I don't get Twitter (sorry, I'm just weird that way).
I don't do Facebook (sorry, I like my gossip face to face).
But I DO blog. And one thing I have always loved about blogging is the way it gives a voice to the unheard. For that reason, I want to post about the three Mummy bloggers who are going to Bangladesh with Save The Children, to see first hand what it's like being a mum in a poverty-stricken country. This page tells you about them, if you want to know more. You are made of strong stuff, you three. It's not going to be a picnic, is it? Good for you. Use your voices.
I will be following their trip, but I also wanted to do something other than just read about it. This post tells you what you can do. The simplest, quickest of those is to add your name to the collection of signatures putting pressure on Nick Clegg to make child mortality and maternal health a priority at the UN Summit in September. Whatever happened to those Millennium Development Goals? I, for one, would like world leaders to know that I still mind about poverty in the world. The Press for Change App on the Save the Children Facebook page will take just two minutes of your time but collectively could make a HUGE difference. Come and add your name here.
If you're another weirdo like me, without a Facebook page, you can sign anyway (at least, I think it counted my click... it seemed to register...)
.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Last year, this year - one more thing
Last year, I was in the middle of chemotherapy. The doctor was very concerned that I should keep my weight up. I never really thought about the issue. There were other, bigger things on my mind. My weight did keep constant during chemo (thanks to my attentive husband who took control of the dietary needs of the family), but I lost the best part of a stone, all told, during the course of the year. A stone I didn't need.
This year, I am chatting to a mother while we wait for our kids. She is from Korea, and there is a bit of a language barrier. She asks about my summer. She says "and I think you've enjoyed eating food in your own country". I hesitate. She hasn't just told me that she's noticed I've put on weight? Surely not. Is she making an ironic joke about British cuisine? Is she trying to empathise about what I most enjoyed during a trip home? I hesitate, and indicate that I haven't quite understood. She pats her hips and then points to mine, and with a smile, says "I can see you've been enjoying eating this summer -eating extra!"
Right. So it's visible then. That little bit round my middle.
I like to think of myself as pretty accepting of other cultures, but I really can't be bothered to try and research whether it is a compliment in Korea to be told your hips are full.
My "this year" bubble has burst with a resounding pop.
.
This year, I am chatting to a mother while we wait for our kids. She is from Korea, and there is a bit of a language barrier. She asks about my summer. She says "and I think you've enjoyed eating food in your own country". I hesitate. She hasn't just told me that she's noticed I've put on weight? Surely not. Is she making an ironic joke about British cuisine? Is she trying to empathise about what I most enjoyed during a trip home? I hesitate, and indicate that I haven't quite understood. She pats her hips and then points to mine, and with a smile, says "I can see you've been enjoying eating this summer -eating extra!"
Right. So it's visible then. That little bit round my middle.
I like to think of myself as pretty accepting of other cultures, but I really can't be bothered to try and research whether it is a compliment in Korea to be told your hips are full.
My "this year" bubble has burst with a resounding pop.
.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Last year, this year
Last year, I drove 5-yo to school on her first day. I have photos of her getting ready to leave, the sky so dark that it could almost be night. The heavens opened, and it rained as if Noah had built his ark in the neighborhood. We were soaked.
This year, I walked 6-yo to school. She had been up for more than two hours, and ready for nearly one. Walking seemed a good way of using up twenty of the remaining minutes. It was a lovely morning, sunny but not yet hot. She told me she had a tummy ache, and I asked if it was really a pain, or if it felt like butterflies. She said, yes, butterflies, so I talked about nerves, and how they would go as soon as she got started at school. "Do you remember in the summer, I went to a conference, and I was reading something out in front of a big lot of people? Well, I had butterflies then, but they went away as soon as I started. It'll be like that when you get to school." She wondered why people say they have butterflies in their tummies, and not birds, and we agreed that birds would probably feel rather heavier.
Last year, I didn't know a soul at this school (she's at a different one to her brothers). If I'm honest, I didn't really want to know any. Getting to know new parents, new teachers, new children seemed just another exhausting thing to add to the exhausting list.
This year, what a pleasure to see familiar faces, to exchange a few sentences about the summer and add "we'll have to catch up". On the way home I passed a friend, out with her twin babies in their stroller, before the day got too hot. We talked, but only briefly, because the babies wanted to be on the move.
Last year, I was so pleased that the first day of school fell towards the end of the 3-week chemotherapy cycle. It seemed so important to take my daughter to school, though of course she could have gone with her daddy. He'd already been to the enrolment and open day. I had to drive. Twenty minutes there on foot, and twenty minutes back, would have been far too much.
This year, I was happy to walk, as I've put on quite a few pounds while on holiday, and I'm needing to lose weight. Needing to lose weight! Ah, that's a sign of life returning to normal, if there ever was one.
Last year, I wore a cap.
This year, one of the other mothers greeted me with "you've changed your hair". I was a bit flummoxed as to what to say, and ended up with "well, it's grown!". I was secretly rather pleased she didn't instantly remember the cap and the reason for it.
Last year, I had two chemo sessions to go. I didn't know the third would be the worst. Probably just as well. I was dreading starting on Tamoxifen, and getting used to the idea of being on a drug for years seemed a huge mental hurdle. Huge.
This year, I forgot to take the Tamoxifen tablet this morning, but that's just because we're out of routine and not properly unpacked, and my pill box isn't in its usual place. Being on a drug seems a tiny thing. I was lucky with the side effects. Lots of people are on long-term medication. It's a very safe drug. Been around for years. No big deal. Not any more.
Last year, my biggest fear (which I couldn't bring myself to write down in black and white - though I did try) was that I would lose myself. That was it. Whenever anyone talked about losing my hair, I'd hear a voice inside saying "and you might lose yourself". I'd lost little bits of my body, and the steroids during the first chemo session made me feel like I was losing my mind. I didn't seem to be doing much. If you take away body, mind, and role, it doesn't feel like much is left. I wondered if somehow the bit that is the essence of me would evaporate, and I'd never get it back.
This year, I look back and see that I did not lose myself. I am here. I am me. (Actually, I was all along.) I can even write about that.
And now it's time to go and pick 6-yo up. I wonder how her day has been.
.
This year, I walked 6-yo to school. She had been up for more than two hours, and ready for nearly one. Walking seemed a good way of using up twenty of the remaining minutes. It was a lovely morning, sunny but not yet hot. She told me she had a tummy ache, and I asked if it was really a pain, or if it felt like butterflies. She said, yes, butterflies, so I talked about nerves, and how they would go as soon as she got started at school. "Do you remember in the summer, I went to a conference, and I was reading something out in front of a big lot of people? Well, I had butterflies then, but they went away as soon as I started. It'll be like that when you get to school." She wondered why people say they have butterflies in their tummies, and not birds, and we agreed that birds would probably feel rather heavier.
Last year, I didn't know a soul at this school (she's at a different one to her brothers). If I'm honest, I didn't really want to know any. Getting to know new parents, new teachers, new children seemed just another exhausting thing to add to the exhausting list.
This year, what a pleasure to see familiar faces, to exchange a few sentences about the summer and add "we'll have to catch up". On the way home I passed a friend, out with her twin babies in their stroller, before the day got too hot. We talked, but only briefly, because the babies wanted to be on the move.
Last year, I was so pleased that the first day of school fell towards the end of the 3-week chemotherapy cycle. It seemed so important to take my daughter to school, though of course she could have gone with her daddy. He'd already been to the enrolment and open day. I had to drive. Twenty minutes there on foot, and twenty minutes back, would have been far too much.
This year, I was happy to walk, as I've put on quite a few pounds while on holiday, and I'm needing to lose weight. Needing to lose weight! Ah, that's a sign of life returning to normal, if there ever was one.
Last year, I wore a cap.
This year, one of the other mothers greeted me with "you've changed your hair". I was a bit flummoxed as to what to say, and ended up with "well, it's grown!". I was secretly rather pleased she didn't instantly remember the cap and the reason for it.
Last year, I had two chemo sessions to go. I didn't know the third would be the worst. Probably just as well. I was dreading starting on Tamoxifen, and getting used to the idea of being on a drug for years seemed a huge mental hurdle. Huge.
This year, I forgot to take the Tamoxifen tablet this morning, but that's just because we're out of routine and not properly unpacked, and my pill box isn't in its usual place. Being on a drug seems a tiny thing. I was lucky with the side effects. Lots of people are on long-term medication. It's a very safe drug. Been around for years. No big deal. Not any more.
Last year, my biggest fear (which I couldn't bring myself to write down in black and white - though I did try) was that I would lose myself. That was it. Whenever anyone talked about losing my hair, I'd hear a voice inside saying "and you might lose yourself". I'd lost little bits of my body, and the steroids during the first chemo session made me feel like I was losing my mind. I didn't seem to be doing much. If you take away body, mind, and role, it doesn't feel like much is left. I wondered if somehow the bit that is the essence of me would evaporate, and I'd never get it back.
This year, I look back and see that I did not lose myself. I am here. I am me. (Actually, I was all along.) I can even write about that.
And now it's time to go and pick 6-yo up. I wonder how her day has been.
.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Three white things
First white thing
I made a startling and potentially life-changing discovery while in Scotland, and being a generous soul, I thought I'd share it with you. Those square white plates that they have in restaurants and in catalogues... get yourself some.
We were staying in a friend's house, and the first night, I rustled up a delicious little something for the children: fish fingers, pasta and broccoli. (Oh come on, I was on holiday, I wasn't going to be slaving over a hot stove every night.) But here's the amazing thing. If you serve fish fingers, pasta and broccoli on square white plates, it looks like some gourmet speciality. It really does.
If I was a half-decent blogger, I'd have comparison photos for you. Fish fingers on my usual circular pattern-round-the-edge plate, followed by fish fingers on clean-lines square white plate. Then you could see for yourselves. Sorry. You'll just have to shut your eyes and imagine them... See...? The first looks suspiciously like fish fingers, pasta and broccoli. The second, ah yes, the second has become North Atlantic cod coated in our own special-recipe golden breadcrumbs, oven-baked to soft perfection, accompanied by delicious wholemeal pasta and locally sourced garden-fresh broccoli tips, served with a smooth coulis of 'ketchup de tomates organiques'.
They had rectangular white plates too, which were even more sophisticated. I mean, rectangular, for heaven's sake.
Second white thing
It is very hot here. As we made our descent, the pilot informed us that the temperature on the ground was 108 degrees (that's 42 for you celsius types). It was windy too, and walking out of the plane onto the stairs felt like walking into a giant hairdryer.
Still, we are quite jammy really. It's been over 100, unrelentingly, for two or three weeks, and now the forecast says it's going to drop down to the low 90s - maybe even a cool 89 tomorrow. So we timed our absence and homecoming pretty well.
I am mentally better adjusted to living in this kind of temperature than I used to be. I used to find it frustrating, because, being English, I'm so hard-wired to looking at sunshine and thinking "ooh, lovely". This just led to frequent disappointment. I've had to relearn my reflexes. It's as if Pavlov took his salivating dogs and said "and now, just to complicate things, I'm going to ring the bell, and then serve you food that tastes disgusting and makes you sick... let's see if we can recondition you...". It's one of those complicated ex-pat things. You have to reconfigure some of your good/bad assumptions. I remember being confused when our realtor was showing us round a house in January, and said "this yard has trees, so it'll be nice and shady". It required a mental u-turn from the usual expectation of "south-facing, sheltered, sunny".
So yes, I'm pretty well adjusted these days. I don't look out of the window and think "ooh, lovely". A lot of the windows have the blinds down anyway. I look at Weatherbug on the computer, and think "ooh, hot". I will confess, though, to a residual English excitement at the thought of how quickly the washing will dry (though actually, it's not as speedy as you might think, because of the humidity). I think it will be some years before I lose that.
Third white thing
I've got my green card. It was waiting for us in the mail on our return. It's white. Forgive me for being simplistic, but I was expecting it to be green. This means that I can get a job, and get paid. It's actually rather intimidating (pathetic of me, I know).
So that'll be me, flipping burgers then.
.
I made a startling and potentially life-changing discovery while in Scotland, and being a generous soul, I thought I'd share it with you. Those square white plates that they have in restaurants and in catalogues... get yourself some.
We were staying in a friend's house, and the first night, I rustled up a delicious little something for the children: fish fingers, pasta and broccoli. (Oh come on, I was on holiday, I wasn't going to be slaving over a hot stove every night.) But here's the amazing thing. If you serve fish fingers, pasta and broccoli on square white plates, it looks like some gourmet speciality. It really does.
If I was a half-decent blogger, I'd have comparison photos for you. Fish fingers on my usual circular pattern-round-the-edge plate, followed by fish fingers on clean-lines square white plate. Then you could see for yourselves. Sorry. You'll just have to shut your eyes and imagine them... See...? The first looks suspiciously like fish fingers, pasta and broccoli. The second, ah yes, the second has become North Atlantic cod coated in our own special-recipe golden breadcrumbs, oven-baked to soft perfection, accompanied by delicious wholemeal pasta and locally sourced garden-fresh broccoli tips, served with a smooth coulis of 'ketchup de tomates organiques'.
They had rectangular white plates too, which were even more sophisticated. I mean, rectangular, for heaven's sake.
Second white thing
It is very hot here. As we made our descent, the pilot informed us that the temperature on the ground was 108 degrees (that's 42 for you celsius types). It was windy too, and walking out of the plane onto the stairs felt like walking into a giant hairdryer.
Still, we are quite jammy really. It's been over 100, unrelentingly, for two or three weeks, and now the forecast says it's going to drop down to the low 90s - maybe even a cool 89 tomorrow. So we timed our absence and homecoming pretty well.
I am mentally better adjusted to living in this kind of temperature than I used to be. I used to find it frustrating, because, being English, I'm so hard-wired to looking at sunshine and thinking "ooh, lovely". This just led to frequent disappointment. I've had to relearn my reflexes. It's as if Pavlov took his salivating dogs and said "and now, just to complicate things, I'm going to ring the bell, and then serve you food that tastes disgusting and makes you sick... let's see if we can recondition you...". It's one of those complicated ex-pat things. You have to reconfigure some of your good/bad assumptions. I remember being confused when our realtor was showing us round a house in January, and said "this yard has trees, so it'll be nice and shady". It required a mental u-turn from the usual expectation of "south-facing, sheltered, sunny".
So yes, I'm pretty well adjusted these days. I don't look out of the window and think "ooh, lovely". A lot of the windows have the blinds down anyway. I look at Weatherbug on the computer, and think "ooh, hot". I will confess, though, to a residual English excitement at the thought of how quickly the washing will dry (though actually, it's not as speedy as you might think, because of the humidity). I think it will be some years before I lose that.
Third white thing
I've got my green card. It was waiting for us in the mail on our return. It's white. Forgive me for being simplistic, but I was expecting it to be green. This means that I can get a job, and get paid. It's actually rather intimidating (pathetic of me, I know).
So that'll be me, flipping burgers then.
.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
More train of thought
First, I’ll answer a couple of questions left in the comments of the last post. One reader was puzzled by how I wrote a blog post without a laptop or computer. I use the mind-write gadget. You’ll find it under ‘settings’. It’s one of the reasons I like Blogger. Takes a bit of getting used to, but once you have, it’s very liberating. You simply think about the post you’d like to write, run the sentences through your head, and it appears in draft format for you to fine-tune, next time you log in. Before I discovered mind-write, if I wanted to blog on a train journey, I’d write it down with good old pen and paper, and then type it up later. But that’s sooooo 20th century.
Then the question of what you do with your clicky key fob if you have to visit the immigration section of the US embassy in London. Before my own visit, I’d have said “you have to leave it at home, which means that if you have a car which only has clicky key fobs, then you have to get your mother-in-law to give you a lift to the station, as Husband had to do on his last trip”. But during my visit last week, I discovered that there’s a chemist five minutes’ walk from the embassy which runs an enterprising holding service. For 3 quid, you can leave your clicky key fobs, your memory sticks, your mobile phones, your bomb detonators, any other electrical item, or even an entire suitcase with them. They give you a numbered ticket, and you can reclaim your items after your embassy visit. This is brilliant. It’s just a shame the embassy doesn’t tell you about it in the instructions you receive when you book your appointment. What the instructions say is “Consider checking [these items] at a transport station or leaving them behind.” Yeah. Because “transport stations” in London have plenty of left luggage facilities these days. I suppose it wouldn’t sound very official to say “there’s an entrepreneurial chemist on North Audley Street…”.
I’ll also just tell you that I couldn’t put down The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I don’t think it’s a brilliant book, but it’s very gripping, and clever, and once you’re embroiled in it, it’s hard not to keep on reading. So yes, I’m in the “couldn’t put it down” camp.
Now then, Bloggy Friends. Bloggy Peeps. When I left you, I was all chipper and happy and looking forward to my day out in London. But it didn’t work out very well. I wrote about it on the way home. This is what I wrote.
Oh alas. Tail between legs. I’d been looking forward to my day. Two long train trips, the slight nuisance of the trip to the embassy, but lunch and an afternoon to myself in London. What a treat.
Oh alas. I did my dodgy hip in, running for the train in Malton in unsuitable flat pumps this morning. I made it worse by pounding the London streets. Aren’t I too young to have a dodgy hip that can’t cope with pavements?
I’m not going to recount the tedium and anxiety that accompany anything to do with a visa-related embassy visit. To sum up, I was there from 10.15 to 1.45, and it was horrible, and I failed to accomplish the task. Won’t go into details (it wasn’t the bad hair or the lack of a shower), and you’ll just have to believe me when I say that we have had more than our fair share of hurdles to jump over (and pay for) on visa stuff. We truly have. I’m not a great believer in complaining about the system. I get that it’s about a country protecting the interests of its own citizens. I get that it’s not designed with customer service at its heart (unlike pretty much everything else in the US). I get that I’m a supplicant, and hold no cards. I’m sure it’s no easier, and probably harder, to go through the equivalent British system. So I’m not complaining. But I will confess that, when the embassy finally spewed me out, unsuccessful and therefore facing two weeks of hassle and anxiety if we are to be able to use our flights a fortnight hence, with failure a very real option, I took my over-priced sandwich into Grosvenor Square Gardens, and I sat on a bench, and I shed a tear or two of sheer frustration. I felt like a performing dog, who one day, takes a look at the out-held hoop, and says to itself “One too many. This one is one too many. To heck with the jumping, even if I starve as a result.”
It’s not the first time I’ve shed tears in a London square garden. If you’ve got tears to shed in London, then I’ve found squares are a pretty good place to do it. Squares or parks. That’s the Iota hot tip for tear-shedding in London. Location, location, location.
So I had a curtailed afternoon, with no heart to do very much. I ate a scone in Selfridge’s. And then I suddenly remembered The Wallace Collection, and went and looked at the Laughing Cavalier.
Isn’t it wonderful that museums and galleries are free? I didn’t have time for a full visit, and certainly wouldn’t have been in the mood to pay for a quick drop-in. The information pointed out that he isn’t laughing and he isn’t a cavalier. I love that. Quite an achievement to be famous down the centuries for two things you are not. I guess the Smirking Man doesn’t have the same ring to it. I wonder if I would like to be preserved for generations in a smirking pose. It felt appropriate for the afternoon. Smirking at the US immigration process, though at its crushing mercy, seemed a small triumph. Better than total defeat, at any rate. The Dunsmirk spirit.
It was truly an awful afternoon, and – insult to injury – even the train ride back is horrid. There’s no air-conditioning, and it's very hot. They’ve come round with free bottles of water and apologies, but it’s vey unpleasant really. Especially for the unshowered amongst us.
That is what I wrote, on the 16.50 from London to York. Things have worked out (with, as I anticipated, much hassle and anxiety). Our way is cleared back into the US. The passports and necessary permissions arrived this morning. We fly on Friday.
.
Then the question of what you do with your clicky key fob if you have to visit the immigration section of the US embassy in London. Before my own visit, I’d have said “you have to leave it at home, which means that if you have a car which only has clicky key fobs, then you have to get your mother-in-law to give you a lift to the station, as Husband had to do on his last trip”. But during my visit last week, I discovered that there’s a chemist five minutes’ walk from the embassy which runs an enterprising holding service. For 3 quid, you can leave your clicky key fobs, your memory sticks, your mobile phones, your bomb detonators, any other electrical item, or even an entire suitcase with them. They give you a numbered ticket, and you can reclaim your items after your embassy visit. This is brilliant. It’s just a shame the embassy doesn’t tell you about it in the instructions you receive when you book your appointment. What the instructions say is “Consider checking [these items] at a transport station or leaving them behind.” Yeah. Because “transport stations” in London have plenty of left luggage facilities these days. I suppose it wouldn’t sound very official to say “there’s an entrepreneurial chemist on North Audley Street…”.
I’ll also just tell you that I couldn’t put down The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I don’t think it’s a brilliant book, but it’s very gripping, and clever, and once you’re embroiled in it, it’s hard not to keep on reading. So yes, I’m in the “couldn’t put it down” camp.
Now then, Bloggy Friends. Bloggy Peeps. When I left you, I was all chipper and happy and looking forward to my day out in London. But it didn’t work out very well. I wrote about it on the way home. This is what I wrote.
Oh alas. Tail between legs. I’d been looking forward to my day. Two long train trips, the slight nuisance of the trip to the embassy, but lunch and an afternoon to myself in London. What a treat.
Oh alas. I did my dodgy hip in, running for the train in Malton in unsuitable flat pumps this morning. I made it worse by pounding the London streets. Aren’t I too young to have a dodgy hip that can’t cope with pavements?
I’m not going to recount the tedium and anxiety that accompany anything to do with a visa-related embassy visit. To sum up, I was there from 10.15 to 1.45, and it was horrible, and I failed to accomplish the task. Won’t go into details (it wasn’t the bad hair or the lack of a shower), and you’ll just have to believe me when I say that we have had more than our fair share of hurdles to jump over (and pay for) on visa stuff. We truly have. I’m not a great believer in complaining about the system. I get that it’s about a country protecting the interests of its own citizens. I get that it’s not designed with customer service at its heart (unlike pretty much everything else in the US). I get that I’m a supplicant, and hold no cards. I’m sure it’s no easier, and probably harder, to go through the equivalent British system. So I’m not complaining. But I will confess that, when the embassy finally spewed me out, unsuccessful and therefore facing two weeks of hassle and anxiety if we are to be able to use our flights a fortnight hence, with failure a very real option, I took my over-priced sandwich into Grosvenor Square Gardens, and I sat on a bench, and I shed a tear or two of sheer frustration. I felt like a performing dog, who one day, takes a look at the out-held hoop, and says to itself “One too many. This one is one too many. To heck with the jumping, even if I starve as a result.”
It’s not the first time I’ve shed tears in a London square garden. If you’ve got tears to shed in London, then I’ve found squares are a pretty good place to do it. Squares or parks. That’s the Iota hot tip for tear-shedding in London. Location, location, location.
So I had a curtailed afternoon, with no heart to do very much. I ate a scone in Selfridge’s. And then I suddenly remembered The Wallace Collection, and went and looked at the Laughing Cavalier.
Isn’t it wonderful that museums and galleries are free? I didn’t have time for a full visit, and certainly wouldn’t have been in the mood to pay for a quick drop-in. The information pointed out that he isn’t laughing and he isn’t a cavalier. I love that. Quite an achievement to be famous down the centuries for two things you are not. I guess the Smirking Man doesn’t have the same ring to it. I wonder if I would like to be preserved for generations in a smirking pose. It felt appropriate for the afternoon. Smirking at the US immigration process, though at its crushing mercy, seemed a small triumph. Better than total defeat, at any rate. The Dunsmirk spirit.
It was truly an awful afternoon, and – insult to injury – even the train ride back is horrid. There’s no air-conditioning, and it's very hot. They’ve come round with free bottles of water and apologies, but it’s vey unpleasant really. Especially for the unshowered amongst us.
That is what I wrote, on the 16.50 from London to York. Things have worked out (with, as I anticipated, much hassle and anxiety). Our way is cleared back into the US. The passports and necessary permissions arrived this morning. We fly on Friday.
.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Train of thought
7.35am, and I’m sitting in the Pumpkin Café, York station, with cup of tea and bacon roll. On my way to the US Embassy to renew my visa. Mine and the children’s. Probably want to take them back with me when I go. Be a shame if I had a visa and they didn’t.
Bit of an adventure getting here. Had planned to leave house by 6.10, to get 6.53 train from Malton to York. Woke up at 6.28. Don’t know how this happened. My alarm clock was set. Husband’s alarm clock was set. Did we both mis-set them? Did they both fail to go off? Freakish. Or did we both sleep through them? Perhaps we need a holiday. Oh. We’re on holiday. Does the part of me that doesn’t want to renew my visa have more say when I’m asleep? So anyway, 6.28. That left me 25 minutes exactly to get up, dressed, drive 8 miles to Malton, find somewhere to park (no station car park at Malton and I don’t know the town, only ever been to the station to pick up or drop off), and buy a ticket.
I made it. Still now quite sure how, though remember finding a miraculously free car park (didn’t know those existed any more), and running to the station, wiping tears out of my eyes as the chill morning wind whipped by my face (wind, because I was running like the, not because it was a windy morning - just to clarify). Even had time for little chat with booking office clerk, who said he’d been a bit late for work himself and it must be one of those days. Hope the Embassy staff don’t mind my hair, or my unshowered aroma.
8.05am, and I’m on the train to London King’s Cross. I love train travel. Love it with a passion that makes me wonder if I was born in the wrong era. Thank goodness I had sons, because they’re nothing if not a good excuse for the occasional steam train ride.
Got a seat with a table, and have The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, which I’m told (by many, though not all) I won’t be able to put down, but I know that for most of the journey, I won’t write or read. I’ll look out of the window. Why ever not? Flashing through probably the most beautiful county in probably the most beautiful country on earth.
Might have to move. There’s a woman with a mobile phone, a written report, and a very loud voice.
“Well, Jason, I think I’m just going to put 2.5 as regards that figure, because that’s what all the other sites have done, and so I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
I don’t see why she shouldn’t either, but I don’t want to listen all the way to King’s Cross. Train is remarkably empty (why?), so plenty of choice.
Power stations – one on my left, one on my right. Countryside very flat now. That’ll teach me to write “probably the most beautiful county…”.
Haven’t got a laptop. Just in case you were picturing me, all high tech and wired up. Or wire free. No, not allowed electrical things in the US Embassy. Not even allowed a clicky key fob. Lucky I had an old-fashioned turn-in-the-lock one, though intriguingly it only worked in the passenger side door. That required about 3 precious seconds in the car park. The remembering and the sprinting round to the other side.
Now, Bloggy Peeps. Should that be Peops? Trouble is, that looks like Pee-ops. But Peeps is a bit Thomas the Tank Engine. Oh, I don’t know. I’ll call you Bloggy Friends.
Now, Bloggy Friends. I know I’m on a blogging break, but I thought you might like to know about my summer so far. Just a few highlights.
Cyber Mummy
Oh my goodness, I loved Cyber Mummy (except for the name, sorry, I just can’t love that name). There was something very fulfilling, in the genuine sense of that word, about meeting women who I’d got to know so well online over the past three years. I mean, three years is hardly a whirlwind romance, so these are people who have had a window into a measurable percentage of my adult life, and I into theirs. Yours.
There were some excellent moments. One of my faves was when I won a month’s supply of Garofalo pasta in the prize draw. I and the friend I was sitting next to thought it was Gruffalo pasta, because she’d just been telling me about interviewing Julia Donaldson. Gruffalo pasta. Why the heck not?
More summer highlights:
over-riding my vertigo to go up the Eiffel Tower – to the top, mind you – and finding I thoroughly enjoyed it;
sitting in the front garden, sharing a bottle of evening wine with my husband and brother, the temperature somewhere around the high 80s, the air scented with jasmine, still, and heavy, the conversation punctuated by Parisians nodding Bonsoir to my brother as they walked past;
watching my temperature-resistant children swim in the sea with cousins in both Brighton and St Andrews (different cousins – we don’t carry a set round with us on our travels);
the mundane familiarity of small English things, like being called ‘Love’ by shop assistants;
visiting ruined abbeys and having picnics;
staying with my mum, who is quite definitely one of Britain’s National Treasures;
old friends, with their children 2 years older than last time I saw them;
going to a museum, or two or three, including the Natural History Museum in London, where 9-yo decided he wants to become a geologist;
bumping into some friends at Abington services on the M74. We were driving north from Yorkshire to the Scottish Highlands. They were driving south from Edinburgh to the Lake District. What were the chances? We last saw them in October 2006, just before we went to America. We gave them lamps that we couldn’t take with us (different voltage in the US). I’d forgotten. They now have a 2 year old.
Oh so many more, but this is a blog, not a novel, so I must stop. One low point to report: 9-yo breaking his collar bone when he fell off a bike. Hurrah for the NHS, I must say. In and out of A&E within an hour and a quarter - friendly nurses, friendly doctor, x-rays, pain-killers, and a sling - no forms to fill in, and not a penny to pay. Horrid to see him in pain and shrunk into himself, though. He's doing fine now - thanks for asking - and having an arm in a sling doesn't stop him doing much. Cricket, football, swimming, building sandcastles, DS, monopoly, sibling squabbling... all these summer activities are possible one-armed. Just as well he's not a blogger. Blogging one-handed would be frustrating.
More anon.
.
Bit of an adventure getting here. Had planned to leave house by 6.10, to get 6.53 train from Malton to York. Woke up at 6.28. Don’t know how this happened. My alarm clock was set. Husband’s alarm clock was set. Did we both mis-set them? Did they both fail to go off? Freakish. Or did we both sleep through them? Perhaps we need a holiday. Oh. We’re on holiday. Does the part of me that doesn’t want to renew my visa have more say when I’m asleep? So anyway, 6.28. That left me 25 minutes exactly to get up, dressed, drive 8 miles to Malton, find somewhere to park (no station car park at Malton and I don’t know the town, only ever been to the station to pick up or drop off), and buy a ticket.
I made it. Still now quite sure how, though remember finding a miraculously free car park (didn’t know those existed any more), and running to the station, wiping tears out of my eyes as the chill morning wind whipped by my face (wind, because I was running like the, not because it was a windy morning - just to clarify). Even had time for little chat with booking office clerk, who said he’d been a bit late for work himself and it must be one of those days. Hope the Embassy staff don’t mind my hair, or my unshowered aroma.
8.05am, and I’m on the train to London King’s Cross. I love train travel. Love it with a passion that makes me wonder if I was born in the wrong era. Thank goodness I had sons, because they’re nothing if not a good excuse for the occasional steam train ride.
Got a seat with a table, and have The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, which I’m told (by many, though not all) I won’t be able to put down, but I know that for most of the journey, I won’t write or read. I’ll look out of the window. Why ever not? Flashing through probably the most beautiful county in probably the most beautiful country on earth.
Might have to move. There’s a woman with a mobile phone, a written report, and a very loud voice.
“Well, Jason, I think I’m just going to put 2.5 as regards that figure, because that’s what all the other sites have done, and so I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
I don’t see why she shouldn’t either, but I don’t want to listen all the way to King’s Cross. Train is remarkably empty (why?), so plenty of choice.
Power stations – one on my left, one on my right. Countryside very flat now. That’ll teach me to write “probably the most beautiful county…”.
Haven’t got a laptop. Just in case you were picturing me, all high tech and wired up. Or wire free. No, not allowed electrical things in the US Embassy. Not even allowed a clicky key fob. Lucky I had an old-fashioned turn-in-the-lock one, though intriguingly it only worked in the passenger side door. That required about 3 precious seconds in the car park. The remembering and the sprinting round to the other side.
Now, Bloggy Peeps. Should that be Peops? Trouble is, that looks like Pee-ops. But Peeps is a bit Thomas the Tank Engine. Oh, I don’t know. I’ll call you Bloggy Friends.
Now, Bloggy Friends. I know I’m on a blogging break, but I thought you might like to know about my summer so far. Just a few highlights.
Cyber Mummy
Oh my goodness, I loved Cyber Mummy (except for the name, sorry, I just can’t love that name). There was something very fulfilling, in the genuine sense of that word, about meeting women who I’d got to know so well online over the past three years. I mean, three years is hardly a whirlwind romance, so these are people who have had a window into a measurable percentage of my adult life, and I into theirs. Yours.
There were some excellent moments. One of my faves was when I won a month’s supply of Garofalo pasta in the prize draw. I and the friend I was sitting next to thought it was Gruffalo pasta, because she’d just been telling me about interviewing Julia Donaldson. Gruffalo pasta. Why the heck not?
More summer highlights:
over-riding my vertigo to go up the Eiffel Tower – to the top, mind you – and finding I thoroughly enjoyed it;
sitting in the front garden, sharing a bottle of evening wine with my husband and brother, the temperature somewhere around the high 80s, the air scented with jasmine, still, and heavy, the conversation punctuated by Parisians nodding Bonsoir to my brother as they walked past;
watching my temperature-resistant children swim in the sea with cousins in both Brighton and St Andrews (different cousins – we don’t carry a set round with us on our travels);
the mundane familiarity of small English things, like being called ‘Love’ by shop assistants;
visiting ruined abbeys and having picnics;
staying with my mum, who is quite definitely one of Britain’s National Treasures;
old friends, with their children 2 years older than last time I saw them;
going to a museum, or two or three, including the Natural History Museum in London, where 9-yo decided he wants to become a geologist;
bumping into some friends at Abington services on the M74. We were driving north from Yorkshire to the Scottish Highlands. They were driving south from Edinburgh to the Lake District. What were the chances? We last saw them in October 2006, just before we went to America. We gave them lamps that we couldn’t take with us (different voltage in the US). I’d forgotten. They now have a 2 year old.
Oh so many more, but this is a blog, not a novel, so I must stop. One low point to report: 9-yo breaking his collar bone when he fell off a bike. Hurrah for the NHS, I must say. In and out of A&E within an hour and a quarter - friendly nurses, friendly doctor, x-rays, pain-killers, and a sling - no forms to fill in, and not a penny to pay. Horrid to see him in pain and shrunk into himself, though. He's doing fine now - thanks for asking - and having an arm in a sling doesn't stop him doing much. Cricket, football, swimming, building sandcastles, DS, monopoly, sibling squabbling... all these summer activities are possible one-armed. Just as well he's not a blogger. Blogging one-handed would be frustrating.
More anon.
.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Taking a break
I’ve really struggled with this post. You see, I want to take a break from blogging over the summer. I thought I could get to you to click on the play button below, and create in your minds a picture of me shimmying off into the distance, passport in one hand, mug of tea in the other, no way of carrying a laptop too. “I’m heading to the UK, and I don’t want to be writing blog posts all summer”, I would have said breezily. And that would have been a fair picture. Well, fair-ish anyway. So go ahead and click (it’s a great song, you’ll enjoy it).
See that shimmying? Then I started writing a bit more honestly about why I want to take a break, and several hundreds of words later, I thought “this is way too long, and do I really want this uber-personal stuff to sit on my blog as the top post for weeks?”, but I liked the honesty of it, and so I didn’t know what to do with it. It had paragraphs that started:
One of the thoroughly miserable things about having had cancer is that you can't go back to being quite how you were...
Returning to normal life after a trauma like cancer is a little like running a sprint, and then being asked unexpectedly to tack a half-marathon on the end of it...
Here's the difficult thing. I find it very hard to complain about any of this without feeling very guilty. I mean, shouldn't I just be so grateful? The fact that I've got through so far seems to have deprived me of the right to feel hard done by about anything else...
I know I'm very bad at the whole head/heart balance thing. Thing is, Head has got it all so sussed, and knows that it needs to get out of the way and let Heart have a turn at running things, but for all its cleverness, it doesn't know how to do that...
I do see someone to talk to (since you're all going to suggest that), and yes, it does help. And I know it will take time (so if you mention that in a comment, prepare to have your comment deleted, since I’m quite irritable on that point)...
Does that give you enough of a flavour? Each one could be the subject of a whole blog post, and there was lots more where that came from too, but truth to tell, I am a little fed up of writing all this stuff. You know how I always love writing, and blogging? Well, I have to confess I’ve slightly fallen out of love with this blog over the past few weeks. It's seen me through so much, but it's recently become a bit of a burden as well as a pleasure. Has that shown?
So, in an honest nutshell, that’s why I'm going to take a break.
There's one little loose end. Do you remember that conference I said I wanted to run? You know. The yoga bottoms and chocolate cake one? Well, I was, actually, quite serious about it, for a short while. But then a very wise bloggy friend (you know who you are) said "Don't run a conference. Spend your precious summer enjoying time with family and friends." And I thought "she's absolutely right". I haven’t seen my immediate family for two years. Two years! Hello Mum, I'm waving at you now! I have good friends to catch up with. I want to sit on beaches, walk in woods, eat picnics in fields, have days out in historic cities. We're flying on Sunday. So I’m not going to organise that conference, but I am going to Cyber Mummy (probably not in my yoga bottoms), and if your summer will be incomplete without meeting me in the flesh, you can see me there. I'm looking forward to meeting so many of you. It feels a little weird – I know you, and you certainly know me, more than is normal for first time meetings, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.
At Cyber Mummy, the tables at lunch are going to centre round different themes, to get people with similar interests together, and to get conversation going. I’m hosting a table, discussing Identity and Anonymity (kind of ironic, since I’ll be giving up the latter to attend Cyber Mummy). So please come and join me if you’d be interested in those topics - or if you spot me sitting all on my own. (And psst… between you and me, no-one made me sign a contract saying I would stick to the subject, so if we want to share pictures of our kids or talk about chocolate cake, then I think we can get away with it.)
And the music? Well, that song has become something of a theme tune for me over the past few weeks. 6-yo asked for ‘a grown-up cd’ for her birthday, and while browsing in Dillons, I came across a compilation one: Summer of ’67. It had a picture of a chiffon-clad, long-haired, wafty woman in soft focus on the front which I knew would appeal to 6-yo. It is a fabulous cd. Wow, they knew a thing or two about music in 1967. Somehow this song has become the place I’ve gone to when I just haven’t been able to connect with the world, as well as being the accompaniment to lots of happy moments. It has suited every mood. Wistful. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to it. Isn’t it odd, what gets you through? (And that line at 1.58, “you and me and Leslie” is actually “you and me endlessly” – makes me laugh every time.)
Oh, and if you've been lurking all this time, why don't you come on out and say hello to me? I'm only going on a break; I'm planning to be back; but you never know what the future holds, and look how long it took Ross and Rachel to get together again.
There. I’ve packed my virtual suitcases (or soupcases, as 6-yo calls them), and I’m off on my break.
Happy blogging...
.
See that shimmying? Then I started writing a bit more honestly about why I want to take a break, and several hundreds of words later, I thought “this is way too long, and do I really want this uber-personal stuff to sit on my blog as the top post for weeks?”, but I liked the honesty of it, and so I didn’t know what to do with it. It had paragraphs that started:
One of the thoroughly miserable things about having had cancer is that you can't go back to being quite how you were...
Returning to normal life after a trauma like cancer is a little like running a sprint, and then being asked unexpectedly to tack a half-marathon on the end of it...
Here's the difficult thing. I find it very hard to complain about any of this without feeling very guilty. I mean, shouldn't I just be so grateful? The fact that I've got through so far seems to have deprived me of the right to feel hard done by about anything else...
I know I'm very bad at the whole head/heart balance thing. Thing is, Head has got it all so sussed, and knows that it needs to get out of the way and let Heart have a turn at running things, but for all its cleverness, it doesn't know how to do that...
I do see someone to talk to (since you're all going to suggest that), and yes, it does help. And I know it will take time (so if you mention that in a comment, prepare to have your comment deleted, since I’m quite irritable on that point)...
Does that give you enough of a flavour? Each one could be the subject of a whole blog post, and there was lots more where that came from too, but truth to tell, I am a little fed up of writing all this stuff. You know how I always love writing, and blogging? Well, I have to confess I’ve slightly fallen out of love with this blog over the past few weeks. It's seen me through so much, but it's recently become a bit of a burden as well as a pleasure. Has that shown?
So, in an honest nutshell, that’s why I'm going to take a break.
There's one little loose end. Do you remember that conference I said I wanted to run? You know. The yoga bottoms and chocolate cake one? Well, I was, actually, quite serious about it, for a short while. But then a very wise bloggy friend (you know who you are) said "Don't run a conference. Spend your precious summer enjoying time with family and friends." And I thought "she's absolutely right". I haven’t seen my immediate family for two years. Two years! Hello Mum, I'm waving at you now! I have good friends to catch up with. I want to sit on beaches, walk in woods, eat picnics in fields, have days out in historic cities. We're flying on Sunday. So I’m not going to organise that conference, but I am going to Cyber Mummy (probably not in my yoga bottoms), and if your summer will be incomplete without meeting me in the flesh, you can see me there. I'm looking forward to meeting so many of you. It feels a little weird – I know you, and you certainly know me, more than is normal for first time meetings, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.
At Cyber Mummy, the tables at lunch are going to centre round different themes, to get people with similar interests together, and to get conversation going. I’m hosting a table, discussing Identity and Anonymity (kind of ironic, since I’ll be giving up the latter to attend Cyber Mummy). So please come and join me if you’d be interested in those topics - or if you spot me sitting all on my own. (And psst… between you and me, no-one made me sign a contract saying I would stick to the subject, so if we want to share pictures of our kids or talk about chocolate cake, then I think we can get away with it.)
And the music? Well, that song has become something of a theme tune for me over the past few weeks. 6-yo asked for ‘a grown-up cd’ for her birthday, and while browsing in Dillons, I came across a compilation one: Summer of ’67. It had a picture of a chiffon-clad, long-haired, wafty woman in soft focus on the front which I knew would appeal to 6-yo. It is a fabulous cd. Wow, they knew a thing or two about music in 1967. Somehow this song has become the place I’ve gone to when I just haven’t been able to connect with the world, as well as being the accompaniment to lots of happy moments. It has suited every mood. Wistful. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to it. Isn’t it odd, what gets you through? (And that line at 1.58, “you and me and Leslie” is actually “you and me endlessly” – makes me laugh every time.)
Oh, and if you've been lurking all this time, why don't you come on out and say hello to me? I'm only going on a break; I'm planning to be back; but you never know what the future holds, and look how long it took Ross and Rachel to get together again.
There. I’ve packed my virtual suitcases (or soupcases, as 6-yo calls them), and I’m off on my break.
Happy blogging...
.
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