A very narrow escape

I've just been writing a round robin letter for the friends we've left behind in the States. (Real life friends, not virtual ones. You know...) I gave them news of the family, and how we're settling in to our new home, with a little reflection on the adjustment process. There's a paragraph that reads:

"Life in Scotland is both familiar and new. Small things take us by surprise. We both still go to the wrong side of the car, occasionally, and our kids really have no chance at all of producing work with correct spelling. Hurrah for spellcheckers. We have had to teach them to ask “Please may I have…?” instead of “Could I get…?” and wellies have become a part of life again. (You don’t know what wellies are? Google them.)"

But as it turned out, not so much of the Hurrah for spellcheckers. Because the spellchecker changed wellies to willies. 

Hurrah for me noticing before I sent the letter. What would the recipients have made of the statement that "willies have become a part of life again"? Followed by "You don't know what willies are? Google them."

It was a very narrow escape. I suppose you're all wishing that I'd sent the letter before I noticed. Shame on you. 

I couldn't make this cross-cultural stuff up if I tried. 

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How do you keep your jewellry?

I can't spell jewelry any more. The ability to spell jewellry is one of the casualties of living in America. What's more, I can't remember whether the spellchecker on this computer is British English or American English, so I don't know whether to over-ride its opinion or not. Sometimes it's hard being me.

Anyway, how do you keep your jewellry? That's not code for some gynaecological problem for which I want advice. I just don't know how to keep jewellry. These issues come into focus when you move house. Storage options suddenly rise to the top of your agenda, and you find yourself in IKEA too often for your health.

Lots of little boxes? One big box? Tree-like thing to hang items from? What works for you? I'm 48, and I have to say, I've never been happy with whatever I've done in the past. It's time to find a solution.

I once made myself a necklace and bracelet holder, which Blue Peter presenters would have been proud of. I made it out of a brown corrugated cardboard envelope, which a calendar had been packaged in. I glued some old felt inside, and then used map pins to fasten the necklaces and bracelets in, one pin at each end. When I opened the cardboard folder up, there they were, all lined up. They never got tangled. It was genius. It only worked for chains, though. Chunky jewellry still had to be in random boxes elsewhere. And ear-rings. It didn't work for ear-rings. I threw it away when we moved to America. I should probably have sent it to Blue Peter instead, and now my daughter would be making me another secretly for Christmas.

Seriously though. How do you keep your jewellry?

PS There's an 'e' in there somewhere, isn't there?

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Last night, I dreamt I photocopied my puppy

It's true. Most of the dream was trying to hold him still while closing the lid, which was not easy. The dream ended with the picture emerging: four paw prints, and the underside of his chin.

Why would I dream that?

A friend suggested that I'd really wanted to buy two puppies. Actually I didn't. Good suggestion though. Any other ideas?

PS Don't you so much prefer the old fashioned spelling "dreamt" over the more modern "dreamed"?

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A Christmas Miracle

That last post was a little grumpy, wasn't it? Oh go on, you don't have to be nice. It was. But I'm feeling better, enjoying Christmas CDs, eating mince pies (bought loads for an event Husband was organising, and then fewer people turned up than he'd guessed, so yay, spare mince pies for us!) and generally getting in the swing of it. If all else fails, I turn on my IKEA stars and think how lovely they look. Yes, I really am that easy to please.

In fact, I'm so full of the Christmas spirit, that I thought I'd share my own little Christmas miracle story with you. It has all the right ingredients: a family visit, a child, a special day, a mistake that turns out ok but teaches the main character a useful life lesson along the way, a three-legged opossum, and laundry.

Followers of my blog (sad, sad people) will know how much I hate my washer-dryer. I am taking steps to remedy the situation, but for reasons that I can't go into on a public blog (living in a house that belongs to an institution which employs Husband and is therefore not entirely my own to manage), for the time-being, I am stuck with it. I have a personal rule, which is that I never use the dryer function of the washer-dryer combo. Never. Never ever. The dial now has a red nail polish mark on it, to make it easy to see whether it is on or off (applied after I ruined a load of washing). As I say, I never use it. Never. I vowed I wouldn't ever again. Except just sometimes I do have to, for example when my brother and sister-in-law came to stay this week-end and I needed to dry some towels for them (see 1, family visit).

They left on Sunday night, and I turned my thoughts to Monday morning and getting ready for school. 12-yo (see 2, child) said he had to go to school in formal wear, which I thought couldn't be right, but I read the weekly bulletin and spotted a bit I'd missed. Yes, indeed, he did need to be in formal wear because it's the last day of school, with an assembly and a carol service (3, special day). Think kilt, sporran, knee-length socks, sock flashes... (love it, love it, love it, love having my children at a school in Scotland which makes them wear kilts from time to time). Only slight problem, the knee-length socks, of which he has only one pair because he only wears formal dress on rare occasions, were at the bottom of the laundry basket. So into the washing machine they went.

I had forgotten to turn the knob back to the "dryer off" position (4, mistake). When I went into the kitchen at 10.30pm, expecting to find a small pile of clean, wet laundry in the drum (pa-ra-pa-pum-pum) and the machine off, instead I found the machine humming away happily in dryer mode. Although it was on "wool" setting, it was very hot (no, there's nothing wrong with it, I've phoned customer services and asked, it's just that washer-dryers dry very hot). I decided then and there that the red nail polish mark wasn't enough. No. I would have to do more. I would have to selotape the knob, to remind myself never, ever, ever, never, ever to use the dryer (4, mistake that teaches the main character a useful life lesson).

But here's the amazing denouement. The socks were fine. They were almost dry, and they hadn't shrunk at all. They are wool, should be hand-washed, definitely shouldn't be tumble-dried, but when subjected to the foundry-like temperatures of the Hotpoint washer-dryer, had survived unscathed (4, mistake that turns out ok). It was a miracle. I'm naming those socks "Daniel", for they lived through the fiery furnace. (Know that story?) And verily there was much rejoicing, for if the socks had been ruined, indeed the stress therein would have been mighty. For it remaineth to be seen whether a mother can buy a pair of long dress socks for a 12 year old before eight o'clock on a Monday morning.

I lied about the three-legged opossum.

So if "It's a Wonderful Life", or "Miracle on 34th Street" fail to touch your spirit this Christmas, please hold the story of "Iota's Laundry Miracle" in your heart.

If that fails, eat mince pies.

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Iota's Six Top Festive Tips

Long-term followers of my blog (you poor sad people, don't you have anything better to do?) will know that I really love Christmas. So as the season starts to roll, I thought I would drip my distilled drops of wisdom, accumulated from experiences old and new, as to how to make this Christmas the most wonderful of all.

1. Don't get a spaniel puppy. They poo and wee a lot on the floor. They humiliate you at puppy training classes. They bark when they are excited, which is a lot of the time. When you discuss this, outside, with the puppy trainer, she will talk about rewarding good behaviour, as if you need to become an expert in canine CBT. You will be nodding and smiling, while all the while you will be thinking "or we could just buy a kennel and he could live outside". Shouting at your puppy does not help.
2. Don't have sons. They are incapable of distinguishing dirty clothes from clean. If you have to have sons, wait a few decades until Lasik have invented a corrective procedure, that will be offered to parents of boys at their birth. Shouting at your sons does not help.
3. Don't have daughters. They are like whirlwinds of chaos. They have 'art projects' everywhere. They insist on growing their hair long, and then they don't want to wash it because they are too busy when it comes to bedtime. Shouting at your daughters does not help.
4. Don't get married. Husbands are always right about everything, and it's very annoying. They put on a sad face with sad eyes (see "spaniel puppy" above) when you shout at them. 
5. Don't buy Christmas stocking fillers. You will hide them and then not remember where you have put them. Don't even bother with the shouting on this one. Those pesky stocking fillers will not hear you, and even if they do, they will not answer.
6. Don't buy Christmas decorations. Don't buy fancy cardboard stars from IKEA, and wait till Sunday night to put them up. You will have mislaid the light bulbs, and it will be too late to go and buy some more (even if you could be bothered), because this is Britain where shops shut at a stupidly early hour. You won't be able to make the stars hang straight, because electric flex is so deliberately wayward, and because, quite frankly, the world is against you. Surprisingly, shouting at the IKEA stars DOES help.

If you follow these six tips, I guarantee you'll be full of festive cheer, and the season will envelop you in a flurry of goodwill and jollity, as if you were in a blizzard and every snowflake was a warm wish of happiness.

This post is part of the BritMums Christmas Blog Hop.

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A parent's moral dilemma: the reveal

Great answers, everyone. I really enjoyed hearing from you all.

In reality, what happened was this. I asked Husband, who, after all, does teach RME (Religious and Moral Education) and has whole shelves of books on ethics, so you would think he would have an opinion. Failing that, he could quote Socrates or Bonhoeffer and I could get cross and accuse him of being irrelevant. Either would be possible. In the event, he asked

"What did you actually tell 11-yo you'd do?"

I thought about it, and I replied

"I told him that I would ask the neighbours and the postman next time I saw them, because they were the obvious people who could have dropped it.* So yes, I had said I would ask the postman. "

This made it much simpler. [At this point in the story, you may feel unfairly treated, like when a murder mystery author introduces a new fact about a character or situation which you couldn't possibly have worked out for yourself, and which is key to the denouement. In my defence, may I point out that when I was pondering the rights and wrongs of the case, I was in your situation too. I didn't see this piece of information as relevant. It took Husband "just call me Hercule" to dig it up, shine a light on it, and reveal it as important.]

So I told 11-yo, that I'd asked the postman, that the money belonged to him, that I'd repaid him, and that 11-yo needed to give me the cash. I was fully prepared to be met with disbelief, annoyance, accusations of being unfair, and 11 year old wrath, and I was ready to argue my case. But 11-yo said

"Oh, ok then. Well that's his good luck, isn't it?"

and coughed up the dosh, without a murmur of hesitation.

Being a parent is full of surprises, isn't it?

But one moral dilemma leads to another. As I was telling Husband the end of the story, I said I was glad for the postman, who's such a very nice and helpful guy. And then I paused to reflect, would the issue have been the same if the postman had been a miserable, grumpy geezer? Would I have done the same thing? Should I have done? At this point, Husband muttered something about being late for work, and hastened off, shaping his moustache between thumb and forefinger, tapping his cane on the ground, and practising rrolling his Frrench rr's.


*in the front garden, where it was found, to those of you still wondering why the postman would be snooping round our back garden.
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A parent's moral dilemma

Yes, I thought a title as snappy and inviting as that would have you clicking quickly over here.

Here's a story. What would you have done? I'm genuinely interested. And when you've all told me, I'll tell you what I did.

11-yo found a £10 note in our front garden. Imagine the joy. We're in a cul-de-sac of two houses, not on a street, so it was a bit of a puzzle. No-one passes by, possibly dropping money as they go.

We asked our neighbours, and it wasn't theirs. We said "Finders Keepers", and 11-yo was happy. But then a couple of days later, I asked the postman, and he said yes, it was his (and I asked in such a way that I knew it was, ok? I didn't just say "We found a £10 note; did you drop one?"). So I gave the postman £10.

So what happens now? Do I tell 11-yo, and tell him he has to give up the £10 note to me? Do I not tell 11-yo, because spoiling a child's joy is a rotten thing to do? Should I have not even asked the postman? (Too late now on that one.) Do I split the damage 50-50 with 11-yo - not logical, but a reasonable compromise?

The other factor you need to know in this story, is that it's 11-yo's birthday this week. Obviously that has no moral bearing at all, but I find it significant, in a flakey maternal way.
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It's my birthday

... and I'll blog if I want to, blog if I want to, blog if I want to,
You would blog too, if it happened to you.

Or maybe not.

Anyway, it is my birthday.

Because my birthday is on the 24th, I always looked forward to being 24. I thought it would be significant in some way to be 24 on the 24th. When it came to it, I don't think it did feel very significant. Two decades of expectation, and then nothing special. Ah well.

I'm 48 today. As I was walking along, yesterday, pondering, as you do, when you walk along, on the day before your birthday, it occurred to me that 48 is twice 24, and that therefore this birthday is doubly special.

I have to make the most of these significant birthdays. The next one will be 72, and then 96, and then that will probably be it for significant birthdays of this kind.

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How I know, I just know, that Google Maps is edited by a man

I love, love, love Google Maps. I'm sorry if you're a Mapquest fan - is anyone these days? - but Google Maps is just so much better than anything else out there.

I can spend hours zooming round the world. I don't, because I reckon I already spend too much time in front of a screen  in idle pursuits. But it's fabulous, isn't it? You can SEE so much. I wish my father had lived in the era of Google Maps. He loved travel, geography, thinking about other cultures. He used to read travel books, and look at atlases. He would have loved zooming round the world. How it feeds your imagination! It's like being a child.

Google Maps are so USEFUL too. I love the street view. A house has come up for sale near our one (which is STILL on the market, waaah). I can have a quick look at it on Google Maps. Oh yes. THAT one. I recognise it. Going to a new place in our new city, and not sure if I'll find it ok. Quick scoot around Google Maps to have a shufty in advance so I know what to look out for. Feeling nosey about an area for some underhand reason? You can have a snoop from the privacy of your own desk. I trust the routes and timings of Google Maps far above our GPS - though if Google Maps added a voice, called itself Emily, and insinuated itself into Husband's trusting heart, then I'd probably turn against it too. It's MARVELOUS, that's what Google Maps is. And I try not to use upper case words too much in my writing (lazy emphatics, in my opinion), so when I do so, you REALLY know I mean it. They've started showing buildings in 3D on the map now, when you go in close. That's fairly incredible.

I like the odd quirk of humour too. If you set a route from England to America, it tells you to swim the Atlantic (at least it used to... I've just tried it, and it didn't seem to work). And there's a place in Antarctica where they've added a little cartoon penguin (not that I'd encourage stereotyping the culture of any geographical location, but they do have a point).

But...

Google Maps has just changed the way one of its features works, and it's a disaster. Now, it has to be said, I'm not the world's most spatially competent person. I'm a bit slow in three dimensions. I remember the days when I instinctively wanted a mouse to operate in left/right the other way. You get what I mean. I wanted to move the mouse to the left, and see the cursor move to the right. Apparently it's quite common, and don't worry about me. I got over it some years ago. I can cause hilarity by trying to learn a new Playstation or Wii game. It involves a lot of expletives, and questions like "but why does it go THAT way, when I turn the console THIS way?" (more lazy emphatics, sorry). If I'm in a lift, and I want to hold the doors open for someone who's hurrying to get in, it's very hit or miss whether I will improve their chances. I look at those arrows and lines, and in the heat of the moment, pressure on, hit both, one after the other, until I get the desired result. I really, really, really can't imagine the solar system, with planets in orbit on different planes. They should be in a straight line, like in the pictures in books. No... operating 2D to 3D isn't my strong suit.

In fact, in the early days of Google Maps, when you had to click on a small arrow on the side of the frame to move the map from left to right or up and down, I found it counter-intuitive. I pointed out to Husband that if you click on the arrow on the left, the map moved to the right. What was the logic of THAT? He helped me re-wire my neural pathways on that one, by suggesting I think of it in terms of "you click on the arrow that points in the direction of the bit of map you want to see next". Good old Husband.

Which brings me to the point of this post. Google Maps has changed the way you get the camera to rotate around, when you're in Street View. Once you've got over the initial excitement of being in Street View ("Oh my goodness, look at the DETAIL... it's AMAZING..."), you can usually turn around, to the left, to the right, and then walk up and down the street. But they've changed the little operating thingy in the top left hand corner. You used to click on the arrow that points in the direction of the bit of world you want to see next. The left arrow for looking to the left; the right arrow for looking to the right. Easy peasy. Now, they have a compass, and when you hover over it, you can "rotate compass clockwise" or "rotate compass anti-clockwise". This is totally bewildering. It means you click on the left side of it to go right, and the right side of it to go left. WHAT IS THE POINT OF THAT? It makes me feel like I'm driving from north to south and someone won't let me turn the map round. That's what it makes me feel like.

And THAT, dear Bloggy Friends, is how I know, I just know, that Google Maps is edited by a man.

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Compliment... I think...

I picked 8-yo up from school one day last week, not dressed in my usual clothes, but in sharper attire.

I thought I was going to have to eat public humble pie and confess to having bought an item of clothing that I poured scorn and loathing on in a previous blog post. Jeggings. I thought I'd ranted at length about them, but on looking up that old post, it turns out, my memory was wrong. I was ranting about pyjama jeans. Pyjama jeans... *physical shudder*...

Now I probably don't strike you instantly as a jeggingsy kind of a gal, and I confess that in M&S recently, I had to ask the meaning of the word "treggings". I can't be doing with all these hybrid items. It's like layering. I've never got the hang of that. If you're cold, put on a jumper. If you're not, wear a shirt. Can't really do layering. Doesn't make sense, and looks like you didn't finish getting dressed properly. Perhaps I just had too many people in my childhood telling me to tuck my school blouse in (or "tuck yourself in" as they would say, which is a very odd turn of phrase, if you stop to think of it).

As I was saying, jeggings have not come naturally to me, but now I've taken the plunge (visual image of two M&S assistants each holding one side of a pair of jeggings, and me on a diving board above, shutting my eyes and holding my nose, stepping off and arriving, bump, ouch, into the garment), and I have to say they do look great with long suede boots, and a snappy city-dweller short mac. (Do they call them "macs" these days, or should I say "raincoat"?)

Back to 8-yo. When I picked her up, she said

"Oh Mummy, I hardly recognised you, you look so pretty".

Which I took as a compliment.

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Birthdays

I love celebrating the children's birthdays, but this next one, 11-yo turning 12, is proving a bit of a hair in the gate. He and I have birthdays four days apart, and in America, they fell around Thanksgiving. We developed the tradition of a wonderful family time, taking the kids out of school for three days to turn the long week-end into a week, and heading off to Colorado. Late November in Colorado can be sunny and mild, or snowy and cold. It can be autumn or winter. I loved the element of surprise. We returned to favourite haunts, and did favourite things. We found snow, by heading high, and had a morning's sledding. We had a hike to a waterfall. We spent time in a cafe, drinking hot chocolate and playing cards. It was a much-anticipated week in a place special to the family. I even loved the journey, 10 hours' drive, along roads that had become familiar over the years.

11-yo has always done well for his birthday, because I've never wanted him to feel it's overshadowed by Christmas. Going to Colorado included a family celebration, and then he always had an event with friends too when we got back, whatever floated a young boy's boat. This year, back in Scotland, I was stuck. He was too. When we first discussed it, there were tears. He was suddenly overwhelmed with thoughts of friends back in the US, the memory of the huge party he had a couple of  years ago joint with his best friend whose birthday is around the same time, and assertions that he doesn't have any friends here who he would want to invite. I left the subject for a few days. At the next discussion, he claimed that everyone in his entire class has already seen Skyfall, and no-one would want to see it again. No other idea was right either. Nobody would want to do anything.

This morning, as we walked to school, I found I was explaining and re-explaining why there had to be a limit of 3, on the number of friends we'd take to the cinema, and that if he really wanted to include a whole bunch of boys, we could have them round for a video and pizza instead. Phew. Given the choice of being faced with a child's anguish ("I don't have any friends") or a child's anger ("But WHY can't I invite 4 for the cinema?"), I'd willingly take the second, exhausting though it can be.

I thought we were unstuck on the birthday front, and it felt good. Until 8-yo piped up

"For my birthday, we'll be going back to America, won't we?"

I knew I had to nip that expectation in the bud, and told her that no, that wouldn't be possible.

"But it's ok, because it'll be half term," she countered.

Sometimes moving continents is a real bummer.

My Liz Jones ha'p'orth

Well, Liz Jones has upset mummy bloggers. We are predictably up in arms and writing about it. Writing about ourselves in arms makes a change from writing about babes in arms, I suppose.

The point that I find offensive is this.

The title of the article is "Free? You blogging mums may as well wear burkas", and the concluding comments are

"Women have again been duped into thinking the world exists in their tiny, safe, fragrant homes, that life revolves around burps. 

They might just as well don a burka, and shuffle, so narrow is their vision."

Am I the only one who finds this racist? Or if not racist, then religionist? Is published racism now acceptable? (I don't read the Mail, so you may need to fill me in on this one).

I've said enough. It's my policy not to add to these blogging spats, but I felt I had to point out the angle on this one that other people seem to be missing.

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Hector is back in favour

Yesterday I took Hector for a walk round the school playing fields. As I was going home, I came across 11-yo and his class-mates, on the way back to the boys' changing room. 11-yo's face suddenly made it all worthwhile, when he saw Hector, called him, scooped him up into his arms, and showed him off to his friends. "Hector, my puppy", he crooned, to the admiration of the other boys.

He put Hector down, and I turned for home. Suddenly, Hector was disappearing in the opposite direction. He'd found a piece of orange peel, picked it up, and, suspecting (correctly) that I'd take it away from him, rushed off. Heading for the nearest hiding place, he dashed straight into the boys' changing room. He was so quick that I didn't see where he'd gone, but I knew, from the shrieks of laughter and excitement coming out of the door. 11-yo sprinted after him, there was more shrieking and hilarity, and then 11-yo emerged, Hector in his arms.

Hector. You brought mirth to the First Form, raised their spirits, and gave them a story to tell over tea. You elevated 11-yo's status among his peers. Oh, the kudos of having a puppy, and a puppy who naughtily ventured into the boys' changing room!

You can stay. (But try harder on the house training, would you?)

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Why Husband is like Obama (and why I am not like the First Lady)

So Obama is President again. As he made his victory speech, there was a small, seemingly insignificant phrase, that resonated in the Manhattan household. You possibly missed it, amidst the background noise of the whole world beyond America breathing a huge sigh of relief. As he paid tribute to his daughters and talked about their return to the White House, he joked "but one dog is enough".

"Too right", muttered Husband, stirring his porridge, as the furry whirlwind which blows floor level through our kitchen at breakfast-time twirled and yapped at his feet. "Though I would go further, and say that maybe one dog is too many."

I was thinking about life in the White House, and I bet Michelle's experience of puppy-owning is very different to mine. I bet Michelle has a cleaner who mops her kitchen floor. I bet Michelle didn't have to spend time measuring the boot of her car and looking on Gumtree for a crate that fits. I bet Michelle doesn't have to get her children to take the dog out into the cold while she cooks dinner, because his behaviour is so uncontrollable when the smell of food permeates the kitchen, saying "you wanted a dog, and this is part of having a dog". I bet Michelle had a puppy trainer who took Bo, and in patriotic duty, faced the hours of lonely frustration on behalf of the First Family: "Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... oh, Good Dog! Good Dog! Good Dog! Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit..." I bet Michelle doesn't have to load her own dishwasher, pushing a persistent nose away and repeating "snout out, snout out", in the knowledge that the command will never either be obeyed or appreciated for its linguistic finesse.

One of the things I think blogging has achieved, is to demythologise motherhood. Gone are the days when mothers had to say that life at home with a baby or toddler was one long road of joy and contentment. Now, it is ok to confess to days when if the baby doesn't stop screaming, you will join in but louder, or that ONE MORE game of ludo will send you over the edge. (Ludo... my personal nemesis...) I do truly believe that mummy blogging has been hugely influential in effecting this liberating sea-change. So with that in mind, let me start blazing the trail of honest reporting for puppy-owners everywhere. It's lovely having a puppy. Everyone says so. They are cute and fun and life-affirming. But, they are also THERE... ALL THE TIME... and if you've been used to the freedom of organising the school hours of your day around your own needs and wants, then having a puppy will seriously clip your wings. It's not the poo and the puddles on the kitchen floor, or the yapping when you're trying to make a phone call, or the feelings of guilt if you're out for more than a couple of hours,  or the chewing-through of the internet cable twice in two days (though that was pretty bad), or the thinly disguised competitiveness of puppy training classes, or having to go down to breakfast in boots because slippers are irresistible to a teething puppy, as are naked ankles, which are also very tender when nipped by dagger-sharp teeth, (...deep breath...), it's the knowledge of something depending on you for absolutely everything in its daily life, lodged in that whispering layer of the brain just below the surface. The white noise of responsibility. It's taken me years to drive along a road without looking out for tractors and diggers to point out to a long-since-grown small passenger in the back, and now I find I can't cross a street without a reflex sparking that wants to twitch the lead a little closer to my legs, even when Hector is at home, curled up safely on his cushion or - more likely - squatting productively in the middle of the kitchen floor.

I confessed all this in a guilty moment to two other dog owners, who sympathised. "Oh heavens yes... We actually discussed whether, if our puppy got run over, we'd replace him or go back to having our freedom. " "There were definitely days when I thought we'd made the wrong decision getting a dog, and I just had to go into another room to be away from her for a couple of hours." It was wonderful - like those playgroup moments when you find out  you're not the only mother who can't make sticker charts work.

Hector, in case you ever learn to read, I do love you, and I am glad we've got you, so if I'm sometimes a little less enthusiastic than I should be about you, don't judge me too harshly. I think it's normal, and at least I'm being honest. And if you are reading this at some future date, perhaps you could tell me why house-training was really so difficult.

"Health risk of drying laundry indoors"

Well, that's all we need, isn't it? Drying laundry indoors puts too much moisture into your air (a litre per half load). That's bad for you.

But how does that compare with the ill health caused by the stress of using a washer-dryer?

We should really all be drying our laundry outside (in Scotland in November?), or finding a glass-walled, south-facing well-ventilated space in our homes. And if you don't have a glass-walled, south-facing, well-ventilated space*... I suppose you sit and wait till someone invents clothes that don't need washing. Personally, I'm not going to worry, because I reckon the moisture content in the air I breathe the minute I set foot outside our house (in Scotland in November) is probably well above what a litre per half load produces inside.

You can see the clip here, but I wouldn't bother. It'll just depress you. Everything makes you ill these days, doesn't it?


*One of the funnniest expat blog posts about laundry that I've read is this one, in which Rachel talks about how much she was looking forward to the conservatory in her new home. She dreamed of sitting there on a winter morning, sipping coffee in the warmth of the sun and watching the birds in the garden. All her English visitors to the new home commented how lovely the conservatory was... but they all exclaimed how great the space would be for drying laundry. It's one of those ultimate cultural divide things.

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Nappy Valley

Superstorm Sandy has shocked us all. What do you make of how America is dealing with the aftermath?

I emailed Nappy Valley Girl, saying "I think everyone is waiting for a blog post from you. Hope all is ok." I'm not sure what I expected, but those of us who follow NVG's blog, written from Long Island, know that she is the kind of gal who'd be good in a crisis. Do you remember that time when they were away on holiday, there was a storm which blew over a large tree, right onto their house, demolishing it in one fell swoop? They had to move house.

As I say, I'm not sure what I expected, but it was probably a story of some kind, a description of what the storm was like, a few thoughts on how everyone is coping. Maybe an insightful reflection on some aspect of American life, as revealed by this dramatic episode. Well, this is what she replied:

"Ok but no power possibly for 2 weeks. Cellphone patchy. Plus I am unwell. Feels like something from a disaster film round here. Please let people know. America is not coping with this at all."

I then asked if she was happy for me to share this in a blog post, and she said yes.

Spare a thought for NVG (I'm sure lots of us have been). This isn't what she signed up for, when she headed off to Long Island from London. Why not go and leave her a comment? I don't know what else to suggest.

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What we do best

Since we no longer have the Sunday posts of Pond Parleys to ponder (sorry) the differences between life in the US and the UK (I miss that blog...), I thought I'd share this post with you. It made me laugh, but there are many nuggets of truth and insight in there too.

For example

what the US does best                    what the UK does best

chocolate chip coookies                        Scottish shortbread

highways                                                byways

"Just do it!"                                           "It's just not 'done'."

That's just to whet your appetite. There's a whole long list waiting for you.

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Meet Hector

We have a puppy! He is a cocker spaniel (English cocker spaniels are a bit smaller than American cockers, for my US readers). He is a blue roan, which is breeder-speak for speckledy grey with black and white patches. Here he is.

There are two things that I've learnt about puppies. The first is that they are very hard to photograph, especially if they have black faces, because then it looks as if they don't have eyes. So forgive me the quality of the pictures in this post. The second is that they won't bother about getting house trained, if you don't bother. A lot. A very lot.

Apart from the house training issue (which is my fault, really, because I just can't build my life round taking a dog outside every 20 minutes, and what progress I'd made, we lost when half-term started and my eye was even less on the house training ball than before), he is a pleasure. He is fun, confident, unbelievably cute, and as 8-yo commented the other day "has brought a lot of joy to our lives". Most of our lives, in any case. I could say all but one of our lives... Looking at you here, Husband... You'll bond with him in time... Trust me...

I do particularly like the fact that he is good at nights. I wasn't looking forward to having to get up in the night to a barking or whining puppy, or those horribly early mornings when the puppy body clock says "day begins now". But Hector has got me up only once in the night. From night one, when we firmly shut the kitchen door, and the bedroom door, and didn't borrow a baby monitor, he settled well. He settles in the evening, and even though he hears us next door in the sitting room, he will put himself to bed in the kitchen, not even being offended if I go in to make a cup of tea. When half-term began, I predicted that his body clock would still be on school hours, but he only barks when he hears us get up. Of course the kitchen floor is littered with unwelcome surprises, but I'll happily mop those up if it means I've had an extra hour or two in bed.

I don't really know what else to tell you about Hector (for such is his name). Oh, except that he was clearly destined to be ours. I'd already short-listed Hector as a name (remember that blog post?). We'd decided on a cocker, a male, and my first choice was a blue roan. When I phoned a breeder, I asked if there were any males in the litter, and any blue roans. The breeder replied "There's only one blue roan boy. He's very inquisitive so we've nick-named him Hector the Inspector". We went to see the litter, and fell in love with Hector, but the children also fell for another, whom they nick-named Cuddles. Cuddles, an orange roan (brown and white), was the shy, timid puppy who pulled at heartstrings. The other puppies gambolled about, while Cuddles got tired, and simply fell asleep in the middle of the floor. So we went off to have a coffee and discuss the issue. I phoned the breeder, said we were still choosing between the two, and asked if we could come and have another look, (though I told the children that Hector was my first choice, as I preferred to have a confident rather than a timid dog). But while we had been having coffee, the next buyer - who had said he wanted one of the all-black puppies from the litter - had chosen orange roan Cuddles instead. So Hector was ours! It was meant to be.

Here are another couple of pictures of him. Bless his little, soft, furry, blue roan heart.

Further woes of a returning Brit

Laundry. It's a common cause for angst amongst Americans living in Britain. As I said in my last post, I find I've crossed the line. I'm in the Big American Washing Machines and Dryers sisterhood now.

There's another divide I've traversed. It also reduces me to a quivering heap of rage from time to time. I'm sure you can guess what it is. Yup. Customer service. Tell me...

• Why do I need a pound for a supermarket trolley? Does the supermarket not want my business? Do they not want to make it easy for me to shop with them? Don't try that prevention-of-vandalism argument with me. If I was a vandal intent on a late night jaunt involving some drunken friends, a shopping trolley, a hill, and a disused quarry or murky canal (sounds quite fun, actually), I don't think the need for a pound coin would put me off. 
• Why do shop assistants expect me to stand and wait while they finish their personal conversations?
• Why do they think it makes it better to say "I'll be with you in a minute"? I am the customer. Be with me NOW.
• Why do shop assistants say "It's over there" and wave vaguely in the direction from which I've come? I wouldn't be asking them where it was, if I'd found it "over there".
• When they say "It's over there", why do they add "or it should be"? I'm not interested in where it should be. I'm interested in where it IS. 
• When I say "I couldn't find it over there", why do they ask "Do you want me to show you?" OF COURSE I want you to show me. If I didn't want you to show me, I wouldn't have asked. 
• Why do shop assistants content themselves (but not me) with saying "I don't know"? It is your job to know, or to find out.
• Why is the British public so happy to be told "It's up to you, really"? Yes, it's up to me - I'm the customer after all (perhaps I should just remind you of that) - but I am asking for your advice. That's why you are in this job.
• Why do waiters ignore me studiously when I want the bill? Do they not WANT my money?
• How on earth do the public loos in cafes and shops pass health and safety standards?

Oh dear, I can feel my blood pressure rising as I write this. Too many UPPER CASE WORDS are creeping in. I'll have to go to Belgium for a day. That'll make me feel better about British customer service.

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Washing woes

If you read expat blogs, there is one subject that comes up again and again. A subject that evokes the deepest, darkest, most shameful emotions, that stirs home-loving, patriotic passion, that will reduce the most rational, accepting, broad-horizoned traveler to a ranting, bigoted ball of nationalistic hatred. Yes... it's the laundry.

I could write a blog post about my puppy. But as I sit at the computer, I am possessed with a fury that I have seldom known in my life, and I need to run into the therapeutic arms of the blogosphere, to release my pent-up loathing. Loathing, hatred, intense dislike. The thesaurus has left me high and dry. I am lost for words to describe my murderous, raging, venomous, aaaargh...... towards my washer-drier. I don't even know how to spell it. Washer-drier? Washer-dryer? What kind of a thing doesn't even know how to spell itself?

Stick to one thing. Wash if you wash. Dry if you dry. Don't try and multi-task. That's for women. Human beings with a brain, intelligence, and years of experience with laundry. You smug little square white pile of... metal. You think you're so wonderfully clever, with your wheel of different programme numbers, and your buttons of special options.You have that irritating know-all expression on your glass-fronted face, and you rumble away in the corner as if you are the King of Clean Dry Clothing Land. But you know NOTHING! You have the laundry sensitivity of a rampaging bull ox. In season. DON'T try to interrupt. What do you know of animal biology?

I poo-poo your eco-wash option. I hate your small white dials. I spit on your spin speed selector. I refuse to  look at your detergent drawer. I walk by on the other side of the utility room, with my face turned away. I despise your attempts to win me back, with your luring offer of three different levels of dryness. Hanging dry, ironing dry, wardrobe dry. It all sounds so good, but then you go and spoil it all. How can I trust you again? No. Nothing you can do can make me change my mind. I will not relent. You have ruined our relationship. I started out suspicious of your dual nature, your washer-dryer combination, but willing to put my prejudices to one side, to make an effort with you. You have ignored my needs, trampled over my desires. My dreams lie in shrunken, creased heaps. You have put me through the wringer, and hung me out to... never mind. There are no more second chances. I am dumping you.

I never thought I'd say this, but I miss my great big American washing machine. OK, so it didn't get the clothes very clean, but at least it tried. It didn't knot them, shrink them, crumple them, and spew them out at my feet, jeering at my woe and sorrow. It wasn't high-tech or environmentally friendly, but sometimes, I have come to realise, size DOES matter. You and your namby-pamby 5 kilogram weight limit. I don't need your clever clogs technology. I need a machine that will love and accept my huge loads of dirty washing, and then another one that will dry them, gently and carefully, with me at the controls. Machines that will discuss with me what outcomes I want, rather than arrogantly assume they know best. Do you care about 11-yo's Manchester United fleece? You say you do. Your instruction book makes all kinds of extravagant claims. But your behaviour is contrary to those empty promises. You've ruined that fleece. That precious fleece. That fleece, several pairs of school trousers, socks, t-shirts, a dressing gown, and my new M&S panties, with no regard to the cost. Hotpoint, it's over between us.

American expats, I feel your pain. I've crossed over. I'm on your side now. I'm missing my Maytags.

Ch... ch... ch... changes

Do you know, I've been blogging for over five years. I have. That's more than 10% of my life. One of my early blogging favourites, Wife in the North, popped up in my reader the other day, saying she was coming back to blogging after a break. I left a comment saying "Oh, it's all changed, you know", and then started thinking about how, exactly, blogging has changed in those five years.

I have had phases when I've got a bit sad about the development of blogging. In my time, I've written the odd post bewailing this: "oh, it's going all commercial", I've lamented. But mostly, I've enjoyed watching it. Watching it? Heck, I've not just watched from the sidelines. I've been part of it. Because that's one of the great things about blogging. You can be part of it, just by doing it.

So, how has blogging changed over the past five years? Here are my thoughts.

It's just so much bigger. I remember the days when I didn't have a reader, but just scooted round blogs from blog roll to blog roll. If a new blog appeared, it felt like everyone popped over to check it out. A new writer on the block. Now, I imagine it must be much harder for new bloggers to jump in. Perhaps that's why it feels as if there's an "in-crowd" (always a favourite topic for a whinge in the blogosphere). I used to deliberately have a look round blogs I hadn't read before, on a frequent basis. Now, I hardly venture outside my comfort zone of known friends. But that's mostly a function of my changing needs as a blogger. I'm not in search of new readers, particularly, so I'm not in search of new reads. But if I was, I'm aware that it would be tougher than it used to be - there are more readers, but there are a lot more writers.

Yes, blogging has got more commercial. But here's the thing. It doesn't have to be. There are people making money out of blogging. There are people making a living out of blogging. There are people using their blog to support and promote their business. But there are still plenty of people like me, who blog for fun, and are happy to have the odd perk, but who would, and do, willingly blog without perks.

Because it's bigger, blogging is more fragmented. Niches are no longer niches, but whole communities.  I don't read blogs about new babies any more, because (dare I say it) once you have left that world behind, you lose the intensity of interest in the issues. I clearly remember the day I read a blog post on baby led weaning, and thought "what the heck is that?" I didn't know about it, and so I couldn't have an opinion. I felt a little excluded. It was a moving-on moment. I still found the post quite interesting though, whereas now, my attention isn't grabbed by baby or toddler issues at all. My conclusion is that most people write blogs that are about the generality of their lives, but that they'll only really attract new readers if they are writing for a specific audience, and those audiences are pretty segmented. Those of us who enjoy the luxury of having made bloggy friends in the early days, find that we can drag them along with our general wittering about life. But I'm guessing that you couldn't really start out that way these days (correct me if I'm wrong).

Blogging is no longer just about writing. Once upon a time, people who had fancy blog designs were in the minority. Now, the design is a crucial part of the blog. Blogs have become much more visual. Photography is a huge element of blogging. Just look at the popularity of Tara Cain's Gallery. Writing takes its place alongside other forms of creative expression: photos, videos, music. It's a richer mix than it used to be. Writing has always been the central interest for me, but I love the variety. There are some blogs that I follow exclusively for their photographs.

Blogging used to be just a little bit shocking. It started with people confessing to imperfect parenting. This is something that we now take for granted, but five years ago, confessing to having lost your temper with your children, or to beginning your anticipation of the 7.30pm post-bedtime glass of wine as you clear away breakfast - these were things that you only revealed to a good friend, jokingly. That's one thing I think blogging has seriously influenced. The general perception of parenthood is much more real, and less sugary than it used to be. There are other areas of life that used to be whispered about, that blogging has made it ok to talk about publicly: infertility is a big one, miscarriage, stillbirth, cancer. It's hard to shock now, in the blogosphere. When I wrote about having cancer, it felt very exposing (I wouldn't do it now - it only felt possible when I was pretty much anonymous). But now the blogosphere is dotted with photos of bald chemotherapy heads, mastectomy scars, blow by blow medical details.

Most obviously, blogging has ridden the wave that has been the surging development of social media. Now this is where I have to go quiet, because I'm immediately out of my depth here. I used to feel protective of blogging, feeling that it would be submerged. Remember that song by The Buggles: Video Killed the Radio Star? I used to fear that social media would kill blogging. But it hasn't, and it isn't. It's giving it new platforms, new opportunities. I'm going to stop on that subject, before I reveal my almost total lack of functional knowledge.

Those are my thoughts on how blogging has changed in the past five years. What about you? What do you think? I'd like to tag a few bloggers who've been around a while, to invite them to share their views. It's an interesting topic. So, consider yourself tagged:

Expat Mum
Potty Mummy
Nappy Valley Girl
Who's The Mummy?
Sticky Fingers
A Modern Mother
The American Resident
Rosie Scribble
More Than Just a Mother
Crystal Jigsaw

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The Blue Goose

Disclaimer: Those nice people at Groupon gave me £40 to buy myself a Groupon and review the goods or service.

Now, I do like a Groupon. I've had good Groupon experiences and bad Groupon experiences. In America, I discovered my nearest restaurant with a Groupon, which I'd never have thought of going to otherwise, and which became a favourite. I also discovered a sad, empty restaurant which served not very nice food, an over-priced and inflexible hairdressing salon, and a bit of a mediocre massage therapist. What I like about Groupon, is that it makes you try new things. It's the nearest thing to adventure that I get - or want (I'm quite boring, really). I enjoy the randomness of it. You pick one, you buy it, and sometimes it's great, sometimes it's not. I guess that's the essence of a bargain. Sometimes that sweater that was a steal in the shop becomes your favourite go-to wardrobe item. Sometimes it spends its life accusingly sitting on the shelf, saying "you bought me, now you must darn well wear me, even though I'm really not very nice to look at after all".

When you've moved to a new city, Groupon seems a great way of exploring. Especially if it's a freebie. Thus it was that I purchased "Tapas for Two" at the Blue Goose Country Pub. The description sounded as if the experience contained all I would need for a cosy night out with Husband. It was by the Water of Leith, and the words "Country Pub" always warm the cockles of the heart, especially the heart that has been living in America, thousands of miles away from the nearest country pub. We'd been told that Leith is full of nice eateries and drinkeries, and it's not far from where we are, so I thought it would be an easy night out.

Thing is, no-one told me that the Water of Leith is the name of the river that flows through the city of Edinburgh. So just because an establishment is "by the Water of Leith", it doesn't mean that it's anywhere near Leith. Stop laughing at me. It was an easy mistake. It did mean that the evening didn't get off to a flying start. First, I must have asked Husband about half a dozen times if it really was ok to leave the children with the new puppy on their own, even though the puppy would be asleep all evening (oh... and there's a blog post I haven't written yet... the puppy...). Second, I had the traditional argument with Emily, our GPS voice. She does insist on taking us through the city centre, even though half the roads are closed where they are laying tramlines. Third, we realised pretty soon that we weren't headed for Leith, five minutes away, but for three-quarters of the way down the Lanark Road, about twenty minutes away (or more, if you're relying on Emily).

The Blue Goose is, indeed, right by the Water of Leith, and there is a small outdoor area where you could sit and have a pint (though not on a rainy, cold, dark September evening). But even with as many provisos as I could muster, the words "country pub" seemed... well, perhaps I just have an over-romanticised mental image of a country pub. Call me picky, but the words don't somehow conjure up a building on a major arterial road. The atmosphere as we walked into The Blue Goose wasn't so much open fire, horse brasses and low beams, as brightly lit restaurant area, and bar area with Nutbush City Limits blaring loudly from speakers. We've all had those "this is not what I had in mind" moments, and this was one of mine.

But all's well that ends well. I dropped my pre-conceptions, and decided we were going to have a nice evening anyway. We found a quietish corner, and I think they must have turned the music down. Either that, or Husband's conversation was so scintillating that I filtered out any other decibels. The tapas were delicious. The staff were helpful and when we said we wanted something else to eat, but not a whole course, the waitress suggested the cheeseboard from the dessert menu. She said it was really nice, and she was right. Just the perfect suggestion.

So will I go to The Blue Goose again? In all honesty, I probably won't make a special trip. We are in central Edinburgh, and therefore very spoilt for choice with places to eat and drink without driving for 20-30 minutes with the irritating Emily. But if I happened to be in a traffic jam on the Lanark Road, on my way back from... Lanark, perhaps?... and wanted somewhere for a break, it would be good to know of The Blue Goose, with its easy parking, flexible menu, friendly staff, and memorable name. It might be a balmy summer evening, and I'd order the cheeseboard and a glass of wine, take a table outside, and sit by the Water of Leith. Not very near Leith.

Iota and Husband enjoyed a glass of wine each and six tapas for two, at The Blue Goose, 27 Lanark Road, Edinburgh EH14 1TG.  Normal price £32 pounds, covered  by a £12 Groupon, representing a £20 saving. And we didn't pay the £12 anyway - thank you, Groupon.

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New to living in Scotland

Here are three things about living in Scotland that I've discovered in the past 24 hours, that I didn't previously know.

• It's a bank holiday this coming Monday. The last Monday in August wasn't a bank holiday.
• No prescription charges (wa-hey!).
• If your son puts on his "formal wear" (it being Harvest Festival), and he hasn't had a bath the night before, you will have to spend some precious morning minutes getting him to sit on the bathroom floor with his legs outstretched, scrubbing at the mud with a flannel. Yes, "formal wear" is a kilt, and paraphernalia. I'm not a great fan of strict uniform for children, but I have to confess I do love 11-yo in his kilt regalia (and he likes wearing it, so that helps). 

Here is one thing I don't know about living in Scotland, and don't really ever want to know.

• While I was scrubbing 11-yo's knees, he was pondering how you're meant to have a pee in a kilt. He had solved the problem at school by going into a cubicle, and wrapping the event in privacy. But hold your horses before you start typing in the comments box. As I say, if you do know the correct Gents etiquette for kilt-wearers, I don't need to share that knowledge.

Birth certificates

I've just been trying (again) to apply for child benefit. (Now there's a blog post, explaining to my American friends why on earth the government gives you money to look after your child.) I've ticked all the boxes. I've downloaded Adobe Something Latest Version, I've found my children's birth certificates, I've wished on the full moon, but I still can't get the online form to appear. It doesn't seem that you can use the website to request a form to be put in the post to you. The two choices are either to fill in the form online, or to use the one in your new parent Bounty pack, which was given to you in hospital. Fifteen years ago, in my case. I've just phoned the Child Benefit helpline, but they're very busy. All their operators are very busy. So busy, that I couldn't even be put in a queue. They told me I had to phone back later. When I've emerged from my medieval peasant yearnings phase.

I feel I deserve a gold star for finding my children's birth certificates, though. Go on. Give me a gold star. I've moved half way across the world. I have only had internet access in my home for 2 days. I have no idea what the PIN number for my debit card is, so I'm living entirely on credit. I can't remember whether to say shedule or skedule.  I have no idea what most of the television I watch is about. The great majority of our paperwork is in stacks, or in boxes. And still I found our children's birth certificates. That must be a gold star. Actually, Husband found them, but I'm taking the credit, because... I can't think of a good reason. I'm just doing it.

Anyway, it's always interesting looking at birth certificates, isn't it? Most parents spend hours and hours choosing a name for their child, but we never think about the name of the registrar who will sign their birth certificate. Our oldest child's was signed by Helen Kettle. Our third's by Sheila Moist. Ms Kettle and Ms Moist! What fabulous names! I think the government could make a penny or two here. Just as people pay to have a personalised number plate on their car, I think there would be potential for charging for the kudos of having someone with an interesting name sign your child's birth certificate. Then the government could use the extra revenue to post out child benefit application forms.

Our second child had his birth certificate signed by A. Lumsden. A disappointingly ordinary name. I can only hope that the suspiciously anonymous A. stood for something interesting. Aardvark, or Anorak.

Dilemma

My two youngest have lovely soft blankets on their beds. Baby soft, furry, snuggly, blankets, with satin-feel borders. One in pink, the other in blue. They love them. Originally, the beds were made up with a sheet, and the blanket on top, but they prefer to sleep directly under their much-loved blankets. They just love the softness, the furriness, against their skins. The sheet has been eschewed (I love that word). If it’s cold, they will have a duvet, but over the top of the blanket, not instead of it. They sometimes bring the blankets downstairs, to snuggle under while watching television, and then they take them back up at bedtime, and wrap up like caterpillars on their beds, (and of course they drag the blankets along the floor, gathering dust and fluff as they go).

I’m happy that they associate bedtime with comfort and snuggliness. I do wonder, though, if it matters, having a bedding situation that is different to everyone else’s. It didn’t bother me in America, because I never worked out what was normal bedding. What’s a comforter? Is it a duvet, or a bedspread? Then what about a quilt? Do you put that on top of a comforter, or use it instead of one? And I decided early on that I wasn’t going to mess with the variety of pillows, of which you seem to require a huge number per bed, including a couple of “shams”, whatever those are. But now we’re back in the UK, I feel a need to opt into normalcy (disappointing of me, I know). What do you think? Is there a “normal” when it comes to bedding? Does it matter? Time for a survey, I think. Cast your vote. It's over on the right hand sidebar.

I would like to be a medieval peasant

I would like to be a medieval peasant. 11-yo has been learning about them in History, and I’ve decided I want to be one.

No waiting in for Telecoms Engineers.

No seven-week wait for internet access.

No phoning PlusNet because the promised router hasn’t arrived in the post. After seven weeks.

No having to take back a faulty mobile phone to Tesco to be exchanged.

No aggravating washer-dryer which shrinks your fleeces and your sons’ favourite team sports tops, even on the lowest setting.

No customer care helplines who purport to want to register your appliance so they can activate the warranty, but who in reality want the opportunity to sell you various options for extended warranties, which you can’t say “no” to until you’ve listened to the tedious details, because you’re too polite to interrupt someone talking at you in full flow.

No wrangling with moving companies about insurance claims for broken items.

No having to decide whether to start the laptop in safe mode or not, on the basis of less than zero knowledge of what that means.

No intermittent fault on the new microwave, so that it cuts out randomly. Alas, I see another customer care helpline in my near future. 

 

No having to set the date and time on endless appliances to the sound of electronic beeps.

No having to choose between thirty-five thousand different house insurance companies.

No lengthy forms to fill in register at a GP’s surgery.

No having to remember to put the paper between the name tape and the iron, unless you want a white sticky mess on the plate of the iron.

No having to going to Pilates.

And I bet a first class stamp didn’t cost 60p.

It’s back to the Dark Ages for me. Bring it on. Scratchy clothes, cold house, mud everywhere, matted hair, warty face. Untreated verrucas on your children’s feet. Wattle and daub (whatever that was). Nothing to look forward to except jolly wassailing at Yuletide, followed by the Black Death. I suppose I might miss my creature comforts, but at least no-one would say to me “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

 

One wallow at the end of a summer

I've moved continents twice, and that makes me something of an expert. Expert... expat... same difference. And from my expert point of view, here is one tip. You will have days when you just need to wallow for a few hours. Go ahead and wallow. (I suppose this expert advice applies to any move, really.)

I had a wallowy day on Friday. Wednesday had been "new pupil day" for the kids. That was all fun and jollity. Thursday had been the first proper day of school, and they all came home exhausted. Their faces were white and drawn. They slumped. They had homework to do (homework on day one - what kind of unreasonable behaviour is that on the part of the teachers?). Homework is called "prep". I've never liked that. It smacks of a fib. The idea is, I'm guessing, that the children are so enthralled by their school work, that they find out what the teacher is planning on teaching the following day, and prepare themselves for it. Whereas we all know that in reality, prep is either finishing off a task that was started in class, or is an assignment related to what has already been covered. It's only very, very occasionally "prep".

I digress. Back to Thursday night. By the time slumping had been done, dinner had been consumed, and prep had been completed, it was late, the chance of an early bedtime had been blown, and I went to bed as exhausted as my children and hard-working husband, and feeling a bit of a failure, frankly. I mean, they're the ones starting a new school or new job. Friday was their second day, and I packed them off, and then had a good wallow.

I was washing up, and as I did so, I shut my eyes, and I recalled the sounds of washing up at my old sink in my old kitchen in my old home. I missed the mournful hoot of the trains. I missed Diane Ream on NPR. I missed the crickets, made noisy by the heat of the sun. I missed knowing exactly how long it would take to get to Dillons and back. I missed having a diary full of events and people. I missed my job, my MA course, my big fridge...

Then I recalled the early days in America. How I used to wash up, and shut my eyes, and miss the sounds I'd left behind in Scotland. The seagulls, the CBeebies signature tunes, the clinking of a zip against the window of the washing machine the other side of the kitchen, The Archers. I missed the shops on the High Street, the walk there and back with the stroller. I missed the busy calendar on the back of the cupboard door. I missed the sea. Boy, did I miss the sea...

It felt very strange. A deja vue, or a time warp. Memories of memories, re-feelings of feelings. It seems I have come full circle. I'm in Scotland, missing a place, where I used to stand and miss Scotland. But it isn't a full circle. It's two halves of two different circles. Life isn't always joined up, is it?

Anyway, I had a good wallow. And then I felt better. Now those are two halves of the same circle.

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OMT!!

Here is a random list of things that have changed in Britain in the five and a half years since we moved away.

It was 12-06 when we left. It was 06-12 when we returned. That makes it easy to remember for filling in forms. And it's tidy. I like life to be tidy. It so often isn't, that when there are little tidy things like this, it makes me happy.

Pharmacists can now dispense a decent level of medication. Yay. This makes total sense. It was being talked about when we left, I seem to remember, but now it's really happened. So I went and got some antibiotic eye drops for conjunctivitis, without having to prostrate myself in front of a doctor's receptionist, begging abjectly for an appointment. I just needed a few prompts from the pharmacist, who was helpful enough to give them to me. "Not sticky? Just red and itchy? Are you sure not sticky? How about first thing in the morning, when you wake up? A bit sticky then, perhaps? Yes..? Ah, it's sticky. It's just that that's one of the symptoms I have to hear." I love it when people beat the system.

A first class postage stamp is now 60p. What? Don't be expecting any birthday cards from me any more. If Amazon can deliver large, heavy packages for free, why does the Royal Mail need 60p to deliver a small, light card? They ought to be paying us, actually, for feeding those red boxes and keeping them in business. Just before we left, the Royal Mail changed the way they charge for packages. Instead of the simple weighing of a parcel, they'd introduced a system which required the counter staff to weigh it, measure it, see if it would fit through a slot, balance it on their head, do a cartwheel with it between their knees, and spin in on a 50p piece. It seemed a little over-burdensome to me. I hate to say "see, I told you so", but here we are, with a first class stamp at 60p. I only remains for me to make a joke about the Royal Mail and the front page of the Sun. Consider it made.

There are an awful lot of tv channels - more than you can shake a tv remote at. Perhaps there were in 12-06 and we just didn't subscribe to them. We weren't missing much. There are the five old favourites, and then several hundred others, which repeat what was on the five old faves, either a few hours later, or a few years later. I shouldn't complain really. It's quite useful for us. If we want to watch today's tv, we can. If we want to pretend we're in a time warp and have never been away at all, we can do that too.

Smartphones. They're rather good, aren't they? Husband and I have each got one. We didn't plan to, and the very thought of us owning one each had our children smirking and giggling. They felt rather protective of us, and wanted to come shopping with us, to help us sort out our phone needs. I think they worried that we'd be sold a tv remote at smartphone price, and come home proudly brandishing it, not realising we'd been ripped off. Oh they of little faith! In fact, we went to Tesco, got a fabulous deal, and came home rejoicing that there is at least one thing that is seriously cheaper in Britain than it is in America. Come to think of it, why isn't there an app that allows you to change channels on the tv with your smartphone? That would save you the enormous effort of having to put it down on the coffee table, and pick up the remote, and then do the same manoeuvre in reverse. You could save seconds. Valuable seconds. This is the 21st century. It does rather worry me, though, that the country is being run by Tesco, not the government. Which one, honestly, has more influence over our daily lives?

My waist. I used to have one. I definitely did. I remember it well. I don't now. It must be to do with climate change and air pressure, or something like that. Very odd.

There's one thing that hasn't changed. For this, I join the many-voiced chorus of Americans who have lived in, or even just visited, Britain. Oh, Mixer Taps!! Why don't we have them over here? How hard could that be? I can't tell you how backward it feels to have temperature discrimination in our taps, when you have been used to the unsegregated flow of a simple mixer tap.  O... M... T...!!

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Leaving a home

On the way up to Edinburgh, we stayed overnight with my parents in law. It was the last time we will stay in that house. They are moving too. At the same time as we have headed east from America to Scotland, they are heading east from the Pennines to the Moors. A smaller journey geographically, but who can measure these things emotionally? They are leaving the house they moved to when Husband was 13, where they have lived for nearly 40 years.

It's never been my home, but as we drove away for the last time, going through the usual driving away ritual with a double beep on the horn and arms waving from the windows, I felt sad. That house holds 17 years of memories for me:

The first time I met my future parents in law, and we had a Chinese takeaway. It must have been an impromptu visit, I think, though I can't remember the details. If it had been arranged in advance, I'm sure they'd have cooked us dinner. Fish pie, probably.

The first week-end I stayed there, and the feedback via Husband from his mother: "She's a lovely girl, isn't she?"

Telling them we were going to get married, and hugs all round, though it had been difficult to find the right moment. We were bursting with the news, and every time we were about to start the announcement, Granny (though not Granny at the time) would get up to potter into the kitchen to see to the meal.

Those early visits with a baby and a boot full of baby equipment, nervously attending to his needs out of the comfort of our own environment. Later visits with three children, when dealing with just one baby would have seemed like a walk in the park. The cot, the highchair, the box of toys, bought for visiting grandchildren, to relieve our car boot of its burden, and to stand sentinel between our visits.

Being there for Grandad's 60th birthday, the day on which Princess Diana died.

The hatch between the kitchen and the dining room, which has entertained the children far more than any toy or game.

The trips to "the rec", the park, the canal to feed the ducks.

The traditional game of running round the house as many times as possible. The record is 150, held by 11-yo, (though we rely on self-counting, so I can't vouch for the accuracy of that figure).

The joke about how it always rains (and it usually does). There was one legendary trip when we drove up from the south in blazing sunshine, and when we were 10 minutes away from arriving, the sky clouded over and the drizzle started, as if to prove a point, or join in the joke.

Some of the memories have become stories for our children. "Granny kept saying "I must just see to the vegetables" and leaving the room, so you couldn't even tell them. Was that how it was?"

Then I think of the phone calls that have been received there. "A boy! Wonderful! How's Iota doing?" "Another boy! Is all well?" "A girl! Oh... a girl! How is everyone?" "You got the job... America... When will you leave..?" "Cancer? They're sure? What happens now?" So many moments that, like a child's dot-to-dot puzzle, join together to make a picture.

A house. It's so much more than a house. I'm homesick, and it wasn't even ever my home.
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I love you all, but...

... no post tonight.

You know you're not in America, when you move house and have to wait over a month for a landline and internet connection. Yes, you read that correctly. Over... a... month... A very long month. Because a BT engineer has to come and activate our internet hub thingy (already installed in the house), before anyone from any other company can do whatever they do to get us connected. Apparetly BT are very busy. 15-yo asked if that didn't count as a monopoly, and if so, why was it allowed. I didn't know the answer.

All I do know is that not having a landline or the internet is a pain in the proverbial, though also strangely useful. It does mean that life is remarkably uninterrupted, and that unpacking can happen at our own pace. On the other hand, it also means that you can end up driving for over an hour round the city, because you're using the GPS to tell you where things are, instead of looking them up on the internet. The GPS tells you that a vet surgery (more on that in a minute) is 3.5 miles away. What it doesn't tell you is that the vet surgery it has in mind is the other side of the city centre, where there are serious semi-permanent roadworks, a zillion tourist buses, roads closed because of some international arts festival or other called "The Edinburgh Festival", and that it's lunchtime. I resorted to stopping at a petrol station and asking the way to the ring road after the vet surgery, which actually was a very clever move. I've only lived here six days and I'm already more savvy than the GPS. That's a relief. I hate being out-smarted by a GPS. That smug tone of voice... That know-it-all superior attitude... Though it has given me a good idea for an epitaph. I think I might have "Recalculating your route" written on my tombstone.

All of which is to apologise for the fact that I'm not posting much at the moment. BT are too busy to connect us up to the internet at home. When I do sneakily find internet access, hidden away in Husband's office (it takes three keys to get in here, but I get a splendid view of the city from the window), I have a whole list of boring admin things to do. Plus I did absolutely promise the kids that I would look at the Scottish Kennel Club website. A promise is a promise, so I must do so (though they are incorrect if they think it will make me more likely to get a puppy in the next three weeks before their term starts, rather than waiting sensibly until we are a little more settled in - as I have explained to them more than a few times). Faced with the choice of engaging with my beloved, but patient and far-flung, bloggy friends, or satisfying the impatient and close at hand demands of my children, I'm afraid I'm opting for the Scottish Kennel Club website.

This dog lark... it's a part-time job, I tell you, and I haven't even got the blessed thing yet.
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The Olympics Table Tennis

It's only Day 2 of the Olympics, and Iota and family have already been to an event. We are very Olympismist. Oh yes.

It was fabulous. I loved it. I felt like a child all day, excited from the moment I woke up. Big events like these are the stuff of future memories, and now I'll be able to say "London 2012 - I was there!" for the rest of my life. It's a double excitement for me, because for the past five years, I've felt out of the loop of big British events. We've jumped back in with a bang.

We saw the Womens' Table Tennis, Third Round.

Good things

The volunteers: (at least I assume they were volunteers): All along the route from the DLR station to the ExCel centre, people in purple and pink were showing us where to go. It really helped. I'm not intimidated by London, but that's not an area I know at all, and it was just nice not to have to keep looking at a map or signs. For people from outside London, it must have made all the difference. And the volunteers were so jolly. They were pointing the way with giant pink foam hands, and engaging with the flow of spectators. "Have a great evening!... Enjoy the Games!" It created a very welcoming atmosphere.

The staff: Everyone was helpful and friendly. I've been struck since I've been back in this country, by just how second best we are at customer service compared to America. They will, without question, win the gold medal if customer service ever becomes an Olympic sport. But LOCOG, or COLON, or whatever the organisation is called, has excelled. The staff on London transport were ubiquitous and helpful. The venue was well-staffed, and free from that trademark British grumpiness among the retail and food-serving staff. They smiled, and seemed pleased to interact with customers. The security seemed over-staffed. Poor old soldiers, losing a week's leave, to make up the G4S shortfall, but very polite and helpful in spite of it.

The venue: Table tennis was at the ExCel centre. It was easy to navigate around, spacious, and imaginatively done. In the big area behind the arena, the area where you were hanging around for quite a long time if you'd got there early, there were displays in glass cases, and information boards about the history of the sport. I saw the programme of the first World Championship in 1920-something, and early bats, strung like mini tennis racquets. Did you know that table tennis originated in upper class England in the early years of the 20th century? People made a barrier across the middle of a table using books, and then hit a ball back and forth using cigar boxes. It had various names, including Clip Clap, Whiff Waff, and of course Ping Pong. I kind of wish Whiff Waff had stuck. I'd like to say I'd been to Olympic Whiff Waff.

The game: Yes, the game! I mustn't get so carried away by all the other positives and forget about the game. It was thrilling to watch. They are so darn FAST, those table tennis athletes. Fast, and strong. The Team UK competitor had been knocked out in the second round, so I cheered for the Czech Republic, on the basis of their costume in the Opening Ceremony. Did you see them in their wellies, carrying umbrellas? What a superb way of joining in, on British terms. I've never thought of the Czechs as being notable for their fine sense of humour, but I loved that moment.

The match that got the crowd most excited was the last one, China vs the USA. The American athlete was 16 years old. (I said to 15-yo "Wow, that's quite something isn't it? Being 16 and being to the Olympics". He replied "I'm 15, and I'm at the Olympics".) The American spectators were enthusiastic - of course - lots of flags and cheering. Americans are so good at that kind of stuff, aren't they? We cheered for America, of course. There was a big Chinese contingent too, so the match made for a noisy and exciting end to the evening. The Chinese athlete won.

Table tennis wasn't a random choice. As a family, we're quite into table tennis. We bought a table last Christmas, and used it pretty much daily. Husband (a bit of a table tennis afficionado in his youth, it turns out) would come in from work, and immediately there would be a son or two hovering around, making small punching movements with his hand, and with an enquiring look on his face. 15-yo won the $10 that Husband promised him, the first time he took a game off him. I play too... in my own amateur way... so long as my opponent agrees to be nice to me... But hurrah for amateurs! We're what Olympism is all about!

Bad things


Visa: You could only buy a ticket from the website using a Visa card. You could only use cash or Visa to buy anything in the venue. This is appalling. It's sponsorship gone mad, in my opinion. 



This is a crass slogan, meaning nothing. All you can say for it, is that at least they have tried hard not to split an infinitive, and to position the word only where it makes grammatical sense (which I notice I failed to do in previous sentences - never mind).

I thought it should say It is shameful that we accept only Visa.


Photo credit: NatBat on Flickr


Empty seats: Well, yes, there were those, and they were mostly in big blocks in the prime viewing area. Clearly this is silly.

But let's not dwell on the Bad Things. All in all, a thoroughly great evening. A good note on which to end our sojourn in the south of England. Our container has arrived from America, and we head northwards today to Edinburgh. We've made sure to order a television, as a priority for our new home, because we're hooked on the Olympics now. (Ironically, there was a glitch using our MasterCard on Amazon, so we had to use my mum's Visa card to pay for it).
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The Olympics Opening Ceremony

OK, so it's 1.00am, and I should be in bed, but you have to admit, it was good. It was very good. I liked it. I liked it a lot.

I understood the cultural references - James Bond, Mr Bean. That's always a relief to a returning expat. It can feel like you're missing an in-joke, when people refer to something that, because you've lived outside the country, you simply don't know about. TOWIE, for example. So I was glad I could understand Bond, Bean, and Chariots of Fire.

I loved the copper petals coming together to make a cauldron. I really enjoyed the fact that the torches were passed on to a group of young athletes, not public figures yet, who took centre stage for the end of the Olympic flame journey. Much better to look forward than back.

I thought the ceremony should have ended with the fireworks, rather than Paul McCartney. Perhaps you had to be there. Perhaps it needed a good arm-waving singalong at the end, to send the crowd off happy. But could someone point out to me the significance of "Hey Jude"? I mean, if you have to go Beatles singalong, why not have everyone singing "Imagine"? That's far more in the Olympic spirit. Imagine all the people, living life in peace, and all that.

The bit I liked best was the parade of the teams from 204 different countries. There were some fabulous costumes in there. Senegal in elegant yellow, you looked wonderful. America, I'm sorry, but you looked like British Airways cabin crew, with your navy berets and co-ordinating neck scarves. Bulgaria, in your blue and white check suits, you should just be glad that medals are awarded on sporting prowess and not dress sense - though golf is going to be included as an Olympic sport in 2016. You'll be well prepared for that.

I was irritated that all the announcements were made in English and French. Why French? English, because this is England, and we speak English in England. And French, because...? We reckoned it was as a courtesy to the French geezer from the International Olympic Committee, Jacques Rogge. Rogge, the Frogge.

One other little niggle... Why is the British team called 'Team GB'? I am offended on behalf of my Northern Irish compatriots. We are (correct me if I'm wrong) the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. To call our Olympic athletes 'Team GB' is wrong, lazy, and a bit offensive, honestly. It should be 'Team UK'. Or perhaps the Northern Irish members took one look at the white and gold Elvis suits that they'd have to wear, and said "count us out".

So all in all, the Olympics have got off to a fine start. London, beaucoup de points. Oh, and a new word has snuck into the English language. Always interesting to get a new word. Were you listening as the coach took the oath on behalf of all the coaches? He said something about the "principles of Olympism". Olympism? Really? Olympism? Well, I kind of like it, now I've typed it a few times.

Happy Games, everyone.

Another Fifty Shades of Grey

Has anyone read this book?

Blimey. Talk about "sinister". I can't decide whether to recommend it to you or not. I couldn't put it down. It's gripping, very readable, erudite, funny in places, and just so clever. I feel I want to read it again, straightaway, to see how all the clues to the narrator's personality and actions are sown through the early stages of the book.

But it's very dark. Don't read it unless you're in a happy place. I found it really disturbing - the most disturbing book I've read since Lionel Shriver's We Need to Talk about Kevin. Yes, that disturbing. I read most of it early one morning when I woke at 5.30am and couldn't get back to sleep, and it spooked me out. It took me a little while to reconnect with reality and get on with daily life. Yikes. 

One reason it spooked me is that most of it is set in the university which I attended. Streets and buildings are familiar. The main character, the narrator, Engleby, was there about a decade before I was, but even so, it was close to the bone. I don't like to think that my naive, carefree, unsuspecting young days might have been peppered with creepy individuals like him, without me realising. *Shudder*

The novel explores the (perhaps) hazy area between normal and abnormal. We've all felt on the edges of social situations, out of place, lonely, rejected. Engleby describes those feelings so well, but is also incapable of normal feeling. So what is a feeling? Can you be lucidly self-aware, without being self-aware at all? 

I can see why some people wouldn't like the book. It's a bit laboured, and if you didn't connect with it, then I can imagine that you wouldn't want to plough through it. I've been browsing the reviews on Amazon, and they're mixed. The great majority are positive, but I read some of the negative ones, and I can see where they're coming from. Readers seem to be rather influenced by whether they've read other Sebastian Faulks novels, and how that affected their expectations.

The blurb on the back of my version describes it as "heart-wrenching - and funny, in the deepest shade of black". The blurb-writer has a point. There is black humour in it (which I almost always enjoy). When a friend visits Engleby -- SPOILER ALERT -- in a secure mental health facility, Engleby says 

"Stellings was dressed in what he imagines to be a non-homicidal-maniac-inciting outfit of blue jeans, stone windcheater and open-necked plaid shirt with a nasty little polo pony on the breast pocket".

I quote that partly because it's funny (I think so, anyway, but perhaps it loses something out of context), but also because it demonstrates to me the brilliance of the novel, the unsettling brilliance of it. As a reader, you don't like Engleby, you really don't. And you're right not to. But you also sympathise with him, empathise with him, and find common ground with him (those three things are different... similar, but different... am I right?) Stellings is very kind to go and visit him, but I couldn't help laughing at the "nasty little polo pony", and the acuity with which Engleby sees how ill at ease he is in the institution, knowing intuitively that Stellings' seemingly casual attire has been carefully chosen. 

As I said, I don't know whether to recommend this book or not. It's not an enjoyable book, but  you'll enjoy it. I think "Fifty Shades of Grey" would have been the perfect title for it, because it's the story of one deeply troubled and criminal individual, and the questions he raises about the uncertainties of personality, of identity, of memory, of self-perception. I do want to recommend it, though, because I need someone to discuss it with! The twisty ending, in particular.
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Fifty Shades of Grey

Everyone's talking about it. Some find it rather shocking. Do we all really have to be subjected to this kind of stuff? Others shrug their shoulders. "This is modern life", they say. "It's just how it is these days." Personally, I have to say I've found it very disappointing. It's low in entertainment value, and I can't see how anyone could describe it as arousing. But certainly, it's a popular topic of conversation. The weather.

The last two summers have spoilt us. We've arrived from the US, and been greeted by cheery sunshine. Long June days of sunny, but still crisp, early summer weather, which have quietly given way to the heavier, more languid heat of July and August. The occasional morning or afternoon of showers, just to freshen the landscape, but the sun never far behind. Lazy days, with the children playing on the lawn, or walking the dog on dust-dry footpaths. But now summer 2012. Fifty Shades of Grey.

I'm not complaining, though. I prefer the British alternative to what we've left behind. This is the current 7-day forecast for where we used to live.

For those of you who work in Celsius, it looks like this.

I prefer it here. What about you? Would you prefer Fifty Shades of Grey, or One Shade of Yellow?

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