Out of Africa

On Monday Mum and Dad came back from their first ever holiday in Africa. They went to Kenya - some beach, some safari, loads of sun. Kenya has suffered terribly since last year's riots beat the tourism industry to within an inch of its life ... there were just 40 guests in a hotel that sleeps 500.

Today Mum and Dad came over to see all 7 grandchildren who were squashed in, like wriggling worms, to our little house. They came clutching brilliant memories, a glossy Kenya book and some beaded bracelets for the kids. There was also a soft, fragile, ornamental Masai necklace made from tiny black, bronze and cream beads. My 15-year old neice politely declined the necklace, it was passed around from my sister-in-law to my daughter, and somehow ended up around my neck.

Lucky me :-)

Halloween Snow

Apparently it hasn't snowed in London in October for 70 years. Last night, snow fell and quickly turned to crunchy ice. This morning we scraped the car, poured hot water on the windscreen, and the children and I set off for my sister's house.

I don't know if it was because of the ice, but 2 trucks collided on the M40 this morning. One driver died and one truck shed its load of lard. The police closed the motorway, and all the surrounding roads were gridlocked. It took me almost 4 hours to drive the journey that usually takes 40 minutes.

As I was slowly making my way home alone, my sister phoned to tell me that all 5 of the cousins had been playing out in the snow, they'd had lunch, and our sons (aged 6 and 7) were having a lovely time, naked. "Naked snow ball fighting?" I asked. "No, just naked", she replied. "That's alright then", I thought.

The Toad, the Quandry and the Anti-Role Model

Ooooh. Yeuch. Some slimy moron left a grubby comment on one of my posts, so I deleted it and switched 'Comment Moderation' back on. I'm all for freedom of speech, but this is my blog and if someone wants to advertise sex aids on it, they should have the decency to ask first. The toad.

And I have been the laziest blogger ever recently. In fact, I can't decide whether to carry on or not. I haven't even bothered logging in and leaving comments with all my favourite writers out there in blogland. So I've decided to blog every single day from now until my birthday, and then make up my mind whether to blog-on or blog-no-more.

Meanwhile, with a week to go until the US presidential elections, I am keeping everything crossed for Obama. How could anyone not want him to win? One of the many things that irks me about McCain was his statement that "Sarah Palin is a role model for women". How the hell does he know who my role models are? I'll pick my own, thank you. I mean, would anyone ever say they picked so-and-so for their running mate because "he is a role model for men"? Of course not. Patronising twat.

The Swims We Do For Love

I was shivering with cold, wet and exposed, brushing up against hoards of nearly-naked strangers with spotty backs and miserable faces. The urge to escape smothered me as children's screams bounced off the walls and made my ears hurt. Boredom pinched me with its cold mean fingers as I forced myself to smile, aching to be home reading the paper and drinking hot tea.

Thirty l-o-n-g minutes earlier we had approached the front desk: "Four for swimming please", smiled Big G. The children scrambled into their swimsuits in a froth of excitement: "Watch me!" they whooped a hundred times, swimming from Mum to Dad and back again, daring to go, gasp, "right under!" Goggles and wet hair got crazy and tangled. What fun. The wave machine came on (with the Hawaii Five 0 theme tune at top volume), so the children leapt about like seal pups, diving down, bursting up for air, laughing with skinny legs and arms sticking out all over the place.

S-i-g-h.

Role Reversal

So there I am in my bedroom, in front of the mirror in my undies, singing along to the perfect song for a sunny Saturday. My make-up's done and I'm straightening my hair.

The door flies open and in marches an eight year old girl. She's been ready for ages, waiting for me. "It's too LOUD" she snaps, turns the music down and stomps out.

Now hang on ... isn't that the wrong way round?!

Amazing

Girl: "Who did you wave at?"

Me: "Your uncle - he just went past"

Girl: "I didn't see his car."

Me: "No, he was on his bike"

Girl: "His BIKE?!! Where was he going?"

Me: "Home. He rides his bike to the station so he can go to work"

Girl: "He works at the STATION?!!"

Me: "No ... he gets the train to work"

Girl: "WHAT? He gets the TRAIN to work?!!"

And so it goes on and on ... the curiosity of the very young ... the endless questions ... pounding relentlessly on our heads until our ears are deaf and our brains are numb. And we wouldn't have it any other way!

Peachy Surrender

My parents took me upstairs to my old bedroom to admire the new wardrobe for my Dad's clothes. A place for everything, and the drawers slide smoothly shut with a satisfying click.

The warmest place in the house, at the front and above the kitchen, I liked that old bedroom when I was little. I could see my best friend's house opposite and keep look-out for relatives arriving on Sundays just before lunch. Before we extended the house, my sister and I shared that room. We made up putting-things-away-games when our mum tortured us with having to tidy our room. We messed it up something shocking, and complained like banshees when we had to tidy it. The room's very neat now, what with the children in their forties, a new wardrobe and everything.

One day my sister and I were given a Roald Dahl book each: I got Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, she got James and the Giant Peach. I loved my book. I read it over and over again, living the story, soaking up every detail of every picture, convinced I got the better deal. A stubborn younger sister, I refused to swap and read hers. I remember picking up her book and staring at it, wondering what the bugs were all about, flicking the pages, slowly turning it over and reading no more than the back cover.

When I'd finished admiring the new wardrobe, my mum suggested I borrow some of the few remaining children's books left on the shelf. I finally relented and took James and the Giant Peach to read to my daughter. It's brilliant!

Better Together

This week Big G said cheerio to his American job and came back to start a cooler one in the UK. No more trans-Atlantic commuting for him. He flew into Heathrow in the early morning sunshine, with 3 duffle bags and a back-pack. We loaded up the Toyota and drove home.

In the 19 months he's been working abroad, I've been bending under the weight of loneliness, stress and frustration, all crammed into a stiff, prickly bag called self-pity, sitting heavy on my shoulders. I'm tough enough and didn't break ... with a little help from my friends and family ... but I do declare there have been some very gloomy days.

And how do I feel today? Today I feel relief. Relief, relief, relief.

Don't Grow on Trees

The car was packed for the long drive home this afternoon, and the time had come to start rounding up my grubby children - tired but happy from a brilliant weekend of non-stop playing with old pals, and a too-short night on a blow-up mattress.

I stood in the garden with my friend, car keys in hand, and we had one last laugh at the expense of our deliciously sensitive and over-dramatic sons:

"You're MEAN Mummy, you just don't understand how I FEEL", I mocked.

"Mummy, this has been the WORST day of my LIFE", she mimicked.

And then we cackled like hags, shoulders shaking as we tried to laugh quietly so the children wouldn't know we were talking about them.

Yes, I managed to dig myself out of Cheshire and plant myself back here in southern soil ... but one thing I've learnt is that friendships like that one don't grow on trees.

See Ya

Time for a little blog break. Things to do, you know how it is.
Bye for now,
GBS
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