time – none of this shopping list malarkey; that was for amateurs.  No, I’d find myself indexing years of activities in one sitting  – usually during French lessons in the sixth form (that’s almost 30 years ago. Yikes!). 

And they were mental (my lists, not French lessons).  On one occasion, I recall indexing a ten-year period with a Top 5 that went something like this:

1.Pass A Levels

2. Get degree

3.Start Career – businesswoman (stock broking)

4.Get flat

5.Think about marriage

Not even joking.

Is it any wonder really that I went on to live my 20s in a perpetual state of anxiety? Crossing off each item took years!  Talk about projecting.  It was a totally nuts approach to planning.  Most of those things did actually come to pass but only as small punctuations to what was otherwise the narrative of my life just ambling along in the interim. 

Relationships came and went, people died, others were born, friends got married, flats were bought, then sold but the biggest surprise was the year I chucked in my career to go travelling at the age of 29.  So I never did get to become a stock broker.  And a good thing too as I’m shit at maths.

In between passing my A levels and getting round to ‘thinking about marriage’, I made crap loads more lists though these took a much shorter term view than the big picture teenage stuff and although they dealt with the minutiae they were no less bonkers . Sometimes they’d barely cover a few hours worth of activity, stuff like:

1.     Get up

I mean, I’ll stop myself there…seriously?  Get up?  I would actually make a list the night before and start with ‘Get up’.  Who does that?  A mental patient maybe.  As if I was in danger of forgetting what I needed to do on waking.   Next would follow something like:

2.     Shower

3.     Get dressed

4.     Have breakfast

5.     Bus to HMV – get application form

I promise you that was an actual to do list from around the time I first graduated and was looking for a in between job.   Holy Mackeral.

Eventually when I did get a proper job, the compulsion to write lists subsided dramatically.  I had no time to write lists out anymore.  Instead they happened in my head.  It was I’m sure a form of OCD. 

One night I made a mental list of how I was going to clean the flat.  A room by room strategic cleaning plan.  DEMENTED.  I have no doubt this must have made me a very difficult person to live/be with.  But then again, I must have provided some sort of entertainment as my first boyfriend stayed with me for twelve years and my ex-husband for ten.  And that flat was bloody clean….

When I think about it, I believe my need to write lists was linked to that wonderful release that comes with having accomplished something.  Some days to be fair, getting up was an accomplishment though I tend to set the bar somewhat higher today.  I think. 

I was cleaning out some papers the other morning when I came across a list I’d made a few years earlier of a number of flat viewings I had booked with an estate agent.  A normal list one might say.  But under the last entry, my then husband had added the following:

12:00 Buy a diary

12:30 Nap from all the confusion

2:00 Wake up and wonder

I guess I wasn’t fooling him.

Champion List Maker

Who Let The Hens Out?

Hen weekends instil in me a dread akin to that of inadvertently catching someone chowing down on a plateful of chicken livers.

The Hen that changed my opinion

So when I was invited to one earlier in the year, it was only because I dearly love the ‘hen’/bride to be that I signed up without prejudice.  And now the year had drained away in a fug of inexplicable weather fronts and other unfathomable milestones to the point where only a day stood between me and the train ride to the secret (at the time) destination. 

I’d arranged to meet one of the other 27 girls due at this Hen weekender (to end all weekends) by the statue of Paddington Bear…at Paddington Station...of course, as we were off to a manor house in the West Country.  Before long (but long enough) the free spirited beauty - one of the hen’s college days friend appeared and not before time as the train was already boarding.

The Manor House that never sleeps

Now for someone dreading the onslaught of typical hen activity, it was in fact I who busted out the first drinkies - pre-mixed G and Ts.   Not long afterwards, out came a bottle of bubbles.  Oh the hypocrisy!  Safe to say that by the time the train pulled into the little village where the others were gradually gathering, we were both suitably sloshed and very open to the following suggested itinerary:

Friday night:  Pyjama party in the house with games in the parlour and late night karaoke in the dining room

Saturday Day:  coach to Bristol city centre for lunch on a moored restaurant boat followed by a boozy quiz themed tour of Bristol harbour by unmoored boat

Saturday afternoon:  coach back to house for respite, a Chinese takeaway and ‘the big prep’ for a night on the tiles

Saturday night:  coach back to Bristol (in a cloud of powder, perfume and party) for a night at Lola Los nightclub

Looking good, feeling fine...all seeming like a great idea at the time

The obligatory dick

That little lot represents one of the best girly weekends away I’ve ever been on.  And while I was the oldest by a mile, I don’t think anyone would have guessed with the amount of rug cutting and revelry that went on at my insistence.

Meet Mr Cafe Patron...at your disservice

My over-ridding memory has to be when one of the girls, a mutual PR friend of mine and the hen’s had her credit card refused at the nightclub 3 times (like Judas).  Having left her bankcard at a bar earlier in the day, where I had been introduced to Café Patron – a moorish tequila-based coffee liquor (Yum – Capital Y!), she was struck dumb on realising that she was basically ‘poor’ for the night.  The shame of it. 

The poor one, the young one, the old one

“Help me I’m poor” came her timid Patron steeped cries as we rolled up the stairs of the manor house in the early hours with me at one point bumping her up the stairs one by one by her bra straps but not before we’d both attempted head stands against a wall. 

Well…it was a hen party afterall. 

More Than a Bolt Hole

Never, say the Buddhists, put thought to that which you do not wish to provoke but equally the opposite is also true, especially if it relates to positive or aspirational thinking.  One might call it a sort of planning process although many would call it wishful. Regardless, I am not sure what exactly has triggered this feeling, whether it has to do with age, with new freedoms resulting from an increasingly independent child, the confidence resulting from the new job or the recent spate of terror attacks and other tragedies suffered by Londoners…(or perhaps I’m just bored) but the fact is, I’ve never been more driven to find a way of ‘moving to the country’.   

This from the life-long Londoner, the woman who, hell bent (once upon a time) on moving to suburban Canada moved heaven and earth to do so only to realise after hauling a whole life over to smallsville Ontario that, in fact, London was the only place for me.  It is a decision I’m sure in part cost me my marriage and in part not – some credit for that must be awarded to my wayward ex-husband.  May it never be said that I don’t give credit where it’s due.

Of course this development comes at a most inconvenient time.  Lishy is about to start secondary school – in itself a difficult enough passage – a challenge that will not be helped by the interruptive nature of a big socio-geographical move. 

I remember my own mother suggesting once a similar change when I was in my early teens.  I am ashamed to say mine was not the most even-tempered reaction.  I was the very epitome of the surly teenager.  The argument that ensued about the loss of my peer group took a typical melodramatic turn, which ended with a threat of death from heart-break.  Suffice to say my poor mother never again mentioned such a preposterous idea.

This time round of course I’m making sure I do proper due diligence.  For instance, I’ve been watching re-runs of The Vicar of Dibley by way of research into village life – impractical as that may seem (yes I know it’s not impractical, it’s insane), but in my defence I was once taken to the real village used for filming, in the area of Oxfordshire (or was it Berkshire) by a lovely chap (possibly the one that got away?)  and while I admit is was very very ….very small, I do feel it is not outside of the realm of possibility for me to find happiness and inner peace in a place like it.

I know better then to uproot and go without more constructive advance planning however and to this end, I will be visiting target ‘wish list’ villages over the next little while to get a more practical handle on ‘shire’ living.  In the meantime let’s just say thought precedes action.

So as ok as I am with this:

I'm pretty sure I'm ready for this:

And so is Lishy who loves this place near us:

And I'll end with this...just because: