Job

Well, congrats to those of you (If I could escape, Aly and Heather) who said toy shop, because you are right! (Florida, Wiltshire, Lapland - you've got to love the diversity of blogging.) And an honorable mention to Speccy, who did mention toys - but had me in a travelling van, instead of a fixed retail outlet. It's one of those toy shops where you can't buy a Barbie or Nintendo game, but you can buy wooden fruit. I love it, because it's the antithesis to Toys R Crap, which I hate, and which is pretty much the only alternative here.

The shop is very English in feel, actually, because it's small - though big enough to have room for kids to try out a selection of ride-on and bounce-on toys. Whenever I've been in there with my children, they get on one of those wobbly ride-on things that you operate by wiggling the steering wheel quickly from left to right, and I find it hard to persuade them to leave. I've always been impressed by a shop that lets children wiggle and bounce around, especially as the aisles are pretty small (it really is very untypical), so it would be easy for an errant wiggle to knock down a whole display of boxes of Lego.

Incidentally, did you know that in America, they pronounce Lego 'Laygo', as if it were French and had an acute accent over the e. And they always refer to it in the plural. English children play with Leggo. American kids play with Laygos. Just a little cultural detail of the kind which I know you have come to expect from this blog.

Any old way, I'm not going to say too much about the job at this point, because I'm going in on Wednesday morning, and I don't want to have to post on Wednesday afternoon, about how it didn't all work out, having got you all very excited on my behalf. So act casual for now, ok?

I imagine the interview will go something like this:

Toy shop owner: What experience do you have in the retail sector?

Me: None.

TSO: Can you operate a cash till, and credit card swiping equipment?

Me: No.

TSO: How would you help someone who was looking for an educational toy?

Me: I'd tell them not to bother. School will educate your child. Focus your home life on having fun. How about this camera that squirts water, or this whoopee cushion?

TSO: Will you enjoy engaging with children, leaving their parents free to browse undisturbed?

Me: Up to a point. Here's a sign I've seen in another shop, which I'll display when I'm on duty: "Unattended children will be given an espresso, and a puppy to take home".

TSO: Will you promise to talk in your lovely English accent?

Me: Yes. I know no other way.

TSO: You've scored 1 out of 5, and on that basis, I'm happy to offer you the job.

You think I exaggerate the whole accent thing. I should tell you that I found out about the job, because the TSO was trying to recruit a friend of mine - an English friend of mine - who turned it down. (Actually, she's my only English friend here, and the reason she turned the opportunity down is because she is moving back to England. Today. Sob.)

I should have titled this post Job and sob, shouldn't I? That would have been neat.

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Competition

I don't think any of you thought the two blog idea was a good one. That gave me pause for thought (is that the right expression? should it be "cause for thought"?). And I've decided I agree. So what I'm going to do is this. I'm going to stick with one blog, but hide the more personal posts, by an intricate technological procedure which I'll happily tell you more about if you're interested.

I'm definitely going to revamp this blog, and I might - gasp - change the title. One of the reasons this blog is losing its way a little is because now I've lived in the US for 3.5 years, it's hard to maintain the "not wrong, just different" schtick. If it's a schtick. I'm not really ever sure what a schtick is, and I certainly don't know if that's how you spell it. Where was I? Yes... the "not wrong, just different" thing depends on a certain wide-eyed "gosh, look, isn't my fridge BIG?" approach to living in America, and now I just don't have that any more. In fact, during my visit to Britain, I have to confess to crossing a few lines. More about those in another blog post, but suffice to say, you'll be hearing the Americans-in-Britain bloggers cheering "I told you so" in the background. I am guilty of the occasional trespass over to the other side. It's what they call, in diplomatic circles, "going native". So, for example, when I now look at my fridge, I don't think "oh it's huge", I think "how do those British people manage with their tiny fridges? what a pain to have to unpack and pack the whole thing every time you want half a carrot". Going native with a fridge, see?

More than that, though. Thing is, I don't actually think that at all about my fridge. I just open the door and get out the carrot while listening to Diane Rehm on NPR, batting away a troublesome child with my left hand, my right shoulder glued to my right ear with the phone in between, fobbing off a telesales person, wondering what to have for dinner and whether I like Endellion as a middle name. So perhaps "not wrong, just different" should become "just normal life now". Good stuff, but kind of a bit sad too. I liked my "not wrong, just different" cutting edge take on cultural divergence. I don't want to have to admit it's a bit blunted now. I don't think I do like Endellion, by the way. Sounds like Dandelion.

What do you think of "Midwest Midlife" as a new title? I kind of like it. Catchy, easy to remember, easy to abbreviate (MM). Might be confused as an aged fan club for Westlife though. Or possibly some kind of midwife service. And I'm not sure I really want to be known for being mid-life. It's not my USP.

How about "From Gruffalo to Buffalo"? They don't know the Gruffalo over here, so he's a singularly British icon, and the buffalo (or bison, as we're meant to call him these days) is a symbol of the Great Plains where I am. I could do a great header, with the Gruffalo holding the Union Jack on one side and a buffalo holding the Stars and Stripes on the other. Bit obscure, perhaps. Ooh, how about some title that encompasses my location (Plains) with my role (housewife) by cleverly rhyming Bison with Dyson? "Among the Bison with my Dyson". Something like that.

Anyway, you can see that my mind is working overtime on the subject. I will ponder further. "Further Ponderings Over the Pond", perhaps.

You thought I was going to run a competition to choose a new blog name, didn't you? Ha. Wrong! I'm running a competition to see if you can guess my new job! Yes. Job. Very exciting. Never let it be said I let the grass grow under my feet. Not even prairie tallgrass. Green card arrives one week; I get job the next week. Details are yet to be finalised, so I hope my next post isn't full of "it didn't work out". Meanwhile, here's a clue. If you ask your children what would be the coolest, coolest job in the world for a mom to have, that is my job. (Unless your child is a 3 year old boy, because I'm telling you now, it's not tractor-driver, train-driver, fat controller, or fire-fighter.)

Go on. Guess. (And let me know about the "cause for thought" thing too, please. I often trip up on that one.)

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Two green things

First green thing

Well, it turns out that my green card is green, after all. The white one was a temporary one-year one. My permanent one arrived 2 or 3 weeks after it. Husband's temporary and permanent ones arrived on the same day. Can't help thinking they could save themselves some work there...

Anyway, my green card now lives in my wallet (which is also green, incidentally). That's purse, to you Brits, though not to you Americans, for whom a purse is a handbag... Got that? I'm required to be able to produce it at all times. Otherwise, I will disappear in a puff of green smoke. It's in a special little envelope that looks as if it's lined with aluminium foil, which has printed on it:

'We recommend use of this envelope to protect your new card and to prevent wireless communication with it.'

Stop the world, I'm getting off. Are you telling me that people can effect identity theft by waving some wireless gadget at my green card when it's not even visible? I can't keep up with modern life. Can they remove my kidneys wirelessly as I walk round Wal-mart too? Is it safe to go out? Is it even safe to stay in? Aaaargh...

Second green thing

This blog. What am I going to do with it? Clearly it needs revamping in a big way. The design is out of the dark ages. You know, like... like... 2009 or something. I love wittering my heart out here, and it doesn't cease to amaze me that people read it and keep coming back for more. But I'm feeling a bit uncomfortable these days. There's a heck of a lot of very personal stuff on this blog, and I guess my boundaries are shrinking back a little. Which is probably a good sign - a sign of life returning to normal, perhaps. When you're in the middle of a life crisis, it all goes a bit weird. I have to confess that now, I'm not entirely comfortable in my own blog.

Cyber Mummy marked the end of my era of true anonymity, though I'd given away little pieces of it here and there before then, to virtual friends and real ones. It makes writing a blog feel different. I also realised at Cyber Mummy that if I'm giving out business cards, and using this blog as a showcase for writing, then it's not really appropriate for it to be full of personal angst and boobless lamenting. You get my drift.

I hoped Blogger would let me do something straightforward, like hide chosen posts from view. But it doesn't. You have to delete them, and I don't want to do that. I suppose I could copy them all into Word documents, and then delete them. That would be quite a job, though. My research on the issue has turned up the suggestion that you can open the posts, then save them as drafts, which effectively hides them. I suppose I could try. Does anyone know if you lose the comments if you do that? (Comments = best bit!)

Or... here's what I'm thinking of doing. I'm wondering whether to have two blogs. The first would be essentially the whole Not wrong, just different English woman in America gig. Though I think it will become less personal, and more simply a reflection on life in a different culture. I've felt for a while that I've outgrown the whole mummy blogger stage, and that's another aspect I feel uncomfortable about. It feels ok telling stories about children when they are young, but mine are growing up. I'm less happy about sharing them with you all. India Knight said the same at Cyber Mummy, so I'm in good company. But I still have plenty to say about life here, even without them.

The second blog would be where I would dump all the uber-personal old posts from this one. Following the oft-quoted truth that blogging is cheaper than therapy, I would use it to write when I needed to write. I suspect that it would turn into a rather whingey blog, but bloggers quite like reading each other's whinges, so that probably wouldn't matter. I'm guessing the posts would be sporadic, but that's another good sign, isn't it? This second blog would be password protected. That would feel safer.

What do you think, Bloggy Friends? I thought I'd run this by you, and see what your opinions are. Would you follow two blogs? Would you miss the unpigeon-holeable untidiness that is currently Not wrong, just different?

And how possible is it to move posts from one blog to another?

I was going to leave you with Captain Sensible's Stop the World, I'm getting off, but wouldn't you know? Youtube couldn't come up with it. So here is Happy Talk, which seems equally appropriate for a post about blogging. If nothing else, you always know you're going to get the occasional fabulous track from the '80s here. So go on, put it on, minimise the window, and do whatever you were going to do next in another window (the video quality is appalling so you won't miss anything). You'll be tapping your toes for 3 minutes and 17 seconds, and thanking me for it. It's quintessential irony.

Blogladesh

I don't get Twitter (sorry, I'm just weird that way).

I don't do Facebook (sorry, I like my gossip face to face).

But I DO blog. And one thing I have always loved about blogging is the way it gives a voice to the unheard. For that reason, I want to post about the three Mummy bloggers who are going to Bangladesh with Save The Children, to see first hand what it's like being a mum in a poverty-stricken country. This page tells you about them, if you want to know more. You are made of strong stuff, you three. It's not going to be a picnic, is it? Good for you. Use your voices.

I will be following their trip, but I also wanted to do something other than just read about it. This post tells you what you can do. The simplest, quickest of those is to add your name to the collection of signatures putting pressure on Nick Clegg to make child mortality and maternal health a priority at the UN Summit in September. Whatever happened to those Millennium Development Goals? I, for one, would like world leaders to know that I still mind about poverty in the world. The Press for Change App on the Save the Children Facebook page will take just two minutes of your time but collectively could make a HUGE difference. Come and add your name here.

If you're another weirdo like me, without a Facebook page, you can sign anyway (at least, I think it counted my click... it seemed to register...)

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Last year, this year - one more thing

Last year, I was in the middle of chemotherapy. The doctor was very concerned that I should keep my weight up. I never really thought about the issue. There were other, bigger things on my mind. My weight did keep constant during chemo (thanks to my attentive husband who took control of the dietary needs of the family), but I lost the best part of a stone, all told, during the course of the year. A stone I didn't need.

This year, I am chatting to a mother while we wait for our kids. She is from Korea, and there is a bit of a language barrier. She asks about my summer. She says "and I think you've enjoyed eating food in your own country". I hesitate. She hasn't just told me that she's noticed I've put on weight? Surely not. Is she making an ironic joke about British cuisine? Is she trying to empathise about what I most enjoyed during a trip home? I hesitate, and indicate that I haven't quite understood. She pats her hips and then points to mine, and with a smile, says "I can see you've been enjoying eating this summer -eating extra!"

Right. So it's visible then. That little bit round my middle.

I like to think of myself as pretty accepting of other cultures, but I really can't be bothered to try and research whether it is a compliment in Korea to be told your hips are full.

My "this year" bubble has burst with a resounding pop.

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Last year, this year

Last year, I drove 5-yo to school on her first day. I have photos of her getting ready to leave, the sky so dark that it could almost be night. The heavens opened, and it rained as if Noah had built his ark in the neighborhood. We were soaked.

This year, I walked 6-yo to school. She had been up for more than two hours, and ready for nearly one. Walking seemed a good way of using up twenty of the remaining minutes. It was a lovely morning, sunny but not yet hot. She told me she had a tummy ache, and I asked if it was really a pain, or if it felt like butterflies. She said, yes, butterflies, so I talked about nerves, and how they would go as soon as she got started at school. "Do you remember in the summer, I went to a conference, and I was reading something out in front of a big lot of people? Well, I had butterflies then, but they went away as soon as I started. It'll be like that when you get to school." She wondered why people say they have butterflies in their tummies, and not birds, and we agreed that birds would probably feel rather heavier.

Last year, I didn't know a soul at this school (she's at a different one to her brothers). If I'm honest, I didn't really want to know any. Getting to know new parents, new teachers, new children seemed just another exhausting thing to add to the exhausting list.

This year, what a pleasure to see familiar faces, to exchange a few sentences about the summer and add "we'll have to catch up". On the way home I passed a friend, out with her twin babies in their stroller, before the day got too hot. We talked, but only briefly, because the babies wanted to be on the move.

Last year, I was so pleased that the first day of school fell towards the end of the 3-week chemotherapy cycle. It seemed so important to take my daughter to school, though of course she could have gone with her daddy. He'd already been to the enrolment and open day. I had to drive. Twenty minutes there on foot, and twenty minutes back, would have been far too much.

This year, I was happy to walk, as I've put on quite a few pounds while on holiday, and I'm needing to lose weight. Needing to lose weight! Ah, that's a sign of life returning to normal, if there ever was one.

Last year, I wore a cap.

This year, one of the other mothers greeted me with "you've changed your hair". I was a bit flummoxed as to what to say, and ended up with "well, it's grown!". I was secretly rather pleased she didn't instantly remember the cap and the reason for it.

Last year, I had two chemo sessions to go. I didn't know the third would be the worst. Probably just as well. I was dreading starting on Tamoxifen, and getting used to the idea of being on a drug for years seemed a huge mental hurdle. Huge.

This year, I forgot to take the Tamoxifen tablet this morning, but that's just because we're out of routine and not properly unpacked, and my pill box isn't in its usual place. Being on a drug seems a tiny thing. I was lucky with the side effects. Lots of people are on long-term medication. It's a very safe drug. Been around for years. No big deal. Not any more.

Last year, my biggest fear (which I couldn't bring myself to write down in black and white - though I did try) was that I would lose myself. That was it. Whenever anyone talked about losing my hair, I'd hear a voice inside saying "and you might lose yourself". I'd lost little bits of my body, and the steroids during the first chemo session made me feel like I was losing my mind. I didn't seem to be doing much. If you take away body, mind, and role, it doesn't feel like much is left. I wondered if somehow the bit that is the essence of me would evaporate, and I'd never get it back.

This year, I look back and see that I did not lose myself. I am here. I am me. (Actually, I was all along.) I can even write about that.

And now it's time to go and pick 6-yo up. I wonder how her day has been.

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Three white things

First white thing

I made a startling and potentially life-changing discovery while in Scotland, and being a generous soul, I thought I'd share it with you. Those square white plates that they have in restaurants and in catalogues... get yourself some.

We were staying in a friend's house, and the first night, I rustled up a delicious little something for the children: fish fingers, pasta and broccoli. (Oh come on, I was on holiday, I wasn't going to be slaving over a hot stove every night.) But here's the amazing thing. If you serve fish fingers, pasta and broccoli on square white plates, it looks like some gourmet speciality. It really does.

If I was a half-decent blogger, I'd have comparison photos for you. Fish fingers on my usual circular pattern-round-the-edge plate, followed by fish fingers on clean-lines square white plate. Then you could see for yourselves. Sorry. You'll just have to shut your eyes and imagine them... See...? The first looks suspiciously like fish fingers, pasta and broccoli. The second, ah yes, the second has become North Atlantic cod coated in our own special-recipe golden breadcrumbs, oven-baked to soft perfection, accompanied by delicious wholemeal pasta and locally sourced garden-fresh broccoli tips, served with a smooth coulis of 'ketchup de tomates organiques'.

They had rectangular white plates too, which were even more sophisticated. I mean, rectangular, for heaven's sake.

Second white thing

It is very hot here. As we made our descent, the pilot informed us that the temperature on the ground was 108 degrees (that's 42 for you celsius types). It was windy too, and walking out of the plane onto the stairs felt like walking into a giant hairdryer.

Still, we are quite jammy really. It's been over 100, unrelentingly, for two or three weeks, and now the forecast says it's going to drop down to the low 90s - maybe even a cool 89 tomorrow. So we timed our absence and homecoming pretty well.

I am mentally better adjusted to living in this kind of temperature than I used to be. I used to find it frustrating, because, being English, I'm so hard-wired to looking at sunshine and thinking "ooh, lovely". This just led to frequent disappointment. I've had to relearn my reflexes. It's as if Pavlov took his salivating dogs and said "and now, just to complicate things, I'm going to ring the bell, and then serve you food that tastes disgusting and makes you sick... let's see if we can recondition you...". It's one of those complicated ex-pat things. You have to reconfigure some of your good/bad assumptions. I remember being confused when our realtor was showing us round a house in January, and said "this yard has trees, so it'll be nice and shady". It required a mental u-turn from the usual expectation of "south-facing, sheltered, sunny".

So yes, I'm pretty well adjusted these days. I don't look out of the window and think "ooh, lovely". A lot of the windows have the blinds down anyway. I look at Weatherbug on the computer, and think "ooh, hot". I will confess, though, to a residual English excitement at the thought of how quickly the washing will dry (though actually, it's not as speedy as you might think, because of the humidity). I think it will be some years before I lose that.

Third white thing

I've got my green card. It was waiting for us in the mail on our return. It's white. Forgive me for being simplistic, but I was expecting it to be green. This means that I can get a job, and get paid. It's actually rather intimidating (pathetic of me, I know).

So that'll be me, flipping burgers then.

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More train of thought

First, I’ll answer a couple of questions left in the comments of the last post. One reader was puzzled by how I wrote a blog post without a laptop or computer. I use the mind-write gadget. You’ll find it under ‘settings’. It’s one of the reasons I like Blogger. Takes a bit of getting used to, but once you have, it’s very liberating. You simply think about the post you’d like to write, run the sentences through your head, and it appears in draft format for you to fine-tune, next time you log in. Before I discovered mind-write, if I wanted to blog on a train journey, I’d write it down with good old pen and paper, and then type it up later. But that’s sooooo 20th century.

Then the question of what you do with your clicky key fob if you have to visit the immigration section of the US embassy in London. Before my own visit, I’d have said “you have to leave it at home, which means that if you have a car which only has clicky key fobs, then you have to get your mother-in-law to give you a lift to the station, as Husband had to do on his last trip”. But during my visit last week, I discovered that there’s a chemist five minutes’ walk from the embassy which runs an enterprising holding service. For 3 quid, you can leave your clicky key fobs, your memory sticks, your mobile phones, your bomb detonators, any other electrical item, or even an entire suitcase with them. They give you a numbered ticket, and you can reclaim your items after your embassy visit. This is brilliant. It’s just a shame the embassy doesn’t tell you about it in the instructions you receive when you book your appointment. What the instructions say is “Consider checking [these items] at a transport station or leaving them behind.” Yeah. Because “transport stations” in London have plenty of left luggage facilities these days. I suppose it wouldn’t sound very official to say “there’s an entrepreneurial chemist on North Audley Street…”.

I’ll also just tell you that I couldn’t put down The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I don’t think it’s a brilliant book, but it’s very gripping, and clever, and once you’re embroiled in it, it’s hard not to keep on reading. So yes, I’m in the “couldn’t put it down” camp.

Now then, Bloggy Friends. Bloggy Peeps. When I left you, I was all chipper and happy and looking forward to my day out in London. But it didn’t work out very well. I wrote about it on the way home. This is what I wrote.

Oh alas. Tail between legs. I’d been looking forward to my day. Two long train trips, the slight nuisance of the trip to the embassy, but lunch and an afternoon to myself in London. What a treat.

Oh alas. I did my dodgy hip in, running for the train in Malton in unsuitable flat pumps this morning. I made it worse by pounding the London streets. Aren’t I too young to have a dodgy hip that can’t cope with pavements?

I’m not going to recount the tedium and anxiety that accompany anything to do with a visa-related embassy visit. To sum up, I was there from 10.15 to 1.45, and it was horrible, and I failed to accomplish the task. Won’t go into details (it wasn’t the bad hair or the lack of a shower), and you’ll just have to believe me when I say that we have had more than our fair share of hurdles to jump over (and pay for) on visa stuff. We truly have. I’m not a great believer in complaining about the system. I get that it’s about a country protecting the interests of its own citizens. I get that it’s not designed with customer service at its heart (unlike pretty much everything else in the US). I get that I’m a supplicant, and hold no cards. I’m sure it’s no easier, and probably harder, to go through the equivalent British system. So I’m not complaining. But I will confess that, when the embassy finally spewed me out, unsuccessful and therefore facing two weeks of hassle and anxiety if we are to be able to use our flights a fortnight hence, with failure a very real option, I took my over-priced sandwich into Grosvenor Square Gardens, and I sat on a bench, and I shed a tear or two of sheer frustration. I felt like a performing dog, who one day, takes a look at the out-held hoop, and says to itself “One too many. This one is one too many. To heck with the jumping, even if I starve as a result.”

It’s not the first time I’ve shed tears in a London square garden. If you’ve got tears to shed in London, then I’ve found squares are a pretty good place to do it. Squares or parks. That’s the Iota hot tip for tear-shedding in London. Location, location, location.

So I had a curtailed afternoon, with no heart to do very much. I ate a scone in Selfridge’s. And then I suddenly remembered The Wallace Collection, and went and looked at the Laughing Cavalier.


Isn’t it wonderful that museums and galleries are free? I didn’t have time for a full visit, and certainly wouldn’t have been in the mood to pay for a quick drop-in. The information pointed out that he isn’t laughing and he isn’t a cavalier. I love that. Quite an achievement to be famous down the centuries for two things you are not. I guess the Smirking Man doesn’t have the same ring to it. I wonder if I would like to be preserved for generations in a smirking pose. It felt appropriate for the afternoon. Smirking at the US immigration process, though at its crushing mercy, seemed a small triumph. Better than total defeat, at any rate. The Dunsmirk spirit.

It was truly an awful afternoon, and – insult to injury – even the train ride back is horrid. There’s no air-conditioning, and it's very hot. They’ve come round with free bottles of water and apologies, but it’s vey unpleasant really. Especially for the unshowered amongst us.

That is what I wrote, on the 16.50 from London to York. Things have worked out (with, as I anticipated, much hassle and anxiety). Our way is cleared back into the US. The passports and necessary permissions arrived this morning. We fly on Friday.

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Train of thought

7.35am, and I’m sitting in the Pumpkin Café, York station, with cup of tea and bacon roll. On my way to the US Embassy to renew my visa. Mine and the children’s. Probably want to take them back with me when I go. Be a shame if I had a visa and they didn’t.

Bit of an adventure getting here. Had planned to leave house by 6.10, to get 6.53 train from Malton to York. Woke up at 6.28. Don’t know how this happened. My alarm clock was set. Husband’s alarm clock was set. Did we both mis-set them? Did they both fail to go off? Freakish. Or did we both sleep through them? Perhaps we need a holiday. Oh. We’re on holiday. Does the part of me that doesn’t want to renew my visa have more say when I’m asleep? So anyway, 6.28. That left me 25 minutes exactly to get up, dressed, drive 8 miles to Malton, find somewhere to park (no station car park at Malton and I don’t know the town, only ever been to the station to pick up or drop off), and buy a ticket.

I made it. Still now quite sure how, though remember finding a miraculously free car park (didn’t know those existed any more), and running to the station, wiping tears out of my eyes as the chill morning wind whipped by my face (wind, because I was running like the, not because it was a windy morning - just to clarify). Even had time for little chat with booking office clerk, who said he’d been a bit late for work himself and it must be one of those days. Hope the Embassy staff don’t mind my hair, or my unshowered aroma.

8.05am, and I’m on the train to London King’s Cross. I love train travel. Love it with a passion that makes me wonder if I was born in the wrong era. Thank goodness I had sons, because they’re nothing if not a good excuse for the occasional steam train ride.

Got a seat with a table, and have The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, which I’m told (by many, though not all) I won’t be able to put down, but I know that for most of the journey, I won’t write or read. I’ll look out of the window. Why ever not? Flashing through probably the most beautiful county in probably the most beautiful country on earth.

Might have to move. There’s a woman with a mobile phone, a written report, and a very loud voice.

“Well, Jason, I think I’m just going to put 2.5 as regards that figure, because that’s what all the other sites have done, and so I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

I don’t see why she shouldn’t either, but I don’t want to listen all the way to King’s Cross. Train is remarkably empty (why?), so plenty of choice.

Power stations – one on my left, one on my right. Countryside very flat now. That’ll teach me to write “probably the most beautiful county…”.

Haven’t got a laptop. Just in case you were picturing me, all high tech and wired up. Or wire free. No, not allowed electrical things in the US Embassy. Not even allowed a clicky key fob. Lucky I had an old-fashioned turn-in-the-lock one, though intriguingly it only worked in the passenger side door. That required about 3 precious seconds in the car park. The remembering and the sprinting round to the other side.

Now, Bloggy Peeps. Should that be Peops? Trouble is, that looks like Pee-ops. But Peeps is a bit Thomas the Tank Engine. Oh, I don’t know. I’ll call you Bloggy Friends.

Now, Bloggy Friends. I know I’m on a blogging break, but I thought you might like to know about my summer so far. Just a few highlights.

Cyber Mummy
Oh my goodness, I loved Cyber Mummy (except for the name, sorry, I just can’t love that name). There was something very fulfilling, in the genuine sense of that word, about meeting women who I’d got to know so well online over the past three years. I mean, three years is hardly a whirlwind romance, so these are people who have had a window into a measurable percentage of my adult life, and I into theirs. Yours.

There were some excellent moments. One of my faves was when I won a month’s supply of Garofalo pasta in the prize draw. I and the friend I was sitting next to thought it was Gruffalo pasta, because she’d just been telling me about interviewing Julia Donaldson. Gruffalo pasta. Why the heck not?

More summer highlights:

over-riding my vertigo to go up the Eiffel Tower – to the top, mind you – and finding I thoroughly enjoyed it;

sitting in the front garden, sharing a bottle of evening wine with my husband and brother, the temperature somewhere around the high 80s, the air scented with jasmine, still, and heavy, the conversation punctuated by Parisians nodding Bonsoir to my brother as they walked past;

watching my temperature-resistant children swim in the sea with cousins in both Brighton and St Andrews (different cousins – we don’t carry a set round with us on our travels);

the mundane familiarity of small English things, like being called ‘Love’ by shop assistants;

visiting ruined abbeys and having picnics;

staying with my mum, who is quite definitely one of Britain’s National Treasures;

old friends, with their children 2 years older than last time I saw them;

going to a museum, or two or three, including the Natural History Museum in London, where 9-yo decided he wants to become a geologist;

bumping into some friends at Abington services on the M74. We were driving north from Yorkshire to the Scottish Highlands. They were driving south from Edinburgh to the Lake District. What were the chances? We last saw them in October 2006, just before we went to America. We gave them lamps that we couldn’t take with us (different voltage in the US). I’d forgotten. They now have a 2 year old.

Oh so many more, but this is a blog, not a novel, so I must stop. One low point to report: 9-yo breaking his collar bone when he fell off a bike. Hurrah for the NHS, I must say. In and out of A&E within an hour and a quarter - friendly nurses, friendly doctor, x-rays, pain-killers, and a sling - no forms to fill in, and not a penny to pay. Horrid to see him in pain and shrunk into himself, though. He's doing fine now - thanks for asking - and having an arm in a sling doesn't stop him doing much. Cricket, football, swimming, building sandcastles, DS, monopoly, sibling squabbling... all these summer activities are possible one-armed. Just as well he's not a blogger. Blogging one-handed would be frustrating.

More anon.

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