Category: Stuff that just happens

Lots of people don’t like baths. I’ve often heard the excuse that it’s because they don’t like the idea of lying in their own dirt – but this seems a little extreme to me. My theory is that they feel uncomfortable spending too much time confronted by their own, naked body and I fully admit that it can be quite scary. It’s not something we tend to do, especially in Winter. The trick is lots of bubbles and candlelight and settle in for a lovely soak. 

This morning, however, I discovered a drawback: daylight. As I lay there staring my pre-Christmas: ‘I don’t give a shit’ body, swooshing the bubbles around to cover up the worst bits, the sight of the bloat made my mind wander to pregnancy and what if I were pregnant now? Impossible! I hear some of you cry, as partner has had the chop. But no – I know someone who got pregnant, despite her husband having had a vasectomy about 15 years before. He even did a paternity test – you’d want to be sure. Their youngest was just finishing university. Life had moved on. What a dilemma. 

So, as I lay in my bath moving bubbles over curves, I imagined myself being pregnant. I even envisaged the birth, to the point where I remembered that thought at 39 weeks of: I don’t want to go through with this – I found that particularly with my fourth. I thought about the age gap there would be and my age: 46 and how much harder it would be now. Would I parent differently with 18 years of experience under my belt, or would I return to not having a clue about babies? Plus a different dad, a different dynamic and different genes. 

By the time I started thinking about genes, my bath water was losing its wonderful heat and I needed to give my legs and arm pits some attention, ready for the Christmas party season to begin. But I did have time for one last thought: what would I do? Would I keep the baby? 

You see, I’m at that age that I feel I don’t want to return to the disruption and total carnage that youngsters bring to your life. I’m at that age where step children have left home and my eldest is applying for University. I’m at that age where I would be treated with kid gloves by the medical profession, as I would be considered extremely high risk. Yet, I’m still at that age where I could be pregnant. I’m not, but I could be. 

It’s a very frightening thought. It’s a thought I would only have in the bath, naked and staring at my tummy. I pulled the plug and the thought disappeared with the bath water- almost. 

I never used to get people when they said: ‘I loved my holiday, but oh my God it’s so good to be home.’ I’d be the one thinking to myself: you mad bitch! Get over yourself. The phrase: ‘I love sleeping in my own bed’, used to annoy the crap out of me. A bed’s a bed, I’d think to myself. Don’t be so bloody fussy. I went travelling around the World when I was 18 years old, so this probably had a lot to do with my attitude and age…age has a great deal to do with a lot of things.

So, does the fact that every time I now walk in to my house and let out an inward sigh of contentment, mean that I have aged? That sounds like a cheese or a fine wine (note I use the word, ‘fine’). Does it signify a stage in my life when I am content with what I have and I am able to fully appreciate the here and now? Does age bring with it the ability to exhibit mindfulness more readily?

I’ve been thinking a lot about mindfulness recently. At first, the word irritated me. I thought it sounded a bit naff – a bit of a nondescript, hippy word, that just meant what everyone does anyway, without feeling the need to give it a name. However, quite often now I find myself focusing on the present – almost forcing myself to look at the beautiful sun glistening on the frost on our dog walk, rather than tramping along in my wellies, head down, hands thrust in pockets and cold. I find myself really valuing time spent with the girls and I am really enjoying my bed: warmed up by the electric blanket every night now it’s Winter and full of possibilities.

Am I now being more mindful?

Christmas decorations have given the house a new life. Walking in to a room with bright lights flashing on the Christmas tree is good for the soul. Seeing tinsel enveloped around a warm, soft glow gives the heart a much needed lift at this time of year. Add candles and you have instantly created a moment to savour, a place to enjoy. Cost is irrelevant – our decorations are second hand, pre-loved in fact so they bring double the joy.

Home can be home whatever the state of your castle. It’s the memories you create within it that matter. I love candles and wine and so I fill my house with candles and wine. For others it’s cushions and throws and for many it’s just laughter and forgiveness. Every house has a tale to tell and I think that the key to knowing you have made your house your home, is that every time you walk into your house, you inwardly sigh.

My God, life can throw you some curve balls. Your walls could tell a story that would sell like water in the desert on Amazon. But create that space that gives you something back. A house that as much as it absorbs, it releases in endorphins, that every time you walk in to your house you inhale. Endorphins so powerful that they can see through the kids’ toys strewn everywhere and they can see through your cursory wipe. They intoxicate you, so that you feel in a happy place. A place where you feel safe. A place where you can just be.

 

“We must get those ginger shortbread things,” I was heard yelling, as partner did a handbrake turn into the village hall car park, where the weekly WI market is held. Two thoughts had collided a moment previously: it’s Wednesday and I have no food for tea.

Years ago, I lived in the village and was a regular at the Wednesday morning WI. It was a bit like a trip to IKEA: you leave having spent ten times the amount that was planned. I never left that hall with change from a tenner. My ex used to think that the women mugged me of my money, by forcing me to buy their lemon curd. The truth was that in one fell swoop all my needs for that day were fulfilled: tea – including veg and a pud, a jar of marmalade, fresh bread and a bunch of flowers and as we all know, luxuries never come cheap. And by god, the WI isn’t cheap. These markets are not catering for the poor. No, this is pure middle class heaven (oh and by the way – if your only experience of the WI is the film: Calendar Girls, they honestly aren’t selling their produce whilst naked.)

Partner liked the look of a lasagne, but I fancied the fish pie. The joy of the WI is that they do portions for one. I guess this isn’t primarily for couples who can’t agree, but more likely meant for widowers and widows. I checked out who had cooked my fish pie before I allowed partner to hand over the cash. I used to know the name of every cook who sold at this venue and there was one whose shepherd’s pie was a little below par. What a brilliant idea to put the cook’s name on the packaging. The shop chain: ‘Cook’ brazenly stole this idea from the WI ladies. The lady behind the trellis table took our money and scribbled down the purchase in her notebook. A long way from Apple pay, but at least it actually works, unlike my phone or contactless credit card in a shop this morning.

We sprinted over to my favourite table: the bakery section. I’ve honestly been elbowed out the way by an octogenarian here before. We both had our eyes on the Millionaires shortbread and sadly she won. I wanted to shout: ‘bitch’ at her, but I respected the elderly and gave her some credit for her agressive techniques – probably honed during the war. Today, no-one was going to get in my way of the ginger shortbread. Except there wasn’t any…until partner spotted some on a table to one side. “They are reserved” the lady in her pinny said curtly, as she saw us gesticulating towards them. I always wondered why they needed to wear pinnys. It’s as if they still need a legacy on show of their beloved kitchen, where all these treats were produced. I looked around for other old favourites and spied the flapjack. “Ah yes, Mrs Ellis,” I nodded knowledgeably to partner as I read the name on the packaging. “Is she a good one?” he asked, getting into the swing of things here. I pointed over to a lady sitting behind a table: “she’s a legend,” I replied.

I left, ten pounds poorer and feeling quite nostalgic. I worked out that I had first started going to that market when my eldest was about 3. That’s 15 years ago. Mrs Ellis didn’t look a day older sitting behind that same table, selling the same recipe fish pie. She’s saved my bacon on many occasions when I couldn’t be arsed to cook and yesterday was no exception. To Mrs Ellis and all the members of the WI: I salute you and I wonder when you will ever change.

 

 

It’s 7.30pm on a Sunday night and as you smugly tuck your 6 year old into bed, already thinking about wine and sofa, she gazes in to your eyes and utters the words: Mummy, I haven’t done my homework…and with that, your whole world momentarily collapses. In an instant, you turn from calm and happy mummy, into some kind of demented freak, who is now rummaging around in a book bag in the dark, frantically pulling out crumpled spelling sheets, party invites from three months ago and then, yes there it is: the homework. Within seconds you have dragged your bewildered child out of bed and you have her scribbling a picture of a tree on a bit of paper, while you run outside searching for a leaf to sellotape on. And you do it because this will better her chances of success. This homework is essential for her to pass the 11+. Without that picture of a fucking tree, she will not succeed in life!

So now, to add to the parents’ woe, Ofsted have praised an initiative that grades parents from A to D on the support they give their children. You know that time your kid wasn’t in the school play, so you gave it a body swerve? That will get you a D. Turn up at parent’s evenings and you’ll earn yourself an applaudable A, but fail to get to the after school football match and you could slide down to a C. If you are not deemed to be pulling your weight, perhaps you didn’t bake a cake for the last school fair, you may even be called into the head teacher’s office.

Oh yes, a round of applause for the parents who have the most time! Bravo you A stars, go to the top of the class. Meanwhile, others will just hover around a D for the entire year because they work full time and may have lots of kids. Go on – make them feel even more shit about their parenting skills, because lord knows, I’ll bet they really don’t already feel crap enough. I used to feel like an A grader when I managed to get 4 packed lunches ready and the kids out to school with their shoes on – I gave myself bonus points for coats. Now parents may be measured on a school’s criteria.

Most parents don’t have the time or the mental energy for this! Can’t they see that we are all trying our best? “You must try harder, Mrs Longhurst”. Holy crap, I’m not sure I can. I can’t possibly compete with the PTA A listers. I’ve reached capacity and if you push me any further I’m going to have to rebel. What then? Detention? Prepare to explain yourself to the head.

So what is the point? As parents we do our best. We may need some encouragement and the occasional nudge, but we are not kids. We have done our time at being marked at school and I only need one voice telling me every day that, “I must try harder” and that’s my own.

I’d always admired her breasts. Perhaps there was even a little envy. So well rounded and so early – years before mine had woken up. I loved the way they sat in her shiny Marks and Spencer’s bra. I don’t think that I stared and I was conscious that I mustn’t. Yet, I wanted to. I wanted to indulge a little in my awe of them. There was certainly no sexual intent in this. It was pure admiration for something that I didn’t yet have. Something that I knew that I was going to get and I hoped that when I did, they would look just like hers. It was the only real thing that separated us. When we left the swimming pool and squeezed into a changing room together, we were different. Until those gorgeous breasts were packaged up and a t-shirt was pulled over them and a hoodie and then we were the same again – giggling, getting up to mischief, building dens.

Then I heard that she had found a lump. It was Cancer and suddenly we were different once again. We are different, but other friends are now the same. Everyone knows someone. Those two beauties had been invaded by the beast. Now the fairy tale ending is getting the all clear. Being left with a feeling that you are now one of the lucky ones. Lucky? Can’t definitions be strange? The grueling rounds of treatment that sap you into a void, yet they make you feel so lucky for everything you have.

I know she will be lucky. She’s stubborn and strong and that’s a winning combination. Now, I can only hope that we’ll never be the same, but that she will be lucky.

Number 1 friend and I were chatting about some bollocks or other, as is our way and during the course of the bollocks I happened to say: I’m not a feminist. “You what!” she exclaimed. “I’d say you are definitely a feminist!” So that was that.

Except it wasn’t, because of course, it got me thinking. I’ve known my friend for years. She’s that friend that has so much shit on you that you can never, ever fall out. Yet here we were disagreeing on a word. Evidently ‘feminist’ means something slightly different to the two of us. Well, make that three, because a few days later my number 1 New Zealand friend piped up on a Facebook feed in response to me mentioning that word again. ‘Pardon me for jumping in on your conversation, but do you not think you’re a feminist Al?’ Oh crikey, I thought. I really do need to give this one some thought. This basically means talking to partner about it – usually on a dog walk. 

‘So, do you think I’m a feminist?’ I asked him. He thought I was. ‘But I hate that word’, I grumbled. ‘And besides, men often say they are feminists and it just sounds wrong.’

I was clearly struggling with this one. ‘We need a new word,’ I told him. ‘One that can be used by men and women, that doesn’t, as my friend number 1 New Zealand friend said, carry: ‘connotations of being bra burning, staunch, anti-men..when in fact a feminist can just be pro-women.’ She has a PhD in Linguistics, so I decided that she was the person for the job.

A little while later she messaged me: At the moment all my ideas sound like feminine hygiene products

This is my problem too. So now I am looking to a new word: empowerment. Because, you see, I know that I want my daughters to be empowered and I wrote about it in my post: Lionize the nice girl. I want them to have a voice and I know that it’s going to need to be the size of a lion’s roar to get heard. But we mustn’t forget the boys. They need to be empowered too: partly to keep up with the girls and partly because they too are not always equal to others. Take the recent news stories about the sexual abuse suffered by young football players at the mercy of their coach. Where was their voice? Where is the voice of the boy who is being bullied for being different? Where is the voice of the boy who thinks he may be gay? We need to make sure that all our children have a voice.

So, if I am not happy about referring to myself as a feminist, while men are quite happy to call themselves one. If being a feminist is actually as simple as equality for both sexes and if equality for all means ensuring that our kids are empowered, then we definitely need to come up with something more inclusive and encompassing. A word that excludes bigots, racists and homophobes. A word that eschews misogyny and bullies. We need a word that roars.

When we find this word, it will marked as a new turn in history. It will be known as the time when we realised that actually, things work a lot better when there is equality and that the world is a more equal place when everyone has a voice. When we find this word, I will use it.

 

I have just spent an hour clearing up a whole load of mess that didn’t even belong to me. It was fly tipped on to my property, with no regard for my personal space. There are no reprimands to be given, no fines to be doled out, because the culprit is Autumn.

Autumn came late. We were ready for her, but she took her time. Then she arrived in all her glory, like a starlet arriving late to a party, in the most exquisite dress you have ever seen. A mixture of crimson and green, woven together with a golden thread. She brought a chill that doesn’t freeze you – it just wakes you up a little after the dozy warmth of Summer and makes your senses feel alive. Dusty cobwebs were brushed off trusted wellie boots and you discovered that none of them any longer fit.

The leaves fell on plants that were still flowering from Summer, but Autumn didn’t care and nor did we. We just admired the clash of colours that bright pink geranium petals made with oak and sycamore. We scoffed at the red and white cyclamen for sale in hanging baskets that were being touted as a winter treat. Winter? We laughed that two season’s flowers are company, but three would be a crowd.

We didn’t laugh for long, as Winter came. Snow up North? Even the newspapers couldn’t keep up with the chameleon that was the seasons. We scraped the ice from the car in clear view of the huge, pink and purple flowers of the clematis that adorned the trellis and shook our heads in disbelief. Nothing seemed to make sense this year: the garden was merely reflecting political uncertainties. We jumped in the chilly car and carried on.

As I picked up the rubbish that Autumn has left behind this morning, I thought about how things do just carry on. Eventually, time took the edge off the beauty of Autumn. It’s left me with a garden full of leaves, when I don’t even have trees of my own. I want to tidy up before the icy grip of Winter takes hold, but I am looking at Summer flowers and I’m not sure if I can cut them down. Confusion in both the garden and the globe. What is going to happen in our children’s future, if there is so much confusion now? How much time and effort should we be putting in to worry?

I pick the rake back up and carry on. Dead leaves, mixed with empty crisp packets and some wrappers that the wind has thrown in. I tie the spoils of Autumn up in a large, black sack and I leave the flowers of Summer, wondering how long they can last.