Sounds like the opening line of a short story competition, doesn't it? If you want, you can leave me a comment telling me what your short story would be, if it began with that line. It was, in fact, what I said to husband in my sleep last night. "And that's why I did labels."
Wouldn't it be interesting to know more about sleep and dreams? It's such an undiscovered world still. I mean, why do we all conk out for several hours a day? Why do we sometimes dream and sometimes not? Why do some dreams seem to make sense, and some are entirely random? Why do we sometimes speak out loud? I suppose it's the brain, left undisturbed, getting on with its work of processing experiences, cogitating on them, filing them away, bringing up old memories, working out how they tie in, imagining new possibilities. All very clever.
What a preoccupation sleep is for new parents. I can remember periods when I'd have given anything at all for a week of undisturbed nights. What am I saying? I'd have given anything for one undisturbed night. Impossible to believe that it will ever pass, but if you're in that phase of life, take heart. It does. I'm hardly ever disturbed at night by the children these days. If I am, I've lost the art of dealing with it. I'm all groggy, hardly functional. "House on fire? Are you sure? It's probably ok. Go back to bed and I'll deal with it in the morning." Then I can't get back to sleep again. Not like the old days when my on/off switch was brilliantly effective.
Sleep is a mercy, isn't it? Whatever the true extent of all of its mysterious unknown functions, it is one of life's blessings. The chance to lay aside worries and burdens for a few hours, the chance to recharge physical batteries. I've always been a good sleeper. I can't imagine how horrible long-term insomnia must be.
Let's go back to where we started. "And that's why I did labels" came, of course, from a dream about the toy shop. Price labels are my nemesis. You'd think it was simple, in the grand scale of things, to stick the right price label on the right object. I guess my education didn't prepare me properly for such tasks. I know I always used to write on job applications "attention to detail" as one of my impressive skills, but my experience with labels in the toy shop have led me to see that as something of a fib (though what else is a cv but a list of fibs?) Too many toys are similar, but not quite the same. That is the essence of the problem. And the importance of accurate stock control. Bleugh. Whatever.
So in my dream, having been given complicated instructions about which set of labels went on which boxload of items, I found I was four labels short. So I was trying to print out the extra four labels on the computer, and making a bit of a hash of it, and then my boss came over and asked me what I was doing, and I went into a lengthy explanation of the whole issue, most of which was to do with the personalities of the other people working in the shop, and ending with "and that's why I did labels".
Then I was in a cake shop, ordering a birthday cake (Husband's 50th birthday this week?) and wondering how on earth I was going to carry it home on a London bus and the tube in the rush hour (memories of Sarah Brown's story at CyberMummy? and my own journey to CyberMummy on buses, as the tube line was closed? - perhaps, in my dreams, I AM Sarah Brown?). Then the cake shop lady started insisting that I buy some new clothes as well (sartorial insecurities?), and I noticed that it was a shop selling cakes and clothes (odd... or perhaps a brilliant idea for a new small business venture?). But then as I ran for the bus, my top kept falling down, and it turned out to be a dream about mastectomy scars. Ha! You didn't see that one coming did you? Nor did I, at the time.
I rest my case. Sleep. Dreams. Fascinating stuff.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Iota goes to a football match
I’ve just been to my first ever professional football match. I added in the qualifying “professional”, because it wouldn’t be fair to say I’ve never been to any football match. I just haven’t been to any in which all the players are over the age of 14 and unrelated to me.
My father-in-law is making Hull City supporters out of my sons, having himself been a fan for literally decades. He got four tickets for the pre-season friendly against Liverpool, and I surprised the family by saying that instead of Husband going along to represent the middle generation, I’d like to go. I thought it was a bit of a shame to get to the age of 46 without ever having seen a football match. In my defence, I nearly got to a match once. In 1990, I went with an Arsenal-supporting boyfriend to an Arsenal v. Tottenham game, but being a local derby, it was totally sold out, and we didn’t get in. (“… local derby…” Impressed by the football lingo there?) After a mere 21 years, I decided it was time to have another try.
I thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon. I really did. Hull City won 3 – 0. A good result against the big guns of Liverpool. Yay, Tigers. Oh no. Hang on. That’s in America that we say Yay, isn’t it? What do we say here? Jolly good show, Tigers. No. That’s not quite right. Um…
Anyway, it was a good result, and a deserved one. The Tigers did play very well. Especially number 2. Whoever that was. Well done, Number 2. You were very fast and sprinty. If you keep it up, I’m sure you’ll be number 1 before too much longer. The goalie played very well too, though he didn’t control his defenders very tightly. He didn’t communicate much with the back four. That is my considered opinion of his performance. (It’s also what the man in the seat behind me said to his friend.)
The event was rather more intimate than I’d imagined. There were nearly 21,000 people there. That's a lot of people, but it didn’t feel as overwhelming as I'd expected. From watching football on tv, I thought the pitch and players would seem distant, but I felt close to the action. I confess that the pitch seemed smaller than on tv. I suppose they have to have the cameras an awfully long way up, which makes the game look smaller and more distant than it is to the spectators, even those of us in row DD. In all, it felt rather less intimidating and more… what’s the word?... more domestic than I’d anticipated.
If there was any disappointment on my part, it was that the Hull City fans were a little subdued. The Liverpool fans were in good voice, chanting and singing. The Hull fans gave encouragement by way of the odd roar or burst of applause, but they were relatively quiet, even though their team was triumphing. It felt rather over-polite, and they didn’t sing at all. Compared to the Liverpool fans, they were, frankly, a bit girlie. According to my father-in-law, that was because it was a friendly, and at home. Apparently Hull City supporters are known for their singing at away matches. I’ll have to go to one of those next. I suppose I was secretly hoping for the opportunity to find my inner raucous shouting self, but that will have to wait for another time.
It was something of a grand afternoon out, what with driving across the beautiful Yorkshire wolds to get there, and sitting in slow-moving traffic through Hull with Grandad pointing out landmarks from his youth.
“My school used to be right in the middle of that roundabout. Before the roundabout was there, of course. That’s where I used to jump on the bus. They were open at the back, with a pole to grab on to. Saved me 10 minutes, catching it as it came round the corner instead of going down to the bus station. Meant I could go home for lunch. They used to tell me I’d meet my fate, jumping on those buses as they went round that corner, but I’m still here… I used to go to the football with my big cousin. I was probably about your age, 10-yo. I always stood in those days. Never had a seat. You’d get to the front, if you were small. People let you through so you could see.”
I looked round, and saw the boys on the back seat looking out of the car window as we crawled along. Good for you, Grandad, for being more interesting than a DS and an iPod. And good for you, Hull City, for getting the season off to a cracking start.
My father-in-law is making Hull City supporters out of my sons, having himself been a fan for literally decades. He got four tickets for the pre-season friendly against Liverpool, and I surprised the family by saying that instead of Husband going along to represent the middle generation, I’d like to go. I thought it was a bit of a shame to get to the age of 46 without ever having seen a football match. In my defence, I nearly got to a match once. In 1990, I went with an Arsenal-supporting boyfriend to an Arsenal v. Tottenham game, but being a local derby, it was totally sold out, and we didn’t get in. (“… local derby…” Impressed by the football lingo there?) After a mere 21 years, I decided it was time to have another try.
I thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon. I really did. Hull City won 3 – 0. A good result against the big guns of Liverpool. Yay, Tigers. Oh no. Hang on. That’s in America that we say Yay, isn’t it? What do we say here? Jolly good show, Tigers. No. That’s not quite right. Um…
Anyway, it was a good result, and a deserved one. The Tigers did play very well. Especially number 2. Whoever that was. Well done, Number 2. You were very fast and sprinty. If you keep it up, I’m sure you’ll be number 1 before too much longer. The goalie played very well too, though he didn’t control his defenders very tightly. He didn’t communicate much with the back four. That is my considered opinion of his performance. (It’s also what the man in the seat behind me said to his friend.)
The event was rather more intimate than I’d imagined. There were nearly 21,000 people there. That's a lot of people, but it didn’t feel as overwhelming as I'd expected. From watching football on tv, I thought the pitch and players would seem distant, but I felt close to the action. I confess that the pitch seemed smaller than on tv. I suppose they have to have the cameras an awfully long way up, which makes the game look smaller and more distant than it is to the spectators, even those of us in row DD. In all, it felt rather less intimidating and more… what’s the word?... more domestic than I’d anticipated.
If there was any disappointment on my part, it was that the Hull City fans were a little subdued. The Liverpool fans were in good voice, chanting and singing. The Hull fans gave encouragement by way of the odd roar or burst of applause, but they were relatively quiet, even though their team was triumphing. It felt rather over-polite, and they didn’t sing at all. Compared to the Liverpool fans, they were, frankly, a bit girlie. According to my father-in-law, that was because it was a friendly, and at home. Apparently Hull City supporters are known for their singing at away matches. I’ll have to go to one of those next. I suppose I was secretly hoping for the opportunity to find my inner raucous shouting self, but that will have to wait for another time.
It was something of a grand afternoon out, what with driving across the beautiful Yorkshire wolds to get there, and sitting in slow-moving traffic through Hull with Grandad pointing out landmarks from his youth.
“My school used to be right in the middle of that roundabout. Before the roundabout was there, of course. That’s where I used to jump on the bus. They were open at the back, with a pole to grab on to. Saved me 10 minutes, catching it as it came round the corner instead of going down to the bus station. Meant I could go home for lunch. They used to tell me I’d meet my fate, jumping on those buses as they went round that corner, but I’m still here… I used to go to the football with my big cousin. I was probably about your age, 10-yo. I always stood in those days. Never had a seat. You’d get to the front, if you were small. People let you through so you could see.”
I looked round, and saw the boys on the back seat looking out of the car window as we crawled along. Good for you, Grandad, for being more interesting than a DS and an iPod. And good for you, Hull City, for getting the season off to a cracking start.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Ebb and flow
Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow.
You can tell I’ve been by the sea.
Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow.
It’s how I think about life. I find it restful… peaceful… Like watching waves that swell and retreat.
Sometimes life seems good, the world full of promise and light. Ebb. Sometimes life seems disappointing, stuck in a rut, grey. Flow.
The children are playing together, happy, larking and laughing, enjoying each other. Ebb. Now some invisible line has been crossed. They’re annoyed, tempers flare, there are blows. Flow.
Perceptions. You know… One day you study yourself in the mirror and think “hm, not bad”, and the next day you see yourself in the same mirror, wearing the same clothes, and think “oh dear, big tummy, big bottom, not nice”. Ebb and flow.
When I open a newspaper, sometimes I read of the thousands who are struggling, starving, dying. Other times, the ebb is overwhelming, so I turn the page and instead flow with stories of a cat rescued from a well, or pensioners standing up for their rights.
Is it meant to be like this, though? Or is there some sweet spot in the middle? Are we meant to be searching for that place? Is that what life is about? If so, who would tell me how to find it? An up-to-the-minute psychologist? A religious guru? Would it be better to be at the still centre? I like the idea. No more buffeting one way and the other. No more pulling this way and that. No more lurching. But is the world ever experienced like that? Don’t they say that the very universe is expanding and contracting in infinity?
I’ve always liked the French word for wave: une vague. Isn’t that a beautiful accident of language? A wave is a vague thing, a thing you can’t pin down, whose edges you can’t define, a part of a larger whole from which it emerges and into which it disappears. I like the idea of a still centre, but wouldn’t I miss the mysterious perpetual motion that is life? This way, that way, a shift, a movement, changing moods, each one part of an unseen rhythm.
We have a lovely children’s book about a dog, Ebb, and a little girl, Flo. It’s one of my favourites. They go for a picnic to the beach (where else?), and a seagull steals Flo’s sandwich while her back is turned. She blames Ebb, who goes off and sulks in an empty rowing boat. Then a storm brews up, and the rowing boat is swept out to sea. But don’t worry, it ends happily.
Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow. Ebb… and flow…
You can tell I’ve been by the sea.
Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow.
It’s how I think about life. I find it restful… peaceful… Like watching waves that swell and retreat.
Sometimes life seems good, the world full of promise and light. Ebb. Sometimes life seems disappointing, stuck in a rut, grey. Flow.
The children are playing together, happy, larking and laughing, enjoying each other. Ebb. Now some invisible line has been crossed. They’re annoyed, tempers flare, there are blows. Flow.
Perceptions. You know… One day you study yourself in the mirror and think “hm, not bad”, and the next day you see yourself in the same mirror, wearing the same clothes, and think “oh dear, big tummy, big bottom, not nice”. Ebb and flow.
When I open a newspaper, sometimes I read of the thousands who are struggling, starving, dying. Other times, the ebb is overwhelming, so I turn the page and instead flow with stories of a cat rescued from a well, or pensioners standing up for their rights.
Is it meant to be like this, though? Or is there some sweet spot in the middle? Are we meant to be searching for that place? Is that what life is about? If so, who would tell me how to find it? An up-to-the-minute psychologist? A religious guru? Would it be better to be at the still centre? I like the idea. No more buffeting one way and the other. No more pulling this way and that. No more lurching. But is the world ever experienced like that? Don’t they say that the very universe is expanding and contracting in infinity?
I’ve always liked the French word for wave: une vague. Isn’t that a beautiful accident of language? A wave is a vague thing, a thing you can’t pin down, whose edges you can’t define, a part of a larger whole from which it emerges and into which it disappears. I like the idea of a still centre, but wouldn’t I miss the mysterious perpetual motion that is life? This way, that way, a shift, a movement, changing moods, each one part of an unseen rhythm.
We have a lovely children’s book about a dog, Ebb, and a little girl, Flo. It’s one of my favourites. They go for a picnic to the beach (where else?), and a seagull steals Flo’s sandwich while her back is turned. She blames Ebb, who goes off and sulks in an empty rowing boat. Then a storm brews up, and the rowing boat is swept out to sea. But don’t worry, it ends happily.
Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow. Ebb… and flow…
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
At the beach
Where've I been this week then?
I've been here.
Fife.
We used to live here. It's lovely coming back on holiday, because it's the best of both worlds. It's a holiday, so there's none of that daily life stuff to bother about. But it's familiar territory. We know where to go, where to shop, what to do, all the best haunts. We've caught up with a few old friends too.
This is the May Isle. You can take a boat trip there.
But guess what? I never have done. I don't know why. Just didn't quite get round to it when we lived here, and haven't ever got round to it since. I love the fact that I know it's really called the May Isle, not the Isle of May. It's the Isle of May on maps and to visitors, but locals have always called it the May Isle. I love knowing that. I love calling it the May Isle.
This is what my daughter looked like about 6 years ago.
She still loves the beach. She doesn't get there very often these days.
I've lifted these photos from a post I wrote a year or so ago about my favourite beach in Fife. This is how I described the beach then.
"I don’t know how many hours I spent on this beach, in the company of this view, but it was many, and I don’t regret a single one. I love this beach. I got to know it, as you get to know a friend. I learned that the day after a storm, it might be covered with slimy green seaweed, but that a few days later it would be pristine clean again. I learned that the best way to spot sea glass, is by walking into the sun, preferably when it was low in the sky. I learned that gravelly sand can be as good for sand castles as fine sand. I learned that the sea would accept any anxiety or ill feeling, tied in my imagination to the stone in my hand, and thrown as far as I could manage it. The sea could be waveless, still as a pond, or dancing daintily, or crashing feverishly. It could be twinkling with sunlight, blue and silver, or it could be grey and dark, not bothering to reflect the sky at all. I tell you, every time I went to that beach, it offered me both something new and something familiar. Like the best of relationships."
You're allowed to recycle old blog posts when you're on holiday, aren't you?
.
I've been here.
Fife.
We used to live here. It's lovely coming back on holiday, because it's the best of both worlds. It's a holiday, so there's none of that daily life stuff to bother about. But it's familiar territory. We know where to go, where to shop, what to do, all the best haunts. We've caught up with a few old friends too.
This is the May Isle. You can take a boat trip there.
But guess what? I never have done. I don't know why. Just didn't quite get round to it when we lived here, and haven't ever got round to it since. I love the fact that I know it's really called the May Isle, not the Isle of May. It's the Isle of May on maps and to visitors, but locals have always called it the May Isle. I love knowing that. I love calling it the May Isle.
This is what my daughter looked like about 6 years ago.
She still loves the beach. She doesn't get there very often these days.
I've lifted these photos from a post I wrote a year or so ago about my favourite beach in Fife. This is how I described the beach then.
"I don’t know how many hours I spent on this beach, in the company of this view, but it was many, and I don’t regret a single one. I love this beach. I got to know it, as you get to know a friend. I learned that the day after a storm, it might be covered with slimy green seaweed, but that a few days later it would be pristine clean again. I learned that the best way to spot sea glass, is by walking into the sun, preferably when it was low in the sky. I learned that gravelly sand can be as good for sand castles as fine sand. I learned that the sea would accept any anxiety or ill feeling, tied in my imagination to the stone in my hand, and thrown as far as I could manage it. The sea could be waveless, still as a pond, or dancing daintily, or crashing feverishly. It could be twinkling with sunlight, blue and silver, or it could be grey and dark, not bothering to reflect the sky at all. I tell you, every time I went to that beach, it offered me both something new and something familiar. Like the best of relationships."
You're allowed to recycle old blog posts when you're on holiday, aren't you?
.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Unfair competition
I took my three children to the British Museum yesterday.
On our return, I asked 7-yo to tell her grandmother what was the most interesting thing she had seen there.
"Nothing", she replied. "Lots of really boring things, but nothing interesting at all".
Ah well. Can't win them all. Except, on reflection, she had something to add.
"There was one interesting thing. The ice cream van. That was good. Although it wasn't really IN the museum, was it? It was outside."
Bad luck, British Museum. Hundreds of years of history - nul points. Provision of parking spot for ice cream van - 10 out of 10.
.
On our return, I asked 7-yo to tell her grandmother what was the most interesting thing she had seen there.
"Nothing", she replied. "Lots of really boring things, but nothing interesting at all".
Ah well. Can't win them all. Except, on reflection, she had something to add.
"There was one interesting thing. The ice cream van. That was good. Although it wasn't really IN the museum, was it? It was outside."
Bad luck, British Museum. Hundreds of years of history - nul points. Provision of parking spot for ice cream van - 10 out of 10.
.
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