Ibiza Rocks !

Sorting through my dressing table top drawer the other day I came across a buff coloured piece of crumpled paper tucked up into a small square. It must have been torn from a sketch pad as it was bigger than A4 when unfolded.To my delight it was in GirlTeen's childish handwriting, fairly neat and in ink. 

It was long forgotten ,short account of our trip to Ibiza, a full ten years ago from now. She was 7. Illustrated in places with pictures of variously a jacuzzi (I think that's what it is) and pieces of luggage, she reached Chapter 2 before she bored of the project.

Here it is reproduced as she wrote it. For my own amusement and hopefully, yours; an insight into the funny little way a 7 year old thinks.

CHAPTER 1

On Saturday 24th August I was going to Ibiza. I was very excited but worried that I would get shingles. I always get a virus or dessiece when it is an eccation*. Last time I went to Ibiza 2 years ago was when I got chicken pocks.When I went to Menorca I almost caught Singles. At 7:30pm my granddad but not the one who said his hair came of on his milk float,took us to Gatwick Airport. We waited a whole hour to get to the front of the que so we could get our flight tickets.Then we found out 1 of our cases was to heavy so we had to go to letter H and a lady put a sticker that said heavy on it.

*I think she means 'occasion'

At this point there is a an aside in a bubble that says :

Forgotten Message: Mum thought our heavy case would go to Malta.

We got in the britannia and flew off to Ibiza.Mum cried because she hates flights. We arrived at Ibiza and we took a coach to Hotel Presidente in Portanax resort.

Hotel Presidente, Portinatx, Ibiza (as seen on the Thomson website)

We got in the hotel and we were in room 28 on the 1st floor. It was 4.00am.

CHAPTER 2

We woke in the morning for our breakfast got dressed and then went to the welcome party it was boring and now mum wants to go to the market in Ibiza town <these next two words in red with jagged lines drawn round them> I dont! 

At least I got a kidsclub teashirt and cap. After that we went to the swimming pool until 4.00pm and the welcome party finished at 11.00am. 

FORGOTTEN MESSAGE: We met Sophie at breakfast

<Sophie was her classmate. To my horror, one of the more judgemental Mums From The School Playground was holidaying there at exactly the same time as us. Luckily I was in her clique (with gritted teeth most of the time) but I didnt really want to spend my away -from-all-that time with her. We quickly established different daily routines to the family without being entirely unsociable. It helped however that I knew I looked better in a bikini than Sophie's mum did ... >

Me and my mum went back to the hotel presidente and we both had showers.at 6:00pm we went to find my brother and my dad. We found them. 

Now soon I hope we go out to tea

After dad showers if he dosent diasagree.

There is unfortunately, no Chapter 3.But that's a crumpled piece of paper I will always keep and cherish; it brings back many memories that seem like yesterday despite being a decade ago.

Now she's nearly 18, a grown up, headstrong and determined. In a lot of ways though she's still that skinny 7 year old. Well, she always will be to me.

Father's Day

It's Father's Day. 


And the first time ever that the car wouldn't start. 
It's a four year old Ford Focus, for Heaven's sake. It's just been serviced. 
I mention this because R & the Boy were trying to get to Boy's cricket match ten minutes drive away in it and it let them down. 
And here's the thing:
I am in tears over this. 
But R ? He will do what he needs to do. He will find the money we really don't have at the moment to sort it out. 
He always does.
He's my rock.


We met at work in 1989. It was my first proper job after Uni, a temporary one you understand, while I decided what it was I really wanted to do. We were on different sections at the time but there was a major reorganisation following the implementation of a new computer system and our sections merged . R was in charge of the seating plan and he and I ended up sitting opposite one another.
He had a girlfriend at the time, of four years standing. Became engaged to her a couple of months after I met him. I was infatuated with the very aloof Goth guy who was charged with the task of training me. He thought I was 'twee'. I tried wearing black all the time but when Goth Guy's mate suggested I in fact looked like 'Heidi going to a funeral' I realised that was a non starter. 


Although he was engaged to someone else we started seeing each other. I'm not proud of that, but they weren't even living together, he'd been half-heartedly rail-roaded into it, and the thing was, we just clicked. It just made sense. They say, you'll know when you meet The One and I had always wanted to believe that and it turned out to be true. I just Knew. And so did he.  


It is 20 years in August since he asked me to marry him, at dinner in an open air restaurant in Artist's Square ,Montmartre, Paris, in the shadow of the Sacre Coeur, apt as they nickname that beautiful building the Wedding Cake on the Hill.


I am not easy to live with. I am up, and down. I cry. I love. I feel things too deeply. I get frustrated and that can be mistaken for anger. I worry - oh Lord how I worry. But R is my rock. 


He is always there, not just for me (God knows I need it) but most importantly for our children.




I am happy I have given him a son who shares his love of cricket. I know that seeing Boy in his whites even if he does get out for a golden duck, makes him very very happy too. 


He may never have done an early hours of the morning bottle feed, or changed many (any?) nappies. He may have said to me - when in the throes of  chronic pregnancy sickness "I'll help you!" by bringing a chair to the kitchen for me to sit on while I cooked... But.. I can see him now, with our first born, who arrived just over a year after we married, a bit of a shock to us , neither of us with any idea what to do with babies, singing over and over and over as he rocked her in his arms-


We all live in a yellow submarine
A yellow submarine
A yellow submarine


Repeat as necessary. 


And when years later, she was in hospital, on morphine, in pain, telling us she wanted to die, he was there and far far better than me at soothing her. He has one of those voices; he should be a continuity announcer. It was why I think, he was so good when briefly in charge of a call reception unit. He always made the customers listen and you can never win an argument with him. he has this way about him. The kind that gets Jehovah's Witnesses nodding in agreement with him  on the doorstep. Of course that means I often get annoyed with him because I know I can't win. 


But ultimately that doesn't matter at all. 


I cannot express how proud I am of him as a Dad. Calm, rational - infuriatingly so ! - generous, in control even during this bumpy patch we have inexplicably hit. He's not one of those dads who over do it by trying too hard. He's the moral confident silent backbone to our wonderful son and daughter. 


And they love him. And so do I.


But ssshhhh - don't tell him ;-) 

Stanmore No More

Re-published for Scoliosis Awareness Day 29th June 2013

Last week Teen came to the end of a road she (with us along for the ride) has been travelling for about five years. Which given she is 17 is a fair chunk of her life.

In late 2007 I started to notice her posture wasn't what it could be. She'd just turned 13 and at the time was spending many hours on her PC playing The Sims, so I put it down to too much time leaning over a hot computer game. Just the August before we had been to the Canaries and she had seemed all right  then.
But one day in November she came to me and said, "Take me to to the doctor's, I have a hunchback!"
Of course being me my first reaction was denial. "You're fine," I probably said; but looking at her in her dressing gown I knew that something wasn't right. I had probably seen it but not seen it, if you know what I mean. Her right shoulder did indeed protrude more than her left. 
With typical procrastination, borne of fear, we didn't see our preferred GP until after Christmas. I sat there (as I always do in GP surgeries) worried that we were either wasting his time, or that it was going to be really bad news.
He made her bend forward, looked her over, and then went to his desk.
The verdict came in.No doubts. It was scoliosis, a curve of the spine into an S-shape, and she would have to be referred to a hospital consultant.

I didn't immediately come home and Google the condition. I accepted that she had a curved spine and that was enough for now. We had to wait for the referral and I would take it from there.

Ah, the Choose and Book system ! 
When the paperwork came through - I had just two 'choices'. Bear in mind we live on the NE London borough of Havering/Essex border. We had expected to be offered GOSH, or a specialist place. No. My 'choices' were Addenbrookes in Cambridge (a fine hospital but too far away and we had no confidence that the spinal unit was specialist enough) or Wrexham. Yes, Wrexham. In Wales. In another country.
So it had to be Addenbrookes. I picked up the phone to 'Choose'. 
And was casually told that as they 'didn't have the paperwork yet', I should call again 'in about two weeks'.
To say I was frustrated is an understatement.

But there was a lifeline. 
One of the more sensible things I did when I started work was to sign up with my company's private health scheme. I did it mostly because they gave you a cute Teddy bear just for joining. As time went on the policy incorporated my children too. It wasn't a comprehensive private scheme, but it would be enough to get Teen a private consult. The proviso was that the the referral had to be to a private consultant with an NHS practice.

R was immediately on Google, researching scoliosis specialists, and he found  what turned out to be the perfect man for the job. 

A referral letter and a few weeks later, we found ourselves in a different world; the Private Health Sector, at the Wellington Hospital in St John's Wood, right next to Lord's cricket ground. A land where there is coffee on tap, satellite TV in the waiting area - not that 'waiting' is a verb known in this amazing place. 

Teen was whisked through for her X-ray and then we were in the office of the amazing, matter of fact, dry humoured and incredibly talented Mr Stuart Tucker, spinal adviser to the Royal Ballet School.

He looked at the (immediately returned) X- ray results.

"This," he said, "Isn't something that can be cured with a pill."
We were faced with the reality of the situation.

This is a 'normal' spine.




This was Teen's X-ray.

As our health scheme did not cover the actual op being done privately, we had to be referred back to be seen at the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital at Stanmore (near Elstree/Mill Hill in North London) so that Teen could be operated on by Mr Tucker under the NHS. 

After the verdict I was in a daze. It took me about two days for it to sink in. My baby girl, my perfect girl, needed a major operation. Two in one, to be precise, as she also suffered kyphosis (ie, the 'hunchback'). This stopped her going to her dance classes as she was expected to wear a leotard and she was too embarrassed to go anymore. 

It would be another 8 months of waiting and worrying and a postponed holiday before the operation actually happened. She was never in any pain, thank goodness, but I suddenly understood the breathlessness she occasionally complained of. Looking at how her lungs must have been compressed it's little wonder.

We grabbed a week away together in late October after our pre-op visit to the adolescent unit which promised internet and DVD players and so on. Teen was asked by Mr Tucker if she had any questions. She said,
"What are the chances of death?"
I hadn't even contemplated that one.
"A million to one," he replied. And believe me, you don't disagree with Mr Tucker. He has an omniscient air about him. 
The idea that as he operated on her spine paralysis could ensue fleetingly crossed my mind but I dismissed it. I had faith. 

So in November 2008, in a chilly, post war, in need of rebuilding hospital, in only five hours, Mr Tucker rebuilt her spine and shaved her shoulder blade, to fix her. Ten days later she was home.

I'll write about the op and the stay itself in detail another time. But what I will say now is that if anyone is reading this and is in any doubt about having an operation like Teen's, don't worry. Do it. I'm not sure that back braces and physio are the answer. They certainly weren't in Teen's case. And I look at her now, her 'growth lines closed' as Mr Tucker said just a week ago, beaming and admiring his work and her 'lovely posture' , it was worth the tough time we all went through. 

Shame she can't bend over quite enough to tidy her bedroom properly though isn't it ? 

The Out Laws !

"Don't look at his feet, he's wearing his paper shop shoes!" 

Yes, my Mother in Law (MiL)  and Father In Law (FiL) have arrived.

Every Thursday afternoon for quite a few years now, more or less without fail, my In Laws have come to visit.

As you may recall I cannot drive and we live just over a mile from the Primary school the kids used to go to. When they were both there and I was working mornings only in the school office, I was there, and back, and there , and back, and if one or other had after school activities I was there, and back again. I once walked the best part of 10 miles in a day...although I have to say having a buggy to push is a great aid to walking long distances, speeds you up. 

So once a week, having their grandparents pick them up was a blessing. 

They even used to have them for weekend sleepovers while R and I went out for a meal & a film, or up West,or even on a city break. I can remember the very first time we left Teen -then about three- for just one night. Oh, the exhilaration !

I am eternally grateful to the In Laws. They looked after the kids so I could go back to work part time without paying for child care. Yes,Nana sent Teen to preschool more than once with her shoes on the wrong feet (Teen that is, not Nana, although sometimes I wonder). Yes, Granddad actively encouraged Boy to 'hit someone if they piss you off'. But it was all done with love.

The kids are older now. Teen is practically an adult, and Boy will be a Teen in a few weeks. 

But Nana and Granddad are pretty much still the same.

And every Thursday they come around.

Most of the time Teen isn't even here to see them. She has a life now. Boy accepts their lift from school lazily and gratefully and once home, promptly makes himself scarce. As I am working full time I'm not even home so I have to ensure before I leave for work at 8am that the kettle is full,and the mugs and teabags and spoons are ready. 

They can't function unless they have tea.

Funnily enough, the teabags they offer at their home are PoundLand sawdust, but when they're here, they quite like my Finest Assam teabags. 

"We made ourselves cups of tea," says MiL. I can tell they have , there are tea stains all over the worktop. "You over filled the kettle, you know."

I ignore this.

Teen has usually - if she's even there - disappeared after ten minutes to her room leaving me and Boy to it. 

MiL tells very long and ultimately rather dull stories at great length.

"Elsie knocked on the door yesterday," she'll begin, and I know we're in for a long haul ride.

"She's the one who got all the trees planted. You know, the one that lives with Ken." (Big Ken the Cowboy Plumber as I know him). "She  sent Amy that bracelet that time. Anyway, she knocked on the door, and I said <insert anecdote about someone I don't know of> and that was that...so we had some tea. And Elsie said, what about <I leave for kitchen to start the kids' dinner and make interested noises occasionally>..."

Me(from kitchen): "So how did that work out?"

MiL: "Well, Elsie said that Ken said it couldn't be done. So that was that. And then Phyl's son John turned up so we all had some biscuits."

Once, to please Teen (then a pre-teen) she changed their home answer phone message. It should have been based on Queen's We Will Rock You , except singing "We Will Call You Back ." (I think Teen had seen this on Friends ). It recorded as "We Will/We Will/Rock You Back". Trust me a 70+ year old lady singing this down the phone has to be heard.

She's a Spurs supporter, loves a flutter on the horses, and today bought an obelisk for her sweet peas. This caused friction with FiL since he didn't actually know what an obelisk was and anyway , what was wrong with the rusty metal spear and strings he'd already put in place?

In her late Sixties she upped and went on a tour of Australia with her daughter. FiL wouldnt go. She didn't care. Off she went. Helicopter rides, boats to see the coral reef, the lot. Didn't appreciate any of it, if truth be told, but she did it, and at least has fond memories of visiting the Gabba Ground.

I can understand why FiL wouldn't go. He likes routine. They eat the exact same meals on every day of the week. Sunday is of course, roast dinner day (dinner = lunch by the way. Caused me some confusion when I first started going to their house for meals). Monday is Left Overs , bubble & squeak. Tuesday is pie day. Wednesday is lamb chops. Thursday a roast chicken. Friday is , of course, fish and chips. They go to Billingsgate and buy in bulk to freeze and MiL deep fries her it herself. Saturday is steak. And so it goes, like clockwork. They buy massive sacks of potatoes from the local farm shop just for the two of them and they use them all. Pasta and rice don't figure; the only rice FiL acknowledges is Ambrosia Creamed.They tend their own vegetable plot in their tiny back garden and their carrots really, totally taste like carrots ought to; their radishes are hotter than the sun. 

They aren't keen on immigrants. I think this is not because they are actually racists, more something that is typical of their age group (70s), and because they have seen their local area change dramatically in recent years (high Asian population). That said they live in a street which does a very good street party (although no word on a Diamond Jubilee one which is a shame, I'd trade our Sunday lunch there Jubilee weekend for going to one). All ethnicities come together and FiL's Daily Mail streak vanishes.

They even attended the gathering that Julio and Georgio from around the corner (from the pink and lime green painted house) held to celebrate the marriage of their cats, Prince Lupin and Princess Petunia Sophia. There was a laminated order of service and everything. 

Sometimes FiL is Alf Garnett and I play Una Stubbs. He's far right, I am somewhat left. We do not always see eye-to-eye. He's dogmatic, and stubborn. He always think he's right. R and I do not always agree. It's caused a few ructions. But he's mellowing now I reckon, particularly since stomach surgery he had in February, after never, ever , being ill.

They drive me mad sometimes. Sundays at their house is mind numbingly boring. 

But they are wonderful warm loving caring people who treat me like their daughter and I can be open, honest and rely on them in a way I no longer can with my own dad in particular.

So much as it frustrates me to come home and find them here, I hope that I find them here for many years to come. 

Summer Breeze .. Makes Me Feel Fine...

This wonderful weather makes me feel like a different person. A happy, confident person, who wants to embrace life (while listening to her 101 Summer Songs CD ). 


It also makes me think about all the fabulous trips I have had abroad, where the weather was glorious and the sky awesomely blue and cloudless and how very lucky I am to have had so many opportunities to travel.


The first time I ever flew I had just graduated and was heading to Italy. As the plane took off I was listening to Whitney Houston's Love Is A Contact Sport. It's a track that means a lot to me to this day  - two decades later.


This weather makes my mind wander to sunnier climes and places I have been. I'm not an adventurous person by any means, but I love the idea of travelling. I say 'the idea' because I am useless at it. I once got a nosebleed just getting to Gatwick Airport (there was a lot of traffic and I thought we were going to miss the plane, OK?). 


When the weather's like this, I sit in the sun, fire up the iPod with her Summer playlist, and think of 'far away places with (sometimes) strange sounding names'.


Just a few memories ... 


The Bay of Naples. Having walked through the Quartieri Spagnoli we finally reached Santa Lucia and its fabulous view across the Bay with Vesuvius looming over us, still living. We ate pizza in its birthplace. In central Naples we ran across Piazza Garibaldi because our lives depended on it. The heat and the noise and the buzz of the place (bonkers!) will stay with me for a very very long time...

...as will the beauty of Sorrento looking out on the Med, high on the Amalfi coast. Drinking Limoncello in a bar watching two toddlers -boy and girl - play out a love story from 'Please play (go out!) with me' to 'It's over' without saying a word was priceless.


...Venice at twilight as the lamps light up and you get a huge sense of history, and feel that nothing has changed there, not in centuries...


...Ibiza Town after dark -I wish I could bottle its beauty and its vibrancy  ...


...the Canary Islands - where I have spent my happiest hours

 ... my first sight of la Sagrada Familia which literally made my jaw drop ...

...held up in a tram jam in HK - the driver leaning out of his window, happily eating a tray of noodles... dinner at the the Revolving '66 with a dessert that included dry ice...


...the cable car to Sentosa Island, Singapore. I apologise to the couple I freaked out by making it sway unnecessarily as I tried to take photos...


and...Paris ...the wedding cake on the hill - the Sacre Coeur - in the shadow of which , having dinner in Artist's Square, where twenty years ago this Summer, I was proposed to and I accepted.


There's so much more to say. I have been very lucky. Sometimes lately though I feel very sad that these adventures might just be all over and far, far behind me. It's likely I will never fulfil my dream of visiting New York City, or see the Golden Gate Bridge, or sun myself in the Maldives. 




But at least in the meantime I have a shedload of happy memories to keep me going.

Another Chance To Read ..

This was first published at Pulp Metal Magazine in September 2010. I was so excited that my first ever submission was accepted, still am. so here it is again. 

So. It’s 1979. The Boomtown Rats don’t care for Mondays, and Joe Jackson can’t believe she’s really going out with him. (She is, Joe, mate, sorry). It’s Summer. I have never been away from my own bed for more than two nights before. And I am faced with a week in a tent on my Uncle’s smallholding on the Isle of Sheppey.

I have an empty sweet jar saved from last year’s day trip to Margate, so I re-fill it with humbugs and sherbet lemons. Probably a)not a good mix and b) not a good idea as we are having quite a hot spell and they are all stuck together before we even leave the house.

On top of this, I have had a week of angst, because ITV have gone on strike and The Streets of San Francisco isn’t on. Now, cop shows with Karl Malden in them aren’t usually my thing, but I have developed a crush on the young bloke in it who replaced Michael Douglas. I particularly like it when someone shoots him. To this day I am not sure what that says about me as a 12 year old.

But anyway: the strike is a consolation, because we will have no TV in the week to come; nothing but a battery powered radio for company in our patch of grass. Although there’s only so much Simon Bates you can take in one morning.

Well. I have packed my (not yet un-PC) beloved golliwog doll (I can’t sleep without my Golly), the aforementioned boiled sweets, there’s five whole pounds (in one pound notes) in my purse, and I’ve got my diary, and my copies of I-Spy Hedgerows and I-Spy The Stars, and a pencil. I’m all set.

Our car – don’t remember which one of the many my Dad got through – is duly loaded up with so much kit that Dad can’t see out of the back window.

To get to Kent from Essex we had of course, to go first through the old Dartford toll tunnel. This was quite the adventure. A tunnel. Thousands of feet below the Thames, under tonnes of thick mud. Scary. And Dad had convinced us that if any of the car windows were open we would all die instantly from carbon monoxide poisoning.

I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen the Isle of Sheppey Seventies style. Or at all, come to that. Lots of sheep on the marshland there in those days. Not a lot else. Don’t suppose much has changed; don’t really know, I haven’t been back since 1982.

Having met Uncle John in the car park of the Leysdown Greene King pub, we now have access to the site, and a tent which Dad and John (my Mum’s lovely brother,who died sadly too soon in a rancid Medway hospital in 2002) spend a worryingly long time trying to put up.

I have no confidence in this whole venture.

But at this point in my life I am still stoic. And to be fair, the evening we spend down at the pub is fun. My cousin Joanne is there, she’s two years younger than me but much more streetwise (she lives in the East End proper).We have to sit in the beer garden and are allowed shandy but Dad says if anyone asks we have to deny it’s ours. We sing Anita Ward’s Ring My Bell. All is well.

John, Aunt Else, and Jo go home, and we walk back to the tent. I have never seen a sky so dark, so devoid of light pollution. I’m a bit scared. Dad, who rarely drinks, has had a few ales and is rambling about how we are probably all just bacteria in a Petri dish anyway. I look up at that galaxy full of stars and nearly wet myself.

Then Dad trips over a tent peg. I can see the sparks from his lit pipe flying into the dark night air even now.

Somehow we get to bed. I have never before been in a sleeping bag. My patient Mum is soft and soothing. So somehow (with Golly’s help, and possibly that half of a half of shandy’s) I fall asleep.

Much as I hated camping, those mornings were wonderful. Fresh and dewy. The sound of the birds. The scent in the clear blue air. Every kid should poke their head through the zip in a tent at some time in their childhood. Fact.

So. Where we are staying is really quite pretty, and wow, there’s a view across to the Estuary! Close by there is a Hi-de-Hi style holiday camp. We know this because we can hear the loud announcements. ‘The Blue Lagoon Is Now Open For All Campers’. Gosh.

As we have no access to the Blue Lagoon we head into Sheerness, the island’s largest town. There’s a lido there, open air swimming pool. I love it, despite the grey weather. My Mum hates it, terrified of water she is, bless her, even in two foot six of it. Mind you, she’s not so tall. I take after her in that way, but at least I can swim. But she gets in anyway, and tries not to to drown.

Before lunch (which Mum will make on a calor gas thingy back at the smallholding) we wander along the seafront. And then I see it.

The wreck.

In the Thames estuary there is to this very day, a shipwreck. It sits there, in open water, its mast above the river. As we walked along the seafront we couldn’t fail to see it. And of course Dad had an answer.

“See that?” says Dad, “That’s full of dynamite. If that ignites it will take this whole island and half of the south east of England with it. And that could happen Any Time. Maybe tonight.”

Thanks, Dad.

So. That night it started to rain. I’m trying to settle to sleep. In comes Dad.

“Don’t touch the sides of the tent,” he says. “It will make them tear and you’ll get wet. Night night.”

I know he loves me, he does , but, he’s not one to sugar a pill is he ? I now think that if I move even a centimetre the tent is going to burst : but worse than that – I know without a doubt that we’re all getting blown up by a WW2 boat.

And that is why I hate camping.

Footnote.

The SS Richard Montgomery sank in August 1944. To this day it sits in an exclusion zone off Sheerness. It is, and I quote, ‘a timebomb’

Normal Service Will Be Resumed As Soon As Possible...

I'm still here, dear reader(s). 


Circumstances both within and without my control have conspired to block in turns, my blogging desire and ability in the last two weeks or so. It's scary how much I rely on technology.


I was already at boiling point at the end of April but ... by May Day Bank Holiday Monday I had an absolute mental meltdown. 


The long weekend would, I had promised myself, be an oasis of calm . Boys out doing petrol head stuff at Brands Hatch. Teen at on/off/on/off (like a bloody light switch) boyfriend's house. Just ME at home. 


Somehow it didnt work out like that. I got myself into a right - as we say in these parts- two and eight. 


Everything seemed hopeless. I felt more alone than I can put into words. When you are deeply darkly unhappy it isn't fun or interesting to even long standing friends and I say that with no blame to anyone; it is boring.Who wants to be around someone who cries all the time and takes no pleasure in anything? I don't like myself when I'm that way , why should anyone else ? 


By the evening the Monday bank holiday I had pretty much lost the plot.
I looked back at Twitter to see what nonsense I had been sending out in cyberspace but really only found this:

what is like to feel normal ? answers on a postcard please, as they used to say. so tired of being in this endless lost world of worry :-(

To those who responded to me with virtual hugs - you know who you are - I am very very grateful. I have an involuntary tendency to push people away. Psycho babble would suggest it's a fear of getting hurt. It's also quite lonely at times. I'm rarely alone, I love being on my own, but when things descend into loneliness it's no fun.


Coupled with the very practical worries of day to day living it was all to put it simply,'a bit much'.  


Then on Tuesday morning I booted up the 4 month old fully virus protected Samsung laptop, went on to Twitter to send a message - and was promptly confronted with the Blue Screen of Death. 


Laptop is due out of techy hospital tomorrow so I'll no longer have to use this steam powered yet trusty Acer and I'll be back in business. 


I also broke the iron but let's not get too upset about that one.


As I type , Katie Piper, the model who had acid thrown in her face, is speaking about surviving, and making me feel very small. What she's saying is humbling. You take what life throws at you and you either crumble or you pick up that (albeit deflated) ball and you run with it.


But the odd meltdown on the way is,for me, inevitable.


'Normal' service will be resumed asap.


Thanks for listening. 

A Musical Interlude...

My iPod and I had an idea for a blog post yesterday as we walked to work together. 

"Sue," said my (still un-named) iPod. "How about putting me on Songs/Shuffle and then blogging about the first five tracks that come up? And here's the thing: you have to be honest about the tracks I randomly select. No skipping over rubbish songs to hide your shame, either. What do you think?"

I thought this might be a fun idea (for me at least.) 

So here they are.

#1 Orange Juice/Rip It Up.

As soon as this track started I was transported back to the Lyceum in London in the early 80s. I was under the impression that it had been demolished but a quick Google proves it is very much still standing and the current venue for The Lion King. 

I was at the Lyceum with my mates for the Capital Radio Junior Best Disco In Town in aid of Help A London Child weekend. It was 29th May 1983, I know this because the words 'Lyceum Disco' are in my Letts Pocket Diary for that year. I had even used fountain pen. I also noted that the number 1 record that week was Candy Girl by New Edition. 

Introduced by Gary Crowley we saw a few 'live' acts (in so far as they actually turned up), none of whom I recall except Wham! who mimed, but we didn't care. They were selling cheap calendars to raise money for the charity so we bought some and during Rip It Up we did exactly that with them. Rock 'n Roll eh ? 

We did a lot of running round the West End in those days, hunting autographs and semi-stalking Gary Kemp. My parents thought it was a waste of study time and it probably was, but the confidence it gave me on the Tube system was priceless. 

Lead singer of Orange Juice Edwyn Collins had a brain hemorrhage (from which he is now recovered) in 2005. He could apparently say only four things at first: Yes, No, his wife's name, and "The possibilities are endless."

Good choices for few words I think. 

#2 Ultravox/Vienna

Funny this should be two in the list because that was its highest chart position in 1981. Fabulous track. Sweeping almost orchestral synthesisers on a grand scale and epic moody monochrome video to match it. Video as an art form was still in relative infancy then, so to see such a lavish piece of mini-film was quite the treat. To this day I have no idea why pencil moustachioed mini Midge Ure was in a trench coat in the Austrian capital, walking in the cold air, but it looked and sounded great.

It was famously, kept from the number one slot (which really meant something  in those days) by novelty record Shaddap Your Face by cod-Italian Joe Dolce.

All together now: Wassa matter you ? ...

#3 Joss Stone/Fell in Love with a Boy

I'll be honest, I didn't even know this track was on my songs list. I tried to listen to Joss thanging and twanging for the whole 5 minutes 43 seconds but I failed. I'm not sorry.

#4 Andrew Gold/Never Let Her Slip Away

I have mixed feelings about this one. It reminds me of a sad time for our family when this track was poignant but that's too private and painful for a whimsical piece like this.

A neat little pop song this, puts me in mind of hearing it on the radio on a Sunday morning, probably on Noel Edmonds' stint in that slot in the late Seventies. Dad would sit smoking his pipe listening to the stereo and reading the Sunday paper while Mum prepared a roasted Sunday lunch. I love the way he sings of school-day afternoons and Romeo and Juliet. Sweet, and yes, poignant.

#5 Patsy Gallant/From New York to LA

Yes,this track aside, I have never heard of her either. A lyrical, fast paced disco track again from the late Seventies, I'm surprised Rachel Berry hasn't sung this on Glee. I used to sit alone in our front room on Sunday evenings listening to the Top 40 hosted by Simon Bates, with my fingers on play/record on the in-built cassette at the ready. I taped this one more than once I think, I often did that. If the track you liked had gone up the chart that week it was worth taping it again because they'd probably play more of it, or talk less over it. 'Home Taping Is Killing Music ' they used to say. Hardly. 

I have included From New York to LA on my iPod's 'NYC' Playlist; one day I'll make it there...<sighs>

<presses pause>

Susie 'acquired musical taste' Sue

x

Comfort Viewing....

Biscuits.


Chocolate biscuits.


Bourbons. Hob Nobs. Jaffa Cakes. Maryland cookies. Shortbread. You know what I mean. I'm sure the list of biscuits and cookies is endless. 
I'm not that fussed about them to be honest. Don't get me wrong, I'll be the first to open that lovely tin of Cadbury covered Christmas biccies in the staff room. I've even been known to enjoy a warm Millie's giant cookie on occasions (well, a bite or two anyway). 
But...I've never been one to devour a whole or even half packet in one go like so many people I know. 
I'm not passing judgement, don't get me wrong. Give me a bottle of Pinot Grigio and I can polish that off no trouble. It's just that when it comes to baked confectionery I am very controlled. One or two chocolate digestives will do me fine, thanks, and back the packet goes in the tin. 
It's the same with boxes of chocolate. I am a bit of a chocolate snob and only really enjoy the 70% cocoa stuff ("Because," suggests R,"It's bitter, like you.") 
And yet recently I have had to discard a box of Godiva (from sis in law) and I fear the Hotel Chocolat Champagne Truffles & Oysters will soon follow it into the bin. I only ate about 4 from each box. And it's not because I didn't love them, it's simply that I'm not that fussed.


What I gorge on isn't chocolate, oh no. It's telly.
Not all telly, you understand. Just certain shows with which  I fall in love and given the opportunity, with whom I will spend as much time as possible, particularly when I am low, stressed, or depressed. I don't comfort eat; I comfort view. 


I imagine it started with my obsession with programmes when I was growing up that transported me and my imagination away from my small town and my struggles at school. Back then we didn't have a VCR and there were only three channels so favourite shows were like gleaming gems in the darkness. Blake's Seven (series 3) aside I would usually only really watch shows that featured a nice handsome young man on whom I would develop a crush. The re-runs of The Sweeney in the early 80s resulted in a now embarrassing crush on the young Dennis Waterman and some fantasy stories  involving Det Sgt Carter & a Mary Sue (Google it!) written in my Superdrug Reporter's Notebook (had the Internet existed my 13 year old self would probably have put it on FanFiction.net).


Moving on in time I first realised I had a comfort viewing problem  when despite owning the DVD boxed set of all ten seasons of Friends I would still insist on watching it on T4 or E4 or wherever it popped up. 


"You've got this on DVD!" my husband and/or children would complain. And I would reply, always the same way, "But it's not like watching it live!" 


Could I be any more addicted ? 


But they were always there, and they were a constant, those six characters; never changing; there was a solace to be had there. They never let me down. I knew Chandler and Kathy would split up but I always rooted for them. I knew Rachel would get off the plane. I knew them better than I knew myself at times. When my daughter was in hospital following a major operation I would watch the re-runs on E4 and it was something from the normal world while in the bubble of morphine and catheters and checking BP that I could cling to. Comfort viewing at its finest.*
I think that's why the final ever episodes of Friends and to a lesser extent, Frasier (the spin off from one of my 80s favourites, Cheers ) were so poignant. Finally things had changed. Tme to move on.
Except it wasn't was it? I could return to the beginning, to the fresh starts, everything was possible for those characters all over again. Rachel in her rain soaked wedding dress; Frasier rolling his eyes as he took reluctant delivery of his disabled dad and his horrible armchair. 


Since the London digital switchover, I have access to all the channels! So the comfort viewing has extended to The Big Bang Theory on E4 (all together now - We Built The Pyramids!) .
I care about those characters. Even Wolowitz. But mostly Sheldon.
He's not crazy. His mother had him tested. 

But my number one Comfort View over these difficult last three months or so has been a home grown series. I suspect the fact that like me, it has Essex roots , is a factor, but not wholly. The writing is genius if you just listen to the flow of the dialogue:it's Gavin and Stacey, which ended in 2009.


I honestly don't know where to start to describe how much I love this show. There is so much in it that really is my extended family. Mick's lamb. Christmas Day sharing out the presents after lunch. The Indian meal ("I ordered it - it's mine!") . I could go on (I won't). So much sweetness and affection between the characters it never fails to charm me. I know all the words. I know all the characters. And they are constant. And there's a comfort in that constancy and that's why I love it. It's why I return to it time and again. For that sense of sometimes discordant family; but it's always all right in the end. 


And that's why I love to comfort view.


Susie 'Tell Me Tomorrow I'll Wait By the Window for You' Sue 


x


*If you look hard on FanFiction.net there still exists my 23,000 word Friends story. It's patchy but not bad in places. I'll finish it one day.

Sometimes I'm Waving

April is the cruellest month, according to T S Eliot, and this one's certainly been a contender for that title. 


It's been the tightest month money-wise we've ever known. I began the month in an exceedingly despondent mood (being off work actually didn't help; too much time on my hands)  but as we've hurtled towards May I have started to feel in control. Which is strange because having no money to fall back on would , a year ago, have made me feel very frightened indeed.


As it happens I've been extremely resourceful. Oh, and point of order, my local Tesco - I know when you bump up a price 20p in one week only to reduce it 21p the next and claim it as part of your Big Price Drop promotion ! I'm watching you. 
I've discovered that Value pitta breads at 20p for 6 are very tasty toasted. That gammon steaks are 2 for £1 and lightly grilled are rather nice. That the jars of value pasta sauce (39p) taste the same when mixed in penne pasta as the more expensive alternatives (yes, I could make my own but tins of chopped tomatoes are 36p anyway and after a long day at work I'm not in the mood). That 49p round lettuce and 20p coleslaw still tastes good as long as it's fresh. That potatoes at £1.69 for 5kg still make good roasties in 39p lard.
I'm using all that stuff I've had in my store cupboard til it's empty. The cous-cous and the seasonings and the linguine, and trying to use them inventively. It's a challenge.
These are the days when I am waving at you from the pull of the tide as I attempt to swim to the shore.


Then there are the days when I am actually drowning and no matter how hard I try to convey it, no-one realises. That's when I feel most alone. 


It is Depression Awareness Week. 


I first wondered if I had a problem when I was 17. I did not leave the house at that age over Christmas and New Year for three whole weeks. My mum was embarrassed by me, I know she was. I recall her telling me, Mrs Wotsit down the road asked how you were because she hasn't seen you and I said, well, she does go out sometimes ...  (I didn't). I couldn't cope with my changing world. I hated my school. The security of childhood had gone. 
But I had been brought up to face problems and not to circumvent them. So I soldiered on over the years, until I reinvented myself when I finally started a job after University and met my husband. 


It was having babies that brought the whole damn lot crashing back down on me. I  clawed it back after Teen was born eventually, even though there were long isolated lonely periods where I was at home alone and knew no-one in the neighbourhood except Maria from next door-but-one who was very very kind and I to whom I very am grateful to this day.


It was in 2001 that I finally realised this couldn't go on . 


I had returned to work after the birth of Boy when he was just 20 weeks old. I was already down to size 8 by the time he was 11 weeks old. I went to a new building (old -female!-boss didnt want me back -too hormonal)a new post, new computer system, new people, new everything. On my first day there was no-one there to say hello. The boss was on leave. No-one knew what to do with me. My lovely friend Kathy (and I still count her as one to this day even though I hardly see her any more) took me under her wing and tried to explain the system to me. We were were promptly berated by a nasty middle manager for 'talking too much' when there was a senior manager in our midst. I was denied training and only received it eventually because my former manager (feeling guilty no doubt) allowed me back to the West End office I had loved being in so much, for a week, to get some.


It was two weeks before Christmas 1999. I was rock bottom. I had left the office in Shaftesbury Avenue where I had been training and passed the (now gone) All Bar One on Cambridge Circus. Through the window I saw my former colleagues gathered around a low table, drinking, laughing, a team, like I had once been part of. I stood outside the window and looked in. I willed them to notice me; to smile and wave and gesture, "Come and join us!" but they didn't.


I remember trying to put up the tree that year. Teen was just five. I am ashamed to say I literally couldn't cope with dressing that tree in 1999 and I hope she doesn't remember what a state I was in. I was a snotty, tearful mess. You shouldn't put a five year old through that. 


It took nearly two years to go to my GP. He was very good. Gave me pills and sent me on my way.


A decade on I no longer take them, haven't in ages. I do not say this a good thing; it's just a decision I made. I have removed-for the time being anyway-the cause of much of my current unhappiness. I am not saying I shouldn't take those happy pills but I have identified the source of the recent depression, and taken control of my life. 


And that's good.


So for the time being - I'm not drowning - I'm waving. 


Susie (Both Sides Now) Sue


x

'Beliebers' & Why I Have Decided to Forgive Them.

I can't drive.


Actually, scrub that, I can drive, in that I know how (sort of), just not legally on my own, and certainly not safely, accompanied or otherwise.
Like Dr Sheldon Cooper, I don't drive.


As luck would have it I have free transport to work each and every day. I walk. 


It's just over a mile. When the kids were younger I used to have to walk back and forth for hours (I once covered 8 miles in one day). I honestly don't have a problem with that , although there are times I feel like it's a huge waste of time when I could be home and getting on with the ironing.
To pass the time, usually in the mornings, I listen to my lovely shiny electric pink iPod Nano.


This isn't always a good idea, as I tend to suffer from bad ears and I suspect it lessens my hearing ability these days ... but what the heck. Trust me, if you want to walk fast, a quick burst of Chelsea Dagger will have you quick stepping down the road. 


Anyway this morning I put the trusty Nano (she really needs a name after all our time together) on and there he was, on Songs/Shuffle: Donny. 


Donny Osmond.


I was barely at infant school when I first saw him on Top of the Pops . Absurdly young I admit. Before the advent of videos there existed promo films and there he was in this one, reclining in a field of daffodils, singing Puppy Love . And he was singing it to ME. 

Before long my infatuation extended from Donny and his cover versions of songs from the Fifties, to his beautiful long haired sister Marie (Oh how I wished I was named Marie and not Susan!) and eventually to a real appreciation of the talent of the Osmond brothers, which I feel is overlooked to this day.


The Osmonds were a band of brothers , under the iron rule of their father, who had a real collective singing talent, possibly nurtured by their religious roots. The youngest brother soon emerged as the star.


Remind you of another group from around the same time ? 

I joined the Osmonds fan club. I knew their hobbies ( Donny loved electronics; Wayne flew Cessnas). I knew their favourite colours and appreciated the inserted colours in their flared trousers in the Love Me For A Reason appearance on Top of the Pops. 

It was deeply uncool to like The Osmonds, and even between the ages of 4 and 8 I understood this. The advent of The Bay City Rollers (YUCK!) only served to undermine their brilliance. 

The Osmonds wrote and produced their own tracks, I don't think many people realise that. I challenge you to listen to  Let Me In without shedding a tear. 

I stopped listening long before I left Primary School but I never forgot. I never forgot the vinyl LPs I got for Christmas, or the smell of that very first cassette recorder and the tape of the Love Me For A Reason album and the associated huge excitement on my birthday (Christmas Eve). 

 Which is why I guess, I still have an Osmonds playlist on my iPod. 

But there is also this... 

Imagine a wholesome all-American boy. A wide, perfect, white toothed smile. Great skin. Floppy hair across his forehead. A pure unbroken voice singing sweet but rhythmic love songs to pre-pubescent girls.... 


That was Donny back in the day. 


That's Justin Bieber now. 


Imagine if Twitter had been invented back then. Osmond fans would have been trending every little detail of Donny's life and no doubt having on-line spats with the Roller's Tartan Army. 


I've been as guilty as the next person of judging young Justin's ability and so on but ... given my Donny crush, and Osmond-mania, and all that went with it, who am I to judge ? Plus ca change, as the French say, plus c'est la meme chose....


But I bet he doesn't look as good as Donny still does when he is 54.


Susie (One Bad Apple Don't Spoil A Whole Bunch Girl) Sue
x


PS if anyone knows where I can find the Osmonds track Gabrielle I'll be very grateful...

Mommie Dearest

It was the first day back at school on Monday for Boy, Teen and also me, as I work as a Teaching Assistant at our local primary school.I'm kept pretty busy; not a moment of my day is unaccounted for. I've been pulling a 30 hour week recently for extra money rather than the 24 hour one I have been used to (no more afternoons home alone!) and it's proved pretty tiring.But on the upside  no two days are really the same when you work with kids and you are never short of a challenge.


That aside, this blog is about my daughter and our recently somewhat strained relationship.


As I've indicated, Peter's been regularly robbed lately to pay Paul, and we've had to cut back. I've been buying shop or value brands rather than named ones, for example - although to be honest haven't notice any real differences. We've had lots of pasta dishes (love that cheap penne !) and I've been using up what's in the store cupboard. We still eat pretty well, and given that I have to cook two sessions (kids starving by 5:30 - R not home til 7pm) I think I do OK. 


But oh the guilt that I cant provide all the things Teen wants at the moment. Or the things Boy probably wants or even needs but is too quiet to tell me about.


Teen is working exceptionally hard for her imminent AS Level exams and I applaud her for it. But it feels to me at the moment that every time she deigns to speak to me it's simply to ask for money, or to complain.
Don't get me wrong. She's wonderful, beautiful, talented creature. But it's as if when it comes to me, her mum, she has a blind spot. I cease to be a human being. I'm actually Joan Crawford. I may as well be screaming, "TINA! Get me the axe!" every time I speak to her.

I veer between patient and really rather cross with her. Which sometimes prompts the response "Mother, are you bipolar?"
Things came to a head (of hair) at the weekend. I was doing the usual weekend shop (micro managing the cash as I shopped - adding 68p to 89p to £1.19 in your head while dodging people you don't particularly want to stop for 20 minutes to chat to isn't as easy as you might think) and I was under orders to get her some hair dye. She likes to be blonder than she actually is. Now I knew that her roots had grown out, so I purchased root touch up.
Mistake.
Boyfriend was due within hours having been absent at Centerparcs in Belgium for a week and this was all wrong !!! 

After a heated exchange involving the whys and wherefores of her not being able to do the exchange for a Clairol SB1 instead of me due to still being in her PJs, I reluctantly headed back to the supermarket. Doors may have been slammed.
I look at the colourant; I haven't brought any money with me and the colourant is way more expensive.
I get home again, really hacked off now, and the boys are making noises about lunch. I'm a tad stressed and have a theatrical flip-out before heading back to the supermarket for a third time.


"DO I HAVE MUG WRITTEN ON MY FOREHEAD?" I storm on my return.
The boys are laughing at me. I'm not very big, 5'1" and size 8-10 so I look a bit silly when I'm trying to be menacing. 
"WELL SHE CAN DO IT HERSELF!!!" I say, passing her the box. 
"Fine!" she says, and disappears to the bathroom.


Things are frosty.


Ten minutes later...


"Muuuuuuum...I don't know what to doooooo...." 


So I end up colouring her hair for her, even though she is 5 inches taller than me and I can hardly reach unless she sits down. We find an uneasy truce. 


She disappears to her boyfriend's home and I don't see her again until Sunday night, by which time she has missed my large and lavish  roast beef dinner. She takes my disappointment for anger and we're back to square one.


I suppose what I am saying is that I am intensely proud of this unique feisty individual, who sings like an angel and understands science and maths and music scores that all look like Greek coupled with Sanskrit to me, is confident and beautiful and is living her life to the fullest in a way I was too scared to do at her age. 


But ... I just wish she'd stop and think- maybe mum's upset because she's frustrated ? because she can't lavish money on me when she'd love nothing more? 
Maybe the fault is with me - maybe I put too much emphasis on money? 


Anyway. She's upstairs now Skyping the boyfriend having come home and voluntarily done a mock maths paper.


I can't complain about her, truth be told. But blimey, it isn't easy. 


Mommie Dearest
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0082766/


S
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