At the beach

Where've I been this week then?

I've been here.



Fife.

We used to live here. It's lovely coming back on holiday, because it's the best of both worlds. It's a holiday, so there's none of that daily life stuff to bother about. But it's familiar territory. We know where to go, where to shop, what to do, all the best haunts. We've caught up with a few old friends too.

This is the May Isle. You can take a boat trip there.


But guess what? I never have done. I don't know why. Just didn't quite get round to it when we lived here, and haven't ever got round to it since. I love the fact that I know it's really called the May Isle, not the Isle of May. It's the Isle of May on maps and to visitors, but locals have always called it the May Isle. I love knowing that. I love calling it the May Isle.

This is what my daughter looked like about 6 years ago.


She still loves the beach. She doesn't get there very often these days.

I've lifted these photos from a post I wrote a year or so ago about my favourite beach in Fife. This is how I described the beach then.

"I don’t know how many hours I spent on this beach, in the company of this view, but it was many, and I don’t regret a single one. I love this beach. I got to know it, as you get to know a friend. I learned that the day after a storm, it might be covered with slimy green seaweed, but that a few days later it would be pristine clean again. I learned that the best way to spot sea glass, is by walking into the sun, preferably when it was low in the sky. I learned that gravelly sand can be as good for sand castles as fine sand. I learned that the sea would accept any anxiety or ill feeling, tied in my imagination to the stone in my hand, and thrown as far as I could manage it. The sea could be waveless, still as a pond, or dancing daintily, or crashing feverishly. It could be twinkling with sunlight, blue and silver, or it could be grey and dark, not bothering to reflect the sky at all. I tell you, every time I went to that beach, it offered me both something new and something familiar. Like the best of relationships."

You're allowed to recycle old blog posts when you're on holiday, aren't you?

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CyberMummy 2011

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

It's a MAD dad world

I am guest blogging today over at Fertile Feminism.

When she addressed the English troops at Tilbury, Queen Elizabeth I inspired them with a speech that began:

"I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too".

I'd like to say something similar. I know I have the body of a trailing spouse and a stay at home mum; but I have the heart and stomach of a feminist... I suppose I could add ...and a feminist of England too, which would sound very splendid, but I'm not quite sure what it would mean.

Feminism has a bad press, but honestly, how can a woman NOT be a feminist. All it means, when it boils down to it, is that you are someone who believes that women are equal to men, and should have the same rights and opportunities as men to make of themselves what they want. I flinch a little, if I see a reference in the mummy blogging world to mums who have jobs as being 'good role models' for their children. Yes, I suppose I'm a little defensive. We stay at home mums can't help it, from time to time. But I feel I might just be a 'good role model' for my children, because I chose not to work when they were little, and because I'm grappling now with the consequences of that (which I foresaw, incidentally).

I sense this is turning into a blog post in its own right, when all I wanted to do was to send you over to Fertile Feminism. It's a website that was set up by Noble Savage (she who has been blogging since 2005), and you can read about its aims here. For me, reading this blog is the way I keep a small toe dipped in feminist water. So I'll stop now, and if you want to see me sporting my feminist garb, head on over.

It's a post about why there are so many Daddy blogs in the finalists of the MADs awards.

Really Rachel shrieks

Where was I? Oh yes, just off to kiss some babies. And if you want babies, the blogging world is full of them, often with pictures. Scrumptious to the point of being edible. I'm in Newcastle-upon-Tyne on my baby-kissing tour today. That's the home of Really Rachel, who has two adorable daughters. If you read her most recent post, it looks as if they're called Splodge and Voila, but don't be fooled. That's her description of their artistic activities.

Rachel has this cunning plan, whereby she has a series of guest bloggers on a Friday. She asked for volunteers, and so I put my virtual hand up. But then I had a cunning plan too. I told her my policy (and I've been a civil servant, I know how quickly you can invent a policy when you need to) was to do guest post swaps. She fell for it, and that is how it comes to pass that you can read her here, and me over in Newcastle-upon-Tyne at Really Rachel.

I'd like to offer you a clever connection between what we have each written about, but sadly, there isn't one (unless someone can spot it). I've written about how much I miss the sea; Rachel has written about shrieking. Since I've been going to Olde English Teas, and practising English demureness and poise, you know there is no shrieking at my place, oh no, (though I think I did use the words "small shriek of delight" in yesterday's post), so I take no responsibility for anything she says.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you.... Really Rachel!

Making Mummy Shriek

Mummies make some funny noises. There’s talking, obviously. That goes on and on sometimes. And there’s shouting, which is just a waste of energy, really. Laughing is good – you can’t help but join in, even if you’ve got no idea what’s so funny. But shrieks are the best: unexpected bursts of unusual noise. Such fun! And even if you’re less than a year old, there are still plenty of ways that you can make your mummy shriek.

• Pull her hair – An obvious one, but a good one. Try grabbing a small amount of hair and pulling hard. Dangly earrings or necklaces are also good to tug. Your mummy might shriek in pain or she might shriek about her delicate jewellery. If anything does break off, try eating it for a further shriek-effect.
• Climb stairs – Become adept at noticing when doors and stair-gates are left open so that you can take every opportunity to climb the stairs. Giggle loudly as you climb to ensure that your mummy will come to see what you are doing. When you reach the top, turn round as though you are about to launch yourself head-first down the stairs. If your mummy doesn’t shriek as you climb, she might shriek when you threaten to descend. NB The shriek-effect wears off if you appear too competent.
• Eat marbles – Any small, hard object will do but marbles are excellent and easily obtainable from older siblings. Simply pop them into your mouth and display bumpy cheeks. Don’t swallow the marbles, of course. That would be silly. Just let everyone think that you might. Mummy will stop shrieking about this after the first day or so but new visitors will always find this horrifying.
• Touch toilets – You don’t, in fact, have to actually touch the toilet to elicit a shriek. Simply toddling towards it with an outstretched arm will do. That said, nothing can beat putting your whole arm into the toilet for obtaining a really satisfying shriek. If you can be holding your teddy at the same time, so much the better.
• Empty the bin – Again, the very idea of this can cause shrieking but actually pulling items from the bin is more effective. For maximum shriekage, choose a bin that contains something soggy and unpleasant. If the shriek is slow to occur, raise some rubbish towards your mouth. This is guaranteed to bring mummy shrieking and running, which is very funny indeed.

So tell me: How do you make your mummy shriek?

You can read more Really Rachel (when I'm not hogging her space) by clicking here.

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Visit of the Snow Queen

Here is a guest blog by my sister, who spent Christmas and New Year with us. We had a large fall of snow just before she arrived, which was topped up a few days later and then stayed for the duration of her visit, melting away the day after she left. Hence the name she acquired while here.

I bribed her to write the post with the promise that she'd get nice comments from all my bloggy friends, so please don't disappoint.

"I had never been to America before, and had no idea what the Midwest would be like. Most of the television I watch is American, but none of it is filmed anywhere near Iotaville. If I were to go to New York, I would have an idea about what it would look like as I watch Friends and Sex and the City avidly. Ditto Seattle as I watch Frasier and Miami as I watch CSI. But, with the Midwest, I had no preconceived notions as to what the place would look like.

I had assumed, in a very superior manner, that there would be no history and no culture. The first assumption was completely correct, but I was very favourably impressed by the two museums I saw. They were imaginatively done and fun (especially if accompanied by a small child who dances round the glass cases shouting 'pooperscooper, pooperscooper, pooperscooper' in a loud voice).

What I found difficult to take on board was the sheer size of America. I was thinking that if you lived anywhere in the South of England and wanted to see, for example, Ian McKellen as King Lear, then you could travel up (or down) and see it. This is simply not possible in America, due to the vast distances. Of course, what you should be comparing it with is not England, but Europe. I wouldn’t travel to see any play if it was in Portugal, and this is what the comparison should be.

What also struck me was the confidence and positive outlook that everyone exudes, which I couldn’t decide whether I liked or not. In some ways it was a nice change after all our British negativity, but I did wonder how kind it was to tell children that they could be anything they wanted. “Never give up your dream” seems a very American thing to say. On the one hand, to tell people they will succeed if they keep trying is admirable, but it is totally unrealistic to tell a little girl she can be a top ballerina if she has no talent. Hard work and determination can get you far, but cannot cut everything. Enthusiasm, I decided, is great if it is genuine, and both cultures have something to learn about pitching it at the right level.

I did love the food. Being possessed of the sweetest tooth in the whole world meant that I was in my element with Philadelphia cheese with added brown sugar and treacle (did I imagine this?); ice cream with caramel, butterscotch and chocolate poured on top; and sugar cookies with extra icing. It was probably just as well for both teeth and waistline that I was only there for a couple of weeks. I often think about the Wal-mart shelves, groaning with Krispy Kreme doughnuts, little mince pies with real cream piped on top; and too many cakes to count. I am reaching for the jelly babies as we speak.

Now I am back, I do find I go around saying 'awesome' and 'good jarb' to people. I am certainly going to visit America again."