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He does not visit home often. So it is a big deal when he does. On Tuesday as I waited for him to arrive, I actually got butterflies at the thought of seeing him again. The last time he came was over a year ago for Mum's Ashes Ceremony.
There has been a week of fuss and phone calls about his travel arrangements. Here is a man who has travelled the globe on business and pleasure but cannot navigate a journey from London to the frozen North. We are asked to provide the times of trains, weather reports and advice on what to wear. It amuses myself and my husband and irritates my Dad.
Needless to say, we arrange for him to be collected from the station. He arrives at the new house and, despite himself, is impressed. It shows on his face. How have they managed this?
On arrival we chat pleasantly enough and then he goes into Dad's annexe for some one on one time with him. The children arrive home and are so excited that their absent Uncle is present for once. Just like an absent parent, he is idolized from afar and tends to turn up with pressies to impress. This time, they don't even notice that he has brought nothing for them. Such is the cult of the absent Uncle.
Teas and dinners are had. Stories are read and children are bathed and put to bed. Two of my three accept this willingly enough following their normal routine. My oldest is up and downstairs like a yo-you wanting to be a grown-up and sensing a party atmosphere in the making.
My husband is dispatched to the local off licence for supplies. Many bottles of good red and white wine. It feels odd to be drinking out of crystal glasses rather than our "from Asda cheap and cheerful so if they break it doesn't matter" equivalents.
It is a night to talk of memories as the wine flows freely. I know my brother's flaws but it is very hard not to enjoy his excellent company. He is a great raconteur and has stories to die for having mixed with Royalty and celebrities in his time. He has "insider knowledge" on many famous names through the work he did not to mention his spell in The Priory a few years ago.
We recall in vivid detail as if we are reliving the moments
1. My flamboyant Uncle Lawrence - a tap dancer, gay, an alcoholic, an accountant, a laugh, a buyer of magical gifts. So many stories of party nights with his friends at his Shepherd's Bush flat and of joint holidays.
2. The time I was cross with same said Uncle so waited until he was in bed in a gin-sozzled state and then dropped a Family Bible on his head.
3. The time my brother threatened to cut my throat when I would not wash up at a family party. So I went into the room where all my parents' guests were and told them what he had said. To this day, he feels I was in the wrong and not him.
4. The time my other brother was posing on a sun-lounger and I went up and poured a bucket of cold seawater over him.
There are many other stories, some that are reassuring in some way as have been told many times over the years and others that are new and give fresh insights.
The next day, I am told by my Dad that both myself and my husband fell asleep in our chairs between 4 and 5 in the morning. Both Dad and my brother laugh and say we lack stamina.
How we managed to dress, breakfast and dispatch three young children to school the next morning I will never know.
Thursday, 7 October 2010
Friday, 1 October 2010
I am boring
Did you know just how boring I am?
I am really, really boring.
I don't have a valid opinion on anything.
I am a waste of space, a blot on the landscape, an intrusion into other people's good times.
I am hurt and lonely.
It is difficult when the people who know you best don't want to talk to you or spend time with you. You can talk and talk but it is clear there is no interest left. Anyone else but you is good, you are crap.
I want to be appreciated, loved, cherished, something.
My son won't say goodnight to me. My husband says he wants to go to sleep and yet when he was partying with my Dad just minutes ago, he was wide awake. It is me - I bore people.
At school I was the swot - hence boring
At secondary school, I was identified with Margaret Thatcher (wrongly as it happens but since when has that made a difference?) - hence, boring
At college, I was viewed as boring, undesirable, generally not right
At work, bosses hated me for working hard or having ideas with the exception of the enlightened woman-loving boss
I was dumped by the first partner - too boring presumably and traded in for a younger, better-looking model
Netmums contacts who called me crazy and other things
Chrissakes - even my parents dumped me
Why do I keep trusting people only to get kicked in the guts?
And yet, there are voices who tell me otherwise.
A friend who says I have a good heart
Mummy friends who share a laugh online from time to time
A friend who forgives me for an error of judgement
A friend from school who wants to give me a go
My children who always want a cuddle and tell me they love me
My pets
Twitter friends who say my writing serves some sort of purpose or is beautiful, sensitive or other lovely descriptions
Yes, I have had a drink. Yes my darling husband is asleep having told me I am talking bollocks - how very charming! Yes, I still love my new life in the country and will bounce back.
I think, like many women/people, I accept too little sometimes but am too old, knackered and past it to say, hang on a minute, I used to be a feisty, bolshy firebrand and I am worth listening to and if you can't see that, it says more about you than me.
One day this particular worm will turn - watch out
I am really, really boring.
I don't have a valid opinion on anything.
I am a waste of space, a blot on the landscape, an intrusion into other people's good times.
I am hurt and lonely.
It is difficult when the people who know you best don't want to talk to you or spend time with you. You can talk and talk but it is clear there is no interest left. Anyone else but you is good, you are crap.
I want to be appreciated, loved, cherished, something.
My son won't say goodnight to me. My husband says he wants to go to sleep and yet when he was partying with my Dad just minutes ago, he was wide awake. It is me - I bore people.
At school I was the swot - hence boring
At secondary school, I was identified with Margaret Thatcher (wrongly as it happens but since when has that made a difference?) - hence, boring
At college, I was viewed as boring, undesirable, generally not right
At work, bosses hated me for working hard or having ideas with the exception of the enlightened woman-loving boss
I was dumped by the first partner - too boring presumably and traded in for a younger, better-looking model
Netmums contacts who called me crazy and other things
Chrissakes - even my parents dumped me
Why do I keep trusting people only to get kicked in the guts?
And yet, there are voices who tell me otherwise.
A friend who says I have a good heart
Mummy friends who share a laugh online from time to time
A friend who forgives me for an error of judgement
A friend from school who wants to give me a go
My children who always want a cuddle and tell me they love me
My pets
Twitter friends who say my writing serves some sort of purpose or is beautiful, sensitive or other lovely descriptions
Yes, I have had a drink. Yes my darling husband is asleep having told me I am talking bollocks - how very charming! Yes, I still love my new life in the country and will bounce back.
I think, like many women/people, I accept too little sometimes but am too old, knackered and past it to say, hang on a minute, I used to be a feisty, bolshy firebrand and I am worth listening to and if you can't see that, it says more about you than me.
One day this particular worm will turn - watch out
Domestic Violence - times I have come across it
I have just heard about the wonderful Dogs Trust Scheme where they are looking for foster carers for the pets of women escaping domestic violence. The idea is that someone looks after the puppies or dogs until the woman is in a position to get on her feet, housed and have her pet back. Excellent.
It got me thinking about domestic violence. I think about the issue a fair amount anyway, believing it to be such a loss to the country on all fronts that women (and to be fair some men) are having their spirits knocked out of them and that all too many go on to be badly injured or to die.
I suppose I first heard about domestic violence from my mum. She was a great story-teller and would tell me how her beloved father would hit her mother regularly. She would also sympathise with his plight - returning from fighting for the English in World War 1 and having his leg shot to bits only to find there was no proper Home Rule for Ireland as promised and a life of poverty and struggles to feed a family. So he drank and would return home and beat Sally Ann my grandmother. I never knew her but she sounds like a strong woman. She would put her children upstairs and tell them not to come down or intervene no matter what they heard. So the children remained safe physically but doubtless left home with emotional scars that I believe lasted a lifetime.
Domestic violence was not mentioned at either primary or secondary school in lessons as I remember. Nor do I remember despite my Criminal Law studies it coming up at university either in my studies or in conversations with peers. The great silence we maintain which aids the perpetrators so much. The greatest brains in the country were supposedly at my university - with all those brains on the issue, just think what progress we could make but we don't. More money to make, bigger fish to fry, turning a blind eye.
I do remember walking in the playground with a school-friend in primary school and her telling me of an incident of domestic violence. I seem to remember her being embarrassed and me from my stable background being shocked but not knowing what to do with the information presented. Through renewed contact recently, we both remembered that conversation well although even now, I did not say what I meant and alluded to it. A cop-out. We need to talk more openly about the topic as the first step to committing to tackling it.
When I became an advice worker, I saw a client who had been battered by her husband. I was so naive and could not understand why her fingers were bruised. Why would her husband hit her there? I asked my ex-police officer father who explained how she would hold her hands up to try to protect her head and the man would not stop thumping her so her fingers would be in the way and, hence, bruised. I remember that women clearly - skinny in a denim jacket, blonde, shaking, crushed. I hope she got out.
When I left my ex-boyfriend (my Dad made sure I did the leaving even though the bloke had taken on a younger model and planned on moving in with her with a day or two), I needed housing. Dad encouraged me to say my ex had hit me thinking it would put me up the housing list. I would not do it. Domestic violence is far too important an issue to play games with. Also, whilst my ex was bad in many ways, he did not hit me or if he did, I don't remember.
My husband's ex-wife suffered domestic violence at the hands of her second husband. My husband tried to help her on occasion but she stayed put. I don't think she is a very strong character really and perhaps accepts little or rubbish as her lot in life.
Once, when working on peer supported learning for senior managers, a highly-respected professional woman spoke out about suffering domestic violence for many years and still doing so. They say it crosses all classes, professions and backgrounds. Why is that?
I got a big shock when I got my official adoption file when I turned 40 years of age. As I looked at the scribbly handwriting, the word "violent" sprang from the page. So now I have to incorporate that my birth father may have being a bully, an aggressor, a bastard. I am his daughter, I share his genes, who am I?
I am working with my Dad on his family tree. He brought some old papers through yesterday telling me of how a couple of husbands of his aunties had "belted" them. I was surprised how he described how the wider family had disapproved and tried to help them. This would be in the thirties and forties and I was under the impression that domestic violence was accepted as normal back then.
I don't have any conclusions apart from the fact that we should all challenge domestic violence and be vigilant so that we help where we can. This can be professionally or with family and friends.
Grandma stayed with her husband till her dying day as did my Dad's relations
My school-friend's mum went on to remarry
My clients - who knows? Here's hoping.
My husband's ex-wife - not for me to say, not fair
My birth mum left my birth father - inevitably, I am tempted to romanticize and must face facts
What can we do? I don't have the answers but let's do something.
And don't forget to check out the Dogs Trust website and the Refuge website.
It got me thinking about domestic violence. I think about the issue a fair amount anyway, believing it to be such a loss to the country on all fronts that women (and to be fair some men) are having their spirits knocked out of them and that all too many go on to be badly injured or to die.
I suppose I first heard about domestic violence from my mum. She was a great story-teller and would tell me how her beloved father would hit her mother regularly. She would also sympathise with his plight - returning from fighting for the English in World War 1 and having his leg shot to bits only to find there was no proper Home Rule for Ireland as promised and a life of poverty and struggles to feed a family. So he drank and would return home and beat Sally Ann my grandmother. I never knew her but she sounds like a strong woman. She would put her children upstairs and tell them not to come down or intervene no matter what they heard. So the children remained safe physically but doubtless left home with emotional scars that I believe lasted a lifetime.
Domestic violence was not mentioned at either primary or secondary school in lessons as I remember. Nor do I remember despite my Criminal Law studies it coming up at university either in my studies or in conversations with peers. The great silence we maintain which aids the perpetrators so much. The greatest brains in the country were supposedly at my university - with all those brains on the issue, just think what progress we could make but we don't. More money to make, bigger fish to fry, turning a blind eye.
I do remember walking in the playground with a school-friend in primary school and her telling me of an incident of domestic violence. I seem to remember her being embarrassed and me from my stable background being shocked but not knowing what to do with the information presented. Through renewed contact recently, we both remembered that conversation well although even now, I did not say what I meant and alluded to it. A cop-out. We need to talk more openly about the topic as the first step to committing to tackling it.
When I became an advice worker, I saw a client who had been battered by her husband. I was so naive and could not understand why her fingers were bruised. Why would her husband hit her there? I asked my ex-police officer father who explained how she would hold her hands up to try to protect her head and the man would not stop thumping her so her fingers would be in the way and, hence, bruised. I remember that women clearly - skinny in a denim jacket, blonde, shaking, crushed. I hope she got out.
When I left my ex-boyfriend (my Dad made sure I did the leaving even though the bloke had taken on a younger model and planned on moving in with her with a day or two), I needed housing. Dad encouraged me to say my ex had hit me thinking it would put me up the housing list. I would not do it. Domestic violence is far too important an issue to play games with. Also, whilst my ex was bad in many ways, he did not hit me or if he did, I don't remember.
My husband's ex-wife suffered domestic violence at the hands of her second husband. My husband tried to help her on occasion but she stayed put. I don't think she is a very strong character really and perhaps accepts little or rubbish as her lot in life.
Once, when working on peer supported learning for senior managers, a highly-respected professional woman spoke out about suffering domestic violence for many years and still doing so. They say it crosses all classes, professions and backgrounds. Why is that?
I got a big shock when I got my official adoption file when I turned 40 years of age. As I looked at the scribbly handwriting, the word "violent" sprang from the page. So now I have to incorporate that my birth father may have being a bully, an aggressor, a bastard. I am his daughter, I share his genes, who am I?
I am working with my Dad on his family tree. He brought some old papers through yesterday telling me of how a couple of husbands of his aunties had "belted" them. I was surprised how he described how the wider family had disapproved and tried to help them. This would be in the thirties and forties and I was under the impression that domestic violence was accepted as normal back then.
I don't have any conclusions apart from the fact that we should all challenge domestic violence and be vigilant so that we help where we can. This can be professionally or with family and friends.
Grandma stayed with her husband till her dying day as did my Dad's relations
My school-friend's mum went on to remarry
My clients - who knows? Here's hoping.
My husband's ex-wife - not for me to say, not fair
My birth mum left my birth father - inevitably, I am tempted to romanticize and must face facts
What can we do? I don't have the answers but let's do something.
And don't forget to check out the Dogs Trust website and the Refuge website.
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
A New Flame
It is, of course, very difficult for one person to meet another's total needs.
I have always known that I don't satisfy my husband completely. Recently, he has got close to somebody and formed a new relationship.
They spend a lot of time together out and about. They laugh a lot and share a drink or two. They share a lot of opinions and similar backgrounds. They can talk in a way that me and my husband can't. I have the experience of being in their company and realising that they are having their own private party and have backed off and retreated back home. My husband's new flame is a little older than him but that does not bother him. They are now living together.
Who is this new flame?
My Dad lol!
I have always known that I don't satisfy my husband completely. Recently, he has got close to somebody and formed a new relationship.
They spend a lot of time together out and about. They laugh a lot and share a drink or two. They share a lot of opinions and similar backgrounds. They can talk in a way that me and my husband can't. I have the experience of being in their company and realising that they are having their own private party and have backed off and retreated back home. My husband's new flame is a little older than him but that does not bother him. They are now living together.
Who is this new flame?
My Dad lol!
Monday, 20 September 2010
Joys of the child-free zone
1. I can enjoy talking to a grown-up without interruption
2. I don't have to share my meals
3. I can have a long, hot bath with extra-special bubble bath
4. I can use my electric toothbrush without a child trying to purloin it
5. I can sit in my sunny courtyard and read a book
6. I can take a break from waitressing and refereeing
7. I can tidy up and not see my efforts instantly destroyed
8. There is way less washing up to do
9. My body is my own with nobody pulling at it, ditto my mind and spirit
10.I can talk to someone on the telephone
11. I can blog, work on my novel, twitter, facebook, netmums or whatever takes my fancy
Perhaps the best joy of all is that by the time the taxi delivers my delightful trio of children, I will be relaxed and refreshed. I will feel able to give them proper quality time with homework, story-telling, playing, baking and so on.
And yes, I am sure my need for me time makes me a terrible mother but I know I can be a much better one now that they are all in school and I have time to think, feel and plan.
2. I don't have to share my meals
3. I can have a long, hot bath with extra-special bubble bath
4. I can use my electric toothbrush without a child trying to purloin it
5. I can sit in my sunny courtyard and read a book
6. I can take a break from waitressing and refereeing
7. I can tidy up and not see my efforts instantly destroyed
8. There is way less washing up to do
9. My body is my own with nobody pulling at it, ditto my mind and spirit
10.I can talk to someone on the telephone
11. I can blog, work on my novel, twitter, facebook, netmums or whatever takes my fancy
Perhaps the best joy of all is that by the time the taxi delivers my delightful trio of children, I will be relaxed and refreshed. I will feel able to give them proper quality time with homework, story-telling, playing, baking and so on.
And yes, I am sure my need for me time makes me a terrible mother but I know I can be a much better one now that they are all in school and I have time to think, feel and plan.
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
The School Bus
We have just moved to the country. As my husband needs to do a longish commute to work and I don't drive, this means we are taking advantage of the local authority's free transport schemes for school children.
My 9 year old did not like the idea of travelling on a bus from the start. Then he got hold of the council leaflet which focussed very much on safety so now he is using every frightening statistic to accuse me of child abuse in even thinking about putting him on an evil beast such as a bus.
My 6 year old says it is exciting to go on the bus and loves her bus pass as it is bright and yellow and she can wear it round her neck.
My 4 year old only starts full-time school next week but seems to think that going on the bus will be a huge adventure.
The night before they went on the bus for the first time, I barely slept. I am so used to either walking them to school or waving them off as my husband drives them there. Throughout the night, I fretted away with a really sore solar plexus wondering if I was doing the right thing.
I took them to the bus stop and met a mum there who reassured me that they would be fine. It was good to meet a new friendly face and she made me feel much better about things. The children got on fine and the bus driver told me that I did not have a pass so could not go with them. I was not proposing to but was standing at the door of the bus with a tortured face on clearly.
My 9 year old still thinks I am a terrible mother. He reports that the older children swear and throw tic tacs. Find it hard to focus on what he is saying as I remember my childhood addiction to orange tic tacs.
I get annoyed as he does an emotional job on his sister so that she changes her smile to a tantrum and refuses to go on the bus. I talk her round and remind her about her colourful bus pass. She loves all things colourful and she is soon cheery again.
I remember going on the school bus. I remember getting punched in the stomach by a lad. I remember Mum and Dad moving house to be nearer the school as a result of this incident. All I can say is that if my lot want to enjoy chickens, pigs and life in the country, the school bus is non-negotiable. I will spin it as character-building and may well find a shop that sells tic-tacs.
My 9 year old did not like the idea of travelling on a bus from the start. Then he got hold of the council leaflet which focussed very much on safety so now he is using every frightening statistic to accuse me of child abuse in even thinking about putting him on an evil beast such as a bus.
My 6 year old says it is exciting to go on the bus and loves her bus pass as it is bright and yellow and she can wear it round her neck.
My 4 year old only starts full-time school next week but seems to think that going on the bus will be a huge adventure.
The night before they went on the bus for the first time, I barely slept. I am so used to either walking them to school or waving them off as my husband drives them there. Throughout the night, I fretted away with a really sore solar plexus wondering if I was doing the right thing.
I took them to the bus stop and met a mum there who reassured me that they would be fine. It was good to meet a new friendly face and she made me feel much better about things. The children got on fine and the bus driver told me that I did not have a pass so could not go with them. I was not proposing to but was standing at the door of the bus with a tortured face on clearly.
My 9 year old still thinks I am a terrible mother. He reports that the older children swear and throw tic tacs. Find it hard to focus on what he is saying as I remember my childhood addiction to orange tic tacs.
I get annoyed as he does an emotional job on his sister so that she changes her smile to a tantrum and refuses to go on the bus. I talk her round and remind her about her colourful bus pass. She loves all things colourful and she is soon cheery again.
I remember going on the school bus. I remember getting punched in the stomach by a lad. I remember Mum and Dad moving house to be nearer the school as a result of this incident. All I can say is that if my lot want to enjoy chickens, pigs and life in the country, the school bus is non-negotiable. I will spin it as character-building and may well find a shop that sells tic-tacs.
Monday, 13 September 2010
The Blacksmith's Report
We arrived at our new home to find the previous occupant still in place trying to locate his Siamese cat. Eventually, he had to admit defeat and leave the cat to us so now we have a cat as well as two Labrador dogs. The other animal occupant (so far and excluding the humans in the family) is Mabel the hen.
Life is happy and I feel incredibly revived and in the right place for me at this time. As soon as I saw the house, I knew it was home, somewhere I think I have been looking for or trying to get back to. My daughter drew a picture at school that matches the house before we had seen it and my son said if he won a million pounds, he would buy a house with two annexes and a huge garden. That was weeks before I found this place so I think someone is directing operations (God, my higher self, mum).
I wake up and immediately want to get up. I can't recall the time I last felt that way, so positive about what the day might bring. I go out to my little courtyard area and sit at the table there eating breakfast. Then I visit Mabel and give her some chicken food and let her out of our barn so she can be really "free range". On the first day, she went missing and was returned by a neighbour but now she seems to have taken to us and stays close. She is quite the character and swears at you if you don't let her out on time or put her away for the evening early enough. She lets you stroke her and I just love having a hen to talk to. Sad but true.
I feed the cat and dogs and potter about. This is a great place for taking it easy, walking on the land, picking fruit from the little orchard, inspecting the barn contents and dreaming of what animals to buy next. Weaner pigs seem like a good option and I am weighing up the pros of ducks such as eggs against the mess I understand they make.
Today, it is great as the free school transport has kicked in so I wave them off at 8.15 and don't see them again till 3.45pm. Time to think, plan, dream and potter. Time to read and write, to walk, to listen to music, to be me. Him Indoors and I have even managed the odd hour in the pub learning to be a couple again.
So it's good and I am pleased to be blogging all about it.
I have not missed city life so far although recognise that may come at some point but for now, I am loving my escape to the country.
Life is happy and I feel incredibly revived and in the right place for me at this time. As soon as I saw the house, I knew it was home, somewhere I think I have been looking for or trying to get back to. My daughter drew a picture at school that matches the house before we had seen it and my son said if he won a million pounds, he would buy a house with two annexes and a huge garden. That was weeks before I found this place so I think someone is directing operations (God, my higher self, mum).
I wake up and immediately want to get up. I can't recall the time I last felt that way, so positive about what the day might bring. I go out to my little courtyard area and sit at the table there eating breakfast. Then I visit Mabel and give her some chicken food and let her out of our barn so she can be really "free range". On the first day, she went missing and was returned by a neighbour but now she seems to have taken to us and stays close. She is quite the character and swears at you if you don't let her out on time or put her away for the evening early enough. She lets you stroke her and I just love having a hen to talk to. Sad but true.
I feed the cat and dogs and potter about. This is a great place for taking it easy, walking on the land, picking fruit from the little orchard, inspecting the barn contents and dreaming of what animals to buy next. Weaner pigs seem like a good option and I am weighing up the pros of ducks such as eggs against the mess I understand they make.
Today, it is great as the free school transport has kicked in so I wave them off at 8.15 and don't see them again till 3.45pm. Time to think, plan, dream and potter. Time to read and write, to walk, to listen to music, to be me. Him Indoors and I have even managed the odd hour in the pub learning to be a couple again.
So it's good and I am pleased to be blogging all about it.
I have not missed city life so far although recognise that may come at some point but for now, I am loving my escape to the country.
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