Who were you at CyberMummy?

I have a real life friend (yes, honestly) who follows my blog faithfully, and comments as either Josephine or Someonesmrs. She left a comment on my previous post, which I thought would make rather a good post in itself. She said:

When you lot all meet up (I am a non-blogger; I just lurk at others blogs) do you call each other Potty, Nappy, HomeOfficeMum or whatever, or do you find out each other's real names and use them, and then is it weird to come back to blogosphere names again?

Yes, that is an interesting point. Who am I at CyberMummy? At this point, I want to witter off into pages and pages of musings about identity, because this is an aspect of blogging that I find truly fascinating. But I'll restrain myself, or I'll restrain Iota at any rate (aaargh, see what I mean...), and I'll just answer the question, and then let you all answer it too.

When I introduced myself to people I didn't know at CyberMummy, waggling my lanyard in front of them, I tended to say "I'm Iota, my blog is The Iota Quota, my real name is Myrealname". But that didn't happen very often because honestly I wasn't all that interested in meeting new random people. I was either with people I knew, or looking out specifically for people I wanted to meet. A couple of friends I already knew did ask me at CyberMummy "would you rather be Iota or Yourrealname?", and I replied that either was fine. That's honestly how I feel. I answer to either name. In the context of CyberMummy, I suppose I felt more easy with the name Iota. It's who I am in the blogging world. And I really like the name. I like it more than Myrealname, actually.

That probably answers your second question too, "Josephine". For me, it's not weird at all to skip from one name to the other. I'm quite happy being Myrealname in a conversation, and then commenting the following day on someone's post as Iota. I'm just a crazy mixed-up kid.


What about the rest of you? Did you use your real names, and if so, how did it feel reverting to your blog name in the blogosphere? If you email blogging friends, do you use your blog name or your real name? And how does having a twitter handle add to the mix?

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CyberMummy 2011, the dark side

Well, CyberMummy 2011 was - of course - a fantastic occasion, and I loved it to bits. I'm sure there are a multitude of posts out there, if you want to read about the quality speakers, and the opportunities for digging into areas of interest. Or the uncovering of the many ways in which bloggers are moving cyber life forward, and the fun of being part of that whole movement. Or the excitement of meeting other bloggers, putting faces to names, being amongst old friends and new. Or the really rather delicious sausage casserole with a mashed potato topping. But you're not going to read about those things here. No. I'm going to confess to you that CyberMummy 2011 was, for me, the first step on what might become a downward spiral into a life of crime.

I committed a theft. I did. You're surprised, aren't you? You're thinking "that Iota... she seemed like a nice lady, who'd have thought it?" Alas. I fear it's downhill all the way from here. I can see you all, in the public gallery in the courtroom, as the judge pronounces the sentence, tutting sadly, and shaking your heads, more in sorrow than in anger. Then you'll go home, and tell your friends and neighbours "I was there, where it all started, back in 2011... at a conference, it was... such a shame..."

I was in the sponsors room. I was looking for a cup of tea. Oh, it started innocently enough. A cup of tea. That's all I wanted. But then there was all this STUFF... all this FREE STUFF. And nice smiley people wanting to talk to you, and give you leaflets, and tell you about their FREE STUFF. If you read my post on the CyberMummy blog, you'll know that I've decided to start earning a bit of money from my blog, and maybe some material goods. So I was trying to be open to any opportunities that came my way. That's when I saw the Crocs stand. By the stand, there were baskets full of Crocs, and people were rubbling through them. And the couple of bloggers I was with started asking each other "are those free Crocs?", and I thought "ooh, I've never owned a pair of Crocs". So then I got into the throng of people who were waiting to chat to the nice Crocs people, and I was going to ask if I could take a pair of Crocs, and try them, and write a review about them, and feeling like I was on the brink of venturing successfully into this commercial blogging lark that up till now I've deliberately distanced myself from. But the crowd wasn't moving, and the nice Crocs people were a bit overwhelmed, and I couldn't get through all the other bloggers to speak to anyone, and then the blogger I was with handed me a pair of bright yellow Crocs, size 1, and said "here, would these be the right size for any of yours?", and then I started feeling just a little bit smug for knowing 7-yo's UK shoe size as well as her US one, which just happens to be a size 1, and I pictured her little excited face as I would hand her the shoes. There was a bit of kerfuffling, as still no-one seemed to know what the baskets of Crocs were for, but I said to another blogger I was with "they wouldn't have brought them here, just to take them back again, would they? They must have wanted people to help themselves, mustn't they?", and she replied "oh, stick 'em in your bag, let's go". It wasn't my fault, you see. I was led astray by people who, quite frankly, should have known better. Mentioning no names, but you know who you are.

So there it is, M'Lud. I was a victim of circumstances. And it was all for my children. My little daughter. She was 7. She needed shoes. I did it for her. And I was thinking I could write a review for Crocs. That's how it works, isn't it? You get a freebie, you write a review. Yes, I must confess that someone did mention to me later on in the day that the Crocs in the baskets were samples for people to look at, but that's all I've done. Looked at them. In the comfort of my own home.

The review? Oh. Well, M'Lud, you see what happened was that I gave the Crocs, the bright sunshiney yellow Crocs, to my young child. Her face shone with gratitude as she softly whispered "oh Mummy, not a second helping of gruel AND new shoes!". Then she tried them on, and was very insistent that actually her feet were a size-1-but-very-nearly-a-size-2 and that her toes were pushing right up at the end in a most uncomfortable way. She said "the thing is, Mummy, I don't like Crocs. They're not really my style". So I couldn't review them. But I WOULD have done. Honest.

And that's how it all started. My first step on the slippery slope, M'Lud. Don't blame me. Blame CyberMummy.

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CyberMummy 2011

Just to let you know that I've guest posted over at the Britmums blog about CyberMummy. For some reason, it's titled "CyberMummy, a Critic's View", which is odd, because I think I was at my least critical when I wrote it. I suspect they wrote the title before they received the text. Ha! I'm full of surprises, me.

I really love the NHS

I was wondering whether it would be more cost effective to have 14-yo's eyes tested and buy new specs for him in the US or the UK. In the end, I decided to wait till we got to the UK. I'm so glad I did.

True, the eye test was in a rather dingy and small room, and wasn't as thorough as in the US, where you have drops put in, photos taken, air puffed at you, and who know what else. It was just with one person, whereas in the US, the preliminary stuff is done by an assistant, until the moment comes when The Ophthalmologist arrives and finishes the process. True, we'll wait a week or so for the glasses, whereas in the US it's usually 2 or 3 days. True, the display of frames wasn't in a spacious showroom, and it was all a bit cramped. I expect if I was American, I'd have thought it was rather shabby and I wouldn't have liked perching on a small chair in the corner while they measured 14-yo's forehead, and the whole experience might have seemed rather... what's the word?... can't think... well, just not very swish.

However, there were huge advantages. The NHS paid for the test, and then gave us a voucher to spend on glasses. Boots will then give you a child's pair of glasses for free (the NHS voucher covers some of the cost, and Boots subsidises the rest). But because Boots also had a buy one get one free offer, we decided to use the voucher towards adult frames, and we walked out having chosen two pairs of prescription glasses (one plain, one sunglasses), with all the fancy non-scratch coating and other stuff that you usually have to pay extra for, for 62 GB pounds. How fabulous is that? Very fabulous, that's how fabulous. Very fabulous indeed, when I think that in the US, because eye care isn't covered by our insurance, I've spent over $200 on an eye test for a child. Then when I've actually had to buy glasses, it's been at least $200 a pair.

Another issue is that anything health-related always takes so long in the US. It's partly because they're so thorough, but I can't help suspecting that part of it is because you need to feel the cost is justified. A lot of the time seems to be spent in moving you from one suite of rooms to another, leaving you to wait, considerable peering at computer screens and checking your details, researching different costs of lenses according to their thickness and lightness, and getting you to fill in forms which say "You, oh Ophthalmologist and all who work here, are not liable for anything, anything, anything. I will never sue you, never, never, never, no matter what you do, even if you gouge my eyes out, or deliberately amputate one of my limbs without anaesthetic, or sell my child abroad, or decapitate my husband, I promise I won't sue you, and if I do, you can point to this piece of paper and prove that it wasn't your fault".

We were in and out of Boots in 45 minutes. I didn't fill in a form, beyond my son's name, address in England, and telephone number. The people were friendly and helpful, though clearly very busy.

To sum up: 45 minutes, eye test, two pairs of prescription specs, 62 pounds. Result.

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America arrives in Britain

Sharpies are in WHSmith. I love, love, love Sharpies. I can't imagine life without Sharpies. I am a Sharpie bore. Now you can get them in Smiths. Maybe I can move back to England.

I spotted Burt's Bees products in Waitrose. Burt's Bees have buzzed into this country. Yes, it probably would be ok to move back now. I'm not sure I could live without Burt's Bees products, but if Waitrose stocks them...

But here's an American import I don't like. The classification of milk.

Once upon a time, there was Gold Top and Silver Top, in glass pint bottles delivered to your door. The top of the Gold Top was what you had on your cereal, if it was your turn. The Silver Top was the ordinary stuff. Then they expanded our horizons by adding a Red Top. But life was still fairly simple. We weren't too far gone from Tess of the D'Urbeville days. Not any more. These days, buying milk is hugely complicated. Supermarkets should offer the public a short training course, and not let us loose near the milk section until we have our certificates. Organic, not organic, Jersey, Cravendale, skimmed, skammed, skummed, semi-skilled, semi-literate, semi-detached, and all those different sizes, from pint-sized to who-has-a-fridge-door-big-enough-for-this-for-heaven's-sake?-sized.

When we moved to America, it took a while to get used to milk by numbers. Whole is still whole, but semi-skimmed is marketed as "2%" and skimmed as "1%". Not too difficult, really, but I have to say, I always preferred the British terminology and enjoyed reverting to it when visiting back here. But now, it seems that the use of percentages has infiltrated Britain too. They couldn't keep it simple though, and stick to 2% and 1% (which is cope-able with, once you've got used to it). Oh no. It's got to be 1.7% and 0.1%, hasn't it? What kind of complex mathematical formulae were used to work out those?

Sharpies, yes. Burt's Bees stuff, yes. Milk by percentages, no no no no no.

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Changing gear

Things that happen when you've been driving a left-hand drive automatic for too long:

• you keep going to the wrong side of the car to get in.


• in a public car park, you put your foot on the accelerator and press down hard, because you think it's the brake (and you have to have your foot on the brake in an automatic to put it into 'drive'), and then you wonder why the car is roaring. Other people are looking at you at this point.


• you drive more miles than is good on the M25 at 70mph in third gear, before the CD ends and you hear the engine tone. (Sometimes don't you just wish your husband didn't read your blog?)


• you come off the M25, head down the slip road to the traffic lights at the bottom, and judder to a halt, stalling, because being on a motorway has lulled you into forgetting about the need to change gear.

And parking spaces, for heaven's sake. They're so SMALL in England. You expect me to get a CAR in there?

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Birthday party

Yesterday we celebrated the 50th birthday of my older brother. Big family party. Thirty-five people: mostly first cousins, their spouses and children, and a few family friends. Sunny day. Outside on the lawn, chairs or rugs, depending on age and agility. Food and drink.

Aunts and uncles saying to children "Goodness me, how can you have got so big?" and "Sorry, it's so boring when grown-ups say that, isn't it?" Children too polite to roll their eyes, but inwardly doing so. Then as the afternoon wears on, racing around the lawn, kicking a ball, thinking how very tedious it must be to be a grown-up - all that sitting and talking, talking, talking, and having to drink wine and coffee - yuk! - and saying no to birthday cake or just a very small slice please. They don't know that we watch them, and remember, and know their secret thoughts.

Stolen moments in the kitchen with my younger brother. "Too many people out there? Yes, me too." "Nice though..." "Oh yes, very nice." Nice party. Nice kitchen interlude. Nice being with people who understand the hundred words you haven't said, when you just use one. Nice.

"Are you having a nice time, Iota?" Husband at my side. I smile. He knows I am. He knows how I love these events, and how sad I am at the many we've missed. 'Big 0' birthday gatherings, 21sts, 18ths, weddings, even humble common or garden Christmases. I see my children with their relations, chasing, falling, laughing, getting cross, tears before bedtime. The oldest of that generation is 21 later this month; the youngest is 4 months old. Blood is thicker than water. I see my own generation of cousins, the women more like our mothers each time we meet. I see my mother and aunt, who nurtured our love of these big gatherings Christmas by Christmas, year after year, planning the day, cooking the meal, creating the atmosphere, teaching us how to celebrate, how to enjoy each other's company. "Yes", I reply, even though he knows the answer. "I'm just sitting here and letting the family flow around me." And then I think that's a rather brilliant way of summing it up.

My older sister's 50th party was one of the ones we missed. I received the lab results from a lumpectomy the evening before. Cancer. Bad enough being estranged from the family gathering. Hadn't foreseen a cancer diagnosis on top of that. It was a very long Saturday. I didn't phone till the day after the party. Didn't think the news would add much to the party ambiance.

I don't know what that party was like. It's one of those conversations I've never had with my family. Probably never will have. Did they chat away bravely to guests, eyeing each other occasionally and taking a deep breath? Or had I not really intimated what the lumpectomy might reveal? Oh, how very me that would have been. Yes. I'd probably told them that I was having the lump out and implying that would be the end of it. Perhaps I believed that myself.

Two years on, my sister also finds a kitchen moment with me. She puts her arm round my shoulder. "I'm glad you're my sister," she says. "I'm glad you're my sister too," I reply. What more to say?

I'm sitting in the sunshine. Big brother is doing the rounds with a bottle of champagne. "More for you?" He waggles the bottle in my direction, puts a hand on his stomach and makes a slight retch, a wicked reference to the fact that only two days ago, I was confined to bed by a horrible sick bug. I grin brazenly and hold out my glass. I've had a whole day in between to recover, and I'm not going to miss out on this celebration. I have so much to celebrate.

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