Camping - the verdict

One of the troubles with blogging is that you sometimes anticipate what you are going to do in real life in terms of how you are going to blog about it. So when we set off for our camping trip, I'd already semi-written in my head two possible posts. One ended: "...and as I lay there, listening to the birds singing and watching the morning light creep up, I felt so relaxed and happy, that I knew camping had found itself a new convert". The other ended: "...and I decided that, much as I like the idea of camping, I'm just too old and comfort-loving to enjoy the reality".

The trouble is, neither applied. I didn't love it. But I didn't hate it. It was... ok.

We arrived at the campsite late on Friday night. There was a fish and chip van on the site, which seemed like a good start to the week-end, so we ate fish and chips in our car. (Too cold to be outside.) Then we started to put up the tent. The instructions start like this:

"Helpful hint: Please practice pitching your tent in good weather before you go away on a holiday or break. This ensures that you are familiar with the tent, with the experience being especially valuable if you later have to pitch in adverse weather conditions."

Eminently sensible. We hadn't done that, though. (And I didn't like the mis-spelling of "practice".) We did ok for a while, and got the hoops into the flysheet. It was windy, and the flysheet kept ballooning up, but morale was high, and it all seemed like fun. Then the instructions started talking about fitting the hoops onto the pins, and we hadn't a clue where or what the pins were. At that point, the nice friendly man from the next door pitch came over, and asked if we needed a hand. We said, yes, we do need a hand. He proceeded to instruct us and help us put up the tent, which was just as well, as the light was fading and so was I. (We did have a Plan B, I hasten to add -we're not THAT gung-ho - but it was nice not to have to fall back on it.) Meanwhile, someone from another tent came over and asked us if we'd like a cup of tea. We said, yes, we would like a cup of tea. She then pressed us to partake of some of the chili which she and her family had had for dinner, (but we'd already had the fish and chips). They are very friendly, those camping folk down in Northumberland.

The first night passed without adventure. On Saturday morning, I was the first up, and I had the kettle whistling on the gas, cups of tea ready for all, and cereal standing by bowls, before you could say "continental breakfast". It was sunny. Camping felt good.

We spent Saturday at Alnwick Castle (thoroughly recommend it, good day out), and then Saturday night in the tent, again without adventure. We packed up the tent on Sunday morning, and then headed back to Alnwick to visit Barter Books. If you like second hand bookshops, this one is a must. It's in the former station, and is wonderfully atmospheric. It's where the original "Keep Calm and Carry On" poster was found, which is framed and displayed over the counter.

But back to Keep Calm and Carry On Camping. What's the verdict?

I can see us having fun, camping as a family. The week-end brought back lots of memories of my own childhood camping experiences, and I'd love my kids to have similar memories of their own. But it's not exactly comfortable, is it? The facilities at the campsite were very good, but it's all very communal, isn't it? I'm not sure my idea of fun is a draughty shower in verucca city, having to hurry because I'm aware of the queue of people outside.

The children rose to the occasion. They said afterwards that they'd enjoyed it and would want to go again. There wasn't much bickering and complaining, though I wouldn't swear it had been exactly a zero on that front. 15-yo deserves a medal, for sleeping in the living bit of the tent (it was a 4-person tent - Husband and I took one sleeping compartment, 12-yo and 9-yo took the other). We hadn't velcroed the groundsheet to the flysheet, and I could feel a howling gale around my be-bedsocked ankles as I prepared for the night. 15-yo had a horrendous cold - the kind of cold that makes your head feel like an exploding tomato. But he laid his poorly head down on a rolled-up fleece (pillows provided only for the over 40s), in the gale, without complaint. His cold was much better in the morning, oddly enough.  Husband also gets a medal, as he'd been out camping in the hills with the school Cadet Corps the night before we camped. That's devotion to duty for you.

So we're going to buy a tent. We concluded that camping would be a fun thing to add to the family repertoire. I envisage us using it for week-ends here and there, and though I wouldn't rule out camping for a week or two as our main summer holiday, I also wouldn't rule out renting a holiday house instead. It struck me that camping isn't the cheap option that it used to be. You're looking at £25 a night, or more, and you can easily get a holiday house for a family the size of ours for 4 times that. Plus you have to buy the tent and kit in the first place. I pointed this out to Husband. He invited me to think of it in this way: you can have 4 weeks' holiday in a tent for the price of every 1 week you can have in a holiday cottage. But hm... I'm not sure I'd come down as equivocally in favour of the 4 weeks under canvas as he would. Short, sharp, sweet, luxurious burst of holiday might win over prolonged discomfort. (And it's not "under canvas" these days, is it? It's "under nylon" which doesn't have the same ring at all.) I've also just been browsing the Eurocamps website and other similar ones, and those fixed tents seem pretty reasonably priced.

The one thing I would have changed about the week-end was the location of our tent. The campsite had caravans round the edge, presumably because they need their electricity hook-ups. We were shown to a pitch in the middle. In the morning, as I stretched and yawned and poked my head out of the tent door, I wasn't greeted by a rural vista of beauty and serenity. We were surrounded, at close quarters, by a ring of caravans, 4 x 4s, and motor-caravans. It wasn't exactly the "back to nature" experience that camping is meant to provide. More like being on a stationary grass version of the M25. Another time, I would choose my own spot, or if that wasn't allowed, request a rather more secluded one.

I think this post has given an unfairly negative impression. I sound very reluctant. But we did have a good time, and we've made the decision to buy a tent. That can't be a bad conclusion, can it?

Anyone selling a tent?

                                                    Alnwick Castle as we saw it, on a sunny day, with a carpet of daffodils. Beautiful.
                                                            Photo credit:  bbc.co.uk

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Camping

When I was growing up, we used to camp every summer. It was what our family holidays were. I loved it. Then, when I was first married, Husband and I camped for a week-end two or three times, before complications like... babies... came into the equation.

Husband and I have always planned to camp with the kids. Philosophically, we're committed to the idea. It's just that it hasn't happened in practice. But... ta-da... we're going to go next week-end. We're borrowing a tent, and a lot of equipment, and I'm selling the idea to the children that it's a trial camping week-end. If it goes well, we'll buy our own tent and stuff. If it doesn't (ie if they bicker, fight, don't help with chores, irritate their parents), then it'll be their first and last childhood camping experience. So no pressure, then.

I like the idea of camping. I really do. Back to nature, away from the stresses and strains of daily life, no xbox or other modern evils. But then, when I stop to think about it, I can't help wondering whether some modern evils are actually not all that evil. The dishwasher, for example. The central heating. The hot shower in your own bathroom, a few paces away from the bedroom. The shower you can potter over to in your PJs, cup of tea in hand, rather than having to get dressed, trek across a rainy field, fiddle around with an unfamiliar and - one suspects - deliberately complex shower system, in order to stand under a tiny dribble of lukewarm water, while the wind howls around your ankles, and whips your nice dry towel off its inadequate peg into the puddle on the concrete floor, in which floats the detritus of the previous shower-user. D'you see my point?

I lay in bed last night, talking to Husband about our forthcoming adventure. "I'm looking forward to it", I said.  "Time with the children, without the usual distractions. We'll have to take a pack of cards, and some games, and books. We'll have to work out what food to take. They can get involved in the cooking. And the washing-up. Oh, I've just remembered what washing up at a campsite is like. Cold water, so you can't get rid of the grease. And then your hands smell all morning, but you can't be bothered to tramp all the way back to the shower block to wash them. And anyway, there'd probably be a queue at the showers. And they might not have functioning hot water in any case. And I'll be cold at night. I hate being cold at night. My feet will be cold all week-end. We'll all get smelly. I hate that. Sticky armpits all week-end. I need my bed. How will I be comfortable on a mattressy thingy? They're rubbish. I won't sleep. You know how grumpy I am if I haven't slept. The children won't sleep either. We'll all be lying awake at bedtime while they make jokes about farting in their sleeping bags. I'm definitely not cooking anything, either. We'll have dry rolls and water for breakfast and then eat out for lunch and dinner. Ohhhh...Why did I think camping was going to be fun?"

As you can see, there's quite a wide gap between the philosophical commitment, and the not-so-philosophical anticipation of reality. So if any of you seasoned campers out there have any tips, I'll gladly receive them.  The tip I've been offered most frequently so far is "it's lovely when the weather is nice, but don't go camping in the rain". Get real, Peoples. We're going to Northumbria.

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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.

A holiday in the crucible

There's a competition in Tots 100 to win a holiday, and I'll definitely be entering. You have to write a blog post, 500 words max, about The Best Holiday of My Life. I will write that post, another time, but interestingly, when I first started thinking about it, the holiday that sprang to mind was the week that we took in Colorado, after my cancer diagnosis and mastectomy, and before chemotherapy. I started browsing the photos, and yes, in many ways, it was the best of all my holidays.

For a start, it arose out of the sincere generosity of strangers. A friend of a friend let us use their holiday cabin. It was July, and we had hot weather, but Colorado altitude hot is not the same, let me tell you, as Great Plains hot. It's a dry, friendly, enjoyable heat, not a stagnant, muggy, draining heat. To be away from home, to take a break from the relentless series of tests, appointments, waiting for results, decisions, in the beauty of the mountains, was, metaphorically and literally, a breath of fresh air.

To be honest, I don't remember much detail of what we did. I could guess, because we've been back to the same place three times since, and we now have our favourite spots and activities. They've become traditions. But what I remember from that week, and what I see when I browse the photos, is a moment when we were almost suspended in time. It was a week of peace and calm in the midst of a great storm. I suppose much of that was probably denial of some kind, or hiding, or whatever you want to call that particular coping mechanism. But it was more than that. Looking back, I see how we were in the crucible of life, and yet able to enjoy each other, and have fun, and treasure the days (but not treasure them too much, for fear of thereby investing them with a dangerous significance).

We took a lot of photos that week. There are lots of beautiful nature shots, of woodland, waterfalls, views. There are photos of the children. I made sure I was in a lot of them, because... can't quite bring myself to write why. Just because.

Here's one I love. Out for a walk. The small boy waggling a stick, the mum carrying the water bottle, the little blond girl bringing up the rear. It could be any family. But it's not. It's us.



There was one afternoon when I was on the sofa with the camera, and from where I sat, I photographed the whole family. I have my rules about not showing my children on my blog, but I'm going to stretch those rules a little here.

Here is younger son, 8 at the time, with his friends, the Bionicles.




Here is oldest, just turned 12, not usually much of a reader, but immersed that afternoon in Harry Potter.

Here is youngest, 5 years old, at the table. That's apple juice in the glass, just so you know. Don't you love the way their feet dangle at that age?


And here is Husband, busy in the kitchen area. When I was diagnosed, he read as much as he could on diet, and how you can give yourself an advantage over cancer with what you eat. He took over cooking and shopping, and here he is in action. We still take the trouble to include a lot of anti-inflammatory foods in our diet, and we use the juicer (remember the juicer?) to imbibe quantities of fruit and vegetable juice (though Husband has never repeated one legendary juice from that summer, which he concocted from cabbage, onions and garlic).



It all looks so peaceful and idyllic, and honestly, it was just like that. Perhaps the children needed their own time and space, that week, to process what was going on in their tender lives. Certainly in these pictures they seem reflective. They look so young and vulnerable. I remember sitting there, watching them, managing surreptitiously to raise the camera without them noticing.

Well, we made it through. We are no longer in the crucible, and I'm glad for that. I'm going to end this post with a photo taken in the same place, but four months later, in November, when I'd finished chemotherapy. I look dreadful - gaunt, strained, tired... bald of course. The cabin has a wonderful deck with a lovely view, and even in November, it's a sun trap. Here I am, sitting on that deck, ubiquitous cup of tea to hand, and the reason I'm showing you this photo is to remind us all of what helped me bump along through that time. See what I'm doing? Yes... I'm writing.



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Derek and Joyce

One of my all time BEST Christmas moments was the year that I and my siblings sent my parents a Christmas card from a fictitious couple, Derek and Joyce.

The card was intimate enough that it was clearly intended for my parents and not just wrongly addressed. It greeted them by name, and it cheerily exclaimed "We really must meet up in 1989!" It had one sentence of hand-written news about the children, Faye, Michael and Anne: "All doing well" or some such generality.

We then sat back and watched over breakfast, as my parents struggled to remember who Derek and Joyce were, and - crucially - how they could reciprocate and get a card in the post to them before Christmas. My mother thought that Derek, a friend of my father's living in South Africa, must have remarried in the course of the year, moved to England, and acquired three step-children. My father thought that Joyce was an old friend of my mother's from her nursing days, who'd decided to get in touch again on a whim. This all played out in front of our delighted, conspiratorial eyes.

We left it a day or two, and then confessed. Derek and Joyce passed into family lore, and the next year my parents received another card from them, this time complete with newsletter all about the lives of Faye, Michael and Anne, their grown-up children.

I'd like to say that Derek and Joyce are still sending Christmas cards within my family, but actually, they petered out after two or three. Best to leave a joke at its height than flog it to annual death. They did make a guest appearance, more than a decade later, when they left a card at the wedding of a friend of mine, signing it "With fondest love, and we're just sorry we can't be at the wedding ourselves. Hope you like the present, and if not, we've included the receipt so you can exchange it" - but of course there was no present or receipt. A few months later, Derek and Joyce sent my newly-wed friends a Christmas card. "So sorry not to have been with you for your special day, but we've heard all about it and seen lots of wonderful photos. It looked like a magical occasion, and what sweet little bridesmaids! We do hope you enjoyed the present." The amazing thing was that I got a card back from them. "Thanks for your card. Have a super Christmas. Love from Derek and Joyce". In spite of the anonymous postmark and the disguised handwriting, my friend had guessed who Derek and Joyce's creator was.

I think of Derek and Joyce at Christmas time, obviously, and particularly when I hear God Rest You Merry Gentlemen, when the chorus comes round:

O-oh, tidings of Derek and Joyce,

Derek and Joyce!

O-oh, tidings of De-e-rek and Joyce!

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Iota's summer holiday top tips for entertaining children: Part lll

And now we come to my two favourites. Both of them have strong memories from my own childhood, and both of them - hurrah - occupied my three children for hours.

Here's a crane.


The main body of it stands at just over 2 feet high. It was made by a friend, and when his children had grown out of it, we inherited it. It's fully functional: the arm can be raised and lowered, and then the hook wound up and down.

I remember spending hours with my younger brother playing "cranes" (although there was only one, we always talked about playing "cranes" in the plural). One child is upstairs, and dangles the crane hook down through the banisters to the other child, in the hall below. There is seemingly no end to what you can do with a crane. You can put something on the hook, and tell your playmate to shut their eyes, wind the object up, and guess what it is by feel. You can choose an object, and race to see who can wind it up the quickest. You can put something really heavy on the hook, and then let go of the wheel, letting it spin and the string unreel at speed, till the object hits the floor with a thud. You can hang a doll or a teddy bear by the neck. Oh, the possibilities are endless.

This is the kind of toy that grown-ups like, because it looks so educational. We like to think our children are learning about pulleys, weights, relative forces, almost as if it was a practical hands-on physics lesson. Well, I never got anywhere with physics, but I did have a lot of fun with this crane. And so did my children.

And finally...

Corinthian!


It's a precursor of the pinball machine This one is 30 inches by 15, to give you an idea of scale. Many of you will look at this and respond "Ah, Bagatelle!" But this version is called Corinthian. Here's a close-up of the rather splendid label at the bottom, in which Walter Lindman (who he?) asserts his preference.

The bit of the label which the photo cuts off states "The recognised tournament board is Corinthian 21T". Dang it! Our board was only a 21S! Just as well we didn't know about tournaments. We would have bullied our parents endlessly to take us to one. We fancied ourselves as Corinthian players (though upping our game to a 21T might have been a shock). I can't think of a toy that gave us more hours of pleasure than this one. It was also an absolute favourite of visiting children. I remember friends loving to play. Maybe they only liked me for my Corinthian board.

The minute my children started playing this, the plink-plink-plonk noise of the steel balls bouncing off the pins was so familiar. This came from my mother's childhood, so it really has done sterling service. Alas, the drumstick used to push the ball up the runway has disappeared, but there are still 19 balls - the number there were when we played with it, or when my mother's family inherited it from some friends. That's quite impressive, not to have lost a ball in two generations. My kids used the handle of a wooden spoon as a pusher, and of course it worked fine (though I miss that drumstick...) Of course the more upmarket versions of Bagatelle have a puller on a spring, to fire the balls into action. I like to think the drumstick requires more skill and finesse. There used to be a list stuck on the back, of the names of those who'd scored 1,000 or more, but that has been lost. It was only a short list, as 1,000 is well nigh impossible. I don't remember anyone in my generation scoring 1,000.

It's another of those educational toys, isn't it? Think how good for your mental arithmetic, adding up your score at the end of each go. My kids shocked their grandmother by whipping out an ipod with a calculator on it. She made them put it away and add up in their heads or with paper and pencil. Good for her!

That almost ends this mini-series on my Mum's loft. There is just one more object of interest for tomorrow... Just one...

Iota's summer holiday top tips for entertaining children: Part ll

More items from my mother's loft. And by the way, what's the difference between a loft and an attic? Anyone know?

Look at these beautiful parasols. My mother doesn't know where they came from or who they belonged to.


They've evidently never been used; they're in beautiful condition. I'm guessing they were presents from someone's foreign trip. I don't know when they date from, but they belonged to my grandmother, and maybe someone before her. I remember enjoying them as a child. The pink one was my sister's, because she loved all things pink, and the blue one was mine, because I hated all things pink. I can't say that they kept 7-yo entertained for long, but she did prance around the garden with them a little. It's good to have the opportunity to teach children to look after things. In today's throw-away world, it's important for them to learn that things have value, by virtue of being old, or beautiful, or interesting. I taught 7-yo to open and close them carefully and gently, treating them with respect, as I was taught to do by my own mother.

The blue parasol lives in a parasol-shaped tin. The pink one lives in its original brown paper wrapping.


I love the curly writing, and the idea of the "modern shape" of sunshades. Lovely.

Here's another item that I remember from my childhood. It belonged to me.


It wasn't my everyday piggy bank. That was pink, with a removable stopper. The disadvantage with this pig is that it has no stopper. It's also very small - about 3 inches long, so it wouldn't hold much money. But it did have a few coins in it, and the children set about trying to get them out. They succeeded (that used up quite a bit of time), and were thrilled with the achievement of it. 10-yo presented the empty pig and the coins to me with pride: "We've got them out for you, after all these years!" What they don't know, is that I remember being perfectly able to get money out of that pig, sliding the coins out on a knife. I did it loads of times. I didn't tell them that, though. "Gosh, how clever!"

The coins were pre-decimal, so date from my early childhood (decimalisation was 1971, I've looked it up). There were a couple of sixpences - "these are what the tooth fairy used to bring" - and three threepenny bits.

10-yo is the magpie of my family. He loves collecting things, and is fast developing a taste for old items. Yesterday, he bought two farthings for 20p each in a local bric a brac shop, to add to the sixpences and threepenny bits. That's the beginning of an old coin collection (he already has a foreign coin collection). I'm not a collector or a hoarder by nature. I'm minimalist in what I keep. 10-yo is both a magpie and a hoarder. It's a dangerous combination, and it was quite an effort to ensure that a large proportion of the contents of the loft didn't simply end up in a big pile marked "keep for 10-yo". He's already made my mother promise to keep the typewriter.

Back to the pig. I remember being fond of this pig too, but look at it close up.


Don't you think that's a rather sinister grin? This loft clear-out could turn out to be the Return of the Evil Pig.

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Iota's summer holiday top tips for entertaining children: Part l

Help your mum clean out her loft. Yes. Truly.

Mum's loft turned out to be quite organised on investigation, but there was still quite a lot of stuff up there. You know. Loft stuff. And the government want to contribute towards the cost of having it properly insulated, so down the stuff had to come. Husband did a valiant job, descending boxes, trunks, suitcases, parcels wrapped in plastic, from the hole in the ceiling, as the rest of us waited below, being showered with dust and dead insects.

The most unappetising item was an old badger pelt. It was given to my brother, when he was hitch-hiking round France about 30 years ago, by a taxidermist who stopped to give him a lift. And if that's not the making of a Roald Dahl story, then I don't know what is. It was falling apart and we didn't inspect it too carefully, preferring to jettison it out of the landing window for later retrieval, bagging and binning. Ooh, and once we'd got the taste of jettisoning things out of the window, there was no stopping us. The badger skin was joined by a mouse-nibbled leather pouf, flowery curtains, a heavy wad of black-out material, a bundle of orange carpet, a roll of kitchen lino, foam camping mats, lots of heavy duty plastic, black bags, bubble wrap, dusty cardboard boxes. Next time you're at a loose end, try a bit of jettisoning out of an upstairs window. Very therapeutic.

This process in itself provided entertainment for the kids. Holding the ladder steady - what a very long-lasting activity that can be. Brushing the dust and insect corpses and paper shreddings off the tops of boxes - another one. Marvelling at the tooth-power of mice (mice? well, we called them mice), who can nibble through paper, cardboard, plastic, A level notes. And then, of course, the anticipation and reward as each box or bag is opened. Lots of it deadly boring grown-up stuff, but from time to time your childish patience is rewarded by gems such as this.


10-yo and 7-yo spent a very happy couple of hours getting this to work. They succeeded. So long as your text doesn't need spaces (space bar still not working). And so long as you don't mind colouring in the ribbon with black felt tip marker every few letters. And so long as you don't mind dusting a layer of black dust off the table underneath where the typewriter was when you've finished. Ta da! Nearly a whole morning's activity with just one item. We reckon it's 1920's or 30's. What do you think?

Then there's always the fun of seeing what Mummy used to play with when she was a girl.


These are about 4 inches tall - just to give you an idea of scale. Small enough to be dwarfed by a Bionicle, should one chance by. I have a vague memory that they are in national costumes. That looks like a Chinese coolie hat second from the left, held on with a blue headscarf. (Is it un-pc to talk about coolie hats?) And if I saw women wearing the headgear on the right, I can't for the life of me think of what country I'd be in. Any ideas? Perhaps I'm wrong about the national costumes. I find it a bit sinister, the way their eyes are all looking off to stage right, but 7-yo has spent some very happy hours playing with them. I even sewed a press-stud back on one of their costumes. Talk about devotion to duty, especially since I can't even remember if they belonged to me or my sister.

You may have noticed that this post is titled "Part l". Yes... Meh... That's because, over the next couple of days, I'm going to show you several more items that came down from the loft, which have provided activity for the children.

Then I'm going back to America, where they have basements instead of lofts. Don't worry if you're in America, though. I'm sure my top tip would work in your mother's basement, just as well as in a loft (except for the jettisoning).

Raise your glasses

Talking of the Royal Wedding and non sequiturs, I just have to mention at this point that it seems I have been nominated for the MADs awards in THREE categories. Not only Best Writer, and Most Inspiring, as I've already said, but also "Best Blog for Family Fun". I do believe in fun, so thank you to whoever nominated me in that category.

We've all established that England is the place to be if you want a darn good royal event. But I have a question for you. Is it the place to be if you have a 13 year old in need of glasses?

We are coming to England in 3 weeks time. 13-yo needs new glasses, and they're a bit overdue, honestly. It's been more than a year since his last eye test, and he says he's sure his prescription has changed. So now I have a choice. We could try and get an appointment, and choose some new glasses, and hope they arrive in time. But I know what getting an appointment with an opthalmologist can be like. Or we could leave it till we get to England, and get him fixed up over there.

What I need to know is this? Is there going to be a significant saving either way? Has anyone any knowledge of this? Glasses: cheaper in the US or the UK? I'm also wanting to ask if he can get an eye test and/or glasses on the NHS - but I don't want to expose myself to sniggering and chortling. Am I hopelessly out of date even to ask?

Advice please.

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