Withenay Wanders

A rubbish post

2012-02-15T09:57:00.000Z

I was challenged by Karen at The Rubbish Diet to write about rubbish in Zambia. By which she meant trash and garbage, ratherthan things that went wrong (of which there were many…) She is running an 8 week long campaign to reduce the amount we put in our bins. I am in awe of her achievements and do wonder how I'm going to reduce my own garbage. Anyway, after a week of Zambianblogging, I thought I would hijack Writing Wednesday with some of my experiences.

I lived in the capital, Lusaka, for 4 years. You might thinkthat in a developing country the concept of recycling would be lost completely,and that there would be waste and litter everywhere. In practice, I think thatis completely wrong. I do not recall any great quantity of litter around the streets, unless you wentinto the more densely populated areas and their markets. My suspicion, however, is that even there it didn’t last longerthan the day. Where there is poverty, there is desperation, and anything thatcould be gleaned for sale, for food or for self-preservation would be.

As for recycling, in some ways they had a better system thanwe do here. In Africa, nothing goes to waste. I am convinced that before any of our black bags went out for thebinmen (and yes – there was a regular collection!) the entire contents wereransacked for anything that might be of value or use to the maids or gardenboys. Once it reached the dump, Iam sure there were even poorer people clambering all over to retrieve theremnants. This brings images of Slumdog millionaire to mind, and is not really something to be proud of.Nevertheless, it minimises waste.

As with anything, if there is limited supply then little iswasted. Zambia is a landlocked country, so everything had to be either flown inor brought on lorries through Zimbabwe (usually). Heavy items, such as paper,were disproportionately expensive. Whilst there was no formal recycling ofpaper, it was used with minimal waste. We recycled the free ‘Game’ magazine aswrapping paper… though I think this made us cheapskates, not eco warriors!

The best recycling of all – and far better, I believe, thananything we do in the UK – was the recycling of soft drinks. It was possible tobuy them in cans, but you paid handsomely for that privilege. And then you hadto throw the can away: here there was no recycling of tin. But most long-termresidents didn’t do this. Instead they bought a glass bottle of coke (or fantaor sprite: those were our only choices, although diet coke arrived before weleft), paying a deposit for the bottle and, when drunk, took it back forreplacement. The deposit rolled over ad infinitum; the glass bottles werereused; the soft drinks were cheap. Usually we did this by the crate load butmany locals did it by individual bottle. To my mind this is far better recyclingthan our copious use of plastic (yeuch!) and cans.

In some ways, the simple life gives natural waste reduction.If you can’t afford disposable nappies, you can never contaminate a landfillsite with them as waste. If you can’t afford new clothes, you will always be inthe market for hand-me-downs and second-hand offerings.

I was privileged to be connected to the Chikumbuso Womens & Orphans Project. As with all great ideas, it started with a simple thought: what if...? What if we were able to reuse all the carrier bags we have (freely handed out by local supermarkets and shops, but of low quality and non-biodegradable) that go to waste? What if it was possible to crochet plastic bags into …well, bags!

Started by a small group of widows inthe Ngombe region of Lusaka, a whole trade and industry has developed. Carrierbags are cut up and then crocheted to make bags which are thensold in the local market. The resource is, for the most part, free (donated in strategically placed bins, such as at international schools!). The womenearn a living from their production; a percentage is kept for communityprojects. And – importantly – the plastic bags are recycled, reused and notcreating uncompostable waste.

In Zambia, recycling can come in many forms. Glasses from wine bottles:

Chairs from bottle tops:

(Do you see the snake of bottle-tops on the table?)

The cans and papers are also used to create household items to sell, such as lampstands:

The best of ingenuity has to go to these gentlemen: a new style of horse and cart!

In Africa, nothing goes to waste.

If anyone in the UK is interested, I have a few bagsavailable for sale for the Chikumbuso Women and Orphans Project: please DM meon twitter: @c_withenay

Only one thing to say

2012-02-13T11:27:00.000Z

W E W O N ! ! !

Congratulations to Zambia,

Winner of the Africa Cup of Nations 2012

(0-0 after extra time, 8-7 on penalties)

Photo: copyright Getty Images, BBC website

The real news about yesterday's football

2012-02-09T17:05:00.001Z

Forget Fabio.

Ignore Harry.

The real news came late afternoon. Zambia beat Ghana 1-0 to earn their place in the final of the Africa Cup of Nations, to be held on Sunday in Libreville, Gabon.

The Africa Cup of Nations is the pinnacle of achievement in football terms across the continent. Held biennially, it is much feted, much desired and (above all) much followed! Although many Africans have their favourite Premiership teams and footballers, this local competition is the one each nation desires.

Ghana must have been favourites yesterday. They made it to the World Cup in South Africa and (let's face it) most of the rest of the world hasn't even heard of Zambia. But it only takes one goal to win - and Zambia got it! In the other semi-final, the Ivory Coast beat Mali by the same margin. The only difference (and surely not an important one *ahem*) is that they have not yet lost a match in the competition, nor conceded a goal. Zambia certainly have stiff opposition on Sunday.

But the players may not be their biggest fear. That problem may lie with ghosts from the past.

Late evening, 27 April 1993, a Zambian Air Force plane ditched into the sea about 500m off the coast of Gabon, having just taken off from Libreville. It was carrying most of the Zambian football team on their way to a FIFA World Cup Qualifier against Senegal. All passengers and crew were killed.

Their bodies were returned to Zambia and are buried in "Heroes' Acre" at the Independence Stadium in Lusaka. The memorial is a poignant memory to a lost football generation.

Nearly twenty years on, the national football team are to return to Libreville to play in the final of the African Cup of Nations. The team now consists of players who were just children when the disaster occurred, some barely born. But, like Munich for Man Utd fans, it is an event that is never forgotten by the nation.

So on Sunday, bring out your flags for the Zambians, fighting as underdogs to win the continent's most prized cup in a land that holds such horrific memories. A win would be an emotional event for the whole nation. And delightful!

Go Chipolopolo, go!

Watch the match on Sunday from 6.30pm on ITV4.

Tiny Sunbirds Far Away

2012-02-08T08:00:00.000Z

Writing Wednesday

It has been some time since I did a book review and there are several that I ought to write about, but the one that gets my top vote is Tiny Sunbirds Far Away by Christie Watson.

Set in Nigeria, the story is told by Blessing, a 12 year old girl. Her life is turned upside down when her mother walks in on her father 'on top of another woman'. Almost immediately her mother's loss of job and status meant a move from the comparative luxury of Lagos to the village, the family compound. Life changes beyond recognition as she has to do her share of the chores and learn about what is safe - from the oil workers, the freedom fighters, the non-refrigerated meat, the roadblocks, the school toilets. Nothing is straightforward and the culture shock is palpable.

Christie Watson portrays the characters beautifully. The clever older brother, Ezikiel, and his allergies. The distant mother and the loud Father with clean shoes. The grandmother who holds the family together. The grandfather, patriarch whose word is law. His second wife, who has a love of lycra clothing despite the heat. Add in the driver and his seventeen children who have to be cared for, the imman, and the complications of a relationship with a white man. It is a truly magnificent tale.

Difficult subjects are touched on with understatement and sensitivity, principally female circumcision (or FGM), which to our Western eyes is so horrific yet is sensitively portrayed as the social expectation in rural Nigeria, and the difficult issue of mixed-race relationships, if not racism against whites. There is also both religion and politics, a dangerous mix in normal circumstances. The political situation in the Nigerian oil fields, where great wealth is not filtering down to the locals and the resulting simmering resentment is always in the background ready to explode. Blessing also has to come to terms with moving into her grandfather's Islamic house after her Christian upbringing for twelve years.

Tiny Sunbirds Far Away won the Costa First Novel Award just a few weeks ago, and is well worth reading. If Christie Watson continues to write with such verve, passion and sensitivity she will many more prizes and plaudits, and deserve them all.

And for the sake of equality...

2012-02-03T20:03:00.001Z

Further to Wednesday's post, the next day my Son came home with two stickers: one for being 'Star of the Day' and the other for excellent handwriting.

If you saw his normal handwriting you would be astonished by that.

And he's passed his Grade 3 Trombone exam.

*lots of proud motherly thoughts floating around*

We celebrated with chips for tea!

A new month...

2012-02-01T20:10:00.000Z

Writing Wednesday

"Mum!" I hear my daughter scream, as she runs across the playground towards me. "Mum! Mum! I got three house points!"

"Wow!" I say. "What for?"

"For spelling February."

And she promptly did. Correctly.

She beamed from ear to ear. So tonight, we celebrate!

(Perhaps this post is a cheat for Writing Wednesday, as it is about my daughter rather than me, but I can't let my pride in her achievement go unrecognised!)

Too busy for words

2012-01-30T16:56:00.000Z

There are some weeks when I look at the diary and go...

Urrgghh!

Yer WHAT?!

And I'm supposed to breathe... when?

At least, after this weekend's endeavours, I'm not going to run out of marmalade.

Talking about me

2012-01-25T16:51:00.000Z

Writing Wednesday

Sell! Sell! Sell!

That's the job of the aspiring writer. Well, the job of an aspiring writer who wants to be published.

Even if you ignore the merits or otherwise of ebooks or print, self-publishing or publishing corporation, at the end of the day you - the writer - have to sell the book. And first of all, that means selling you.

It is not something I am naturally gifted at. Many people are, prepared to speak out and promote their own ideas... or force their opinions on us, the unsuspecting audience. Often such people come across as unpleasant: arrogant, only concerned with themselves. Yet (and I hate to admit this) they also often get things done. They get to where they want to be. Sure, they probably have some talent in their chosen field, but much of their success is due to self-confidence.

I know: I've watched The Apprentice.

Some of us are more reticent and don't blow our own trumpets. I find it so difficult to say anything positive about myself without immediately apologising afterwards. Yet why should I? Though I have many (many, many, many) weaknesses, I'm not all bad. In fact, bits of me are quite good. (Quite, you note.)

This week I sent off my book to an agent. Just the one (it took me all day to prepare for and build up the confidence for that!) Writing a cover letter that sells me and the book is difficult. Writing a cover letter that boasts without being overbearing is difficult. Writing a cover letter that shows you know your market and love writing and have an exciting opening and are the best person in the entire universe and just what the agent is looking for ... is difficult.

Have you guessed what I found hard? Nevertheless, I hit the 'send' button and now await with bated breath. I anticipate a long wait...

[Incidentally, I found the service BubbleCow offered really helpful. They give lots of free and friendly advice: go look them up! I've also perused hundreds of blogs and picked up tips from other writers. I'll let you know if any of them work!]

How to make tedious homework easier

2012-01-21T08:30:00.000Z

My husband is a genius.

Son was not a happy bunny. His English homework was long and tedious - in the region of fifty sentences to be written with the correct grammar (using subordinate clauses, in case you are interested). The prospect of sitting down and writing for sooooo long to get that done was likely to kill the poor boy off, and certainly to drive his parents to distraction.

That is where my brilliant husband stepped in.

"When I was your age," he said, "my friends invented characters and used them in the answers to their questions. Everything developed into a great story centred on their made-up characters."

Son looks at him skeptically.

"Think of a name," husband says.

And thus a lengthy conversation took place, as we went through names that we liked or didn't like, and eliminated ones that had already been stolen (Harry and Hermione weren't allowed). It was also preferable to be short - when it comes to writing homework, don't make anything any longer than is strictly necessary.

Eventually they came up with Jack. "Excellent - you can have a girl called Jaq as well. And her name is shorter!" Husband is really quite excited by this project.

"Or he could be called Cam," Son suddenly adds, "short for Cameron."

"Ok: there could be three of them." (I know: JK Rowling has done the '2 boys and a girl trio of superheroes' already, but it still feels right.)

With the help of the dictionary, the final names were chosen. So, if you are an English teacher to my Son in the future, look out for the special adventures of Jack O'Bean (a time-traveller from the early 1600s), Jaq Uzzi (with her machine guns firing jets of water) and their Chinese friend Cam Ping (who puts up tents). Somehow they will save the world again and again.

And save us from miserable English homework.

Just did it!

2012-01-18T14:47:00.000Z

Writing Wednesday

I did it!

As promised to myself last week on this blog, I gave myself the time to rewrite the final chapter of my book In the shade of the mulberry tree.

I cut it fine (yes, it was yesterday afternoon...and early evening...) but with a little determination and only a small amount of procrastination on twitter (ahem!) I managed to forge out 1666 words. New words. Well, largely traditional words strung out in a new order. But nevertheless, the basis of a final chapter was put together.

It does raise more questions, of course. How should I end the book?

  A: Drinking G&Ts in the glow of the setting African sun?
  B: Getting on the plane back to the UK?
  C: Discussing plans for the year ahead with my husband?
  D: Getting on the plane back to Zambia?
  E: All of the above? Or none?

Looking back at that list I realise that I can't be doing both B and D at the same time; nor either with A, perhaps. Everyone always speaks about how difficult it is to get the first chapter right - and it is, for it has to hook the reader, never mind the publisher and agent! - but ending is also important. It is the final feeling you have as you put a book down. Do you want to be sad or happy? Despairing or hopeful? Immediately want more, or to have space to think about issues that have been raised?

As my tale isn't miserable but is, I hope, thought-provoking, I think a bit of warm sun will have to sneak in somewhere. And I enjoy chatting with my husband (no really, honestly: I do!) So now all I have to do is turn those draft 1666 words into something that makes more coherent sense, something with fewer adverbs (obviously!) and something that sums up the essence of my first year living in Zambia.

Perhaps you'll have to come back next week...

Today I weep

2012-01-13T16:35:00.000Z

Today I weep.

My day started with discovering my daughter sleeping with her head at the foot of the bed. This only means one thing: she wet herself during the night and turned to sleep at the dry end. Unfortunately, aged 9, she is now too tall for this to be of benefit. So the day started with a change of sheets. Even this would not bother me too much, but I was greeted in the school playground by her saying she needed a change of pants. Looking down, I see it is worse than that, as her tights and shoes are sodden. Why oh why oh why? Clearly our current range of medicines to help control this are insufficient. But do I want to put my girl onto stronger drugs? Do I want to control this only by chemical input? Then again, do I want to spend my whole life washing her clothes and bedsheets?

Today I weep.

For my daughter has no true awareness of her developmental issues. I can shout and scream until I am blue in the face, but she has little comprehension of her peculiarity, that she is not doing what a 'normal' 9 year old would do. Last night I said goodnight and switched off the light around 9pm - later than I'd like, but not horrifically so. Yet at 10.30pm I could hear her stereo blaring out music from two floors down. When I run up the stairs (furious) I find all lights on, Jessie J blasting out and her reading books in bed, without a care in the world. Even my arrival didn't instigate shame, such as hurriedly hiding away the books. The eventual apology was hollow, as she didn't understand why I was cross.

Today I weep.

My daughter has gone to play with a friend. This is a good thing, but it saddens me that she was the 'friend of last resort', as her friend listed out all the other girls she had tried to invite for tea but who couldn't make it for one reason or another. 'There's no-one else!' she declared, much to her mother's embarrassment. Fortunately this washes over my daughter's head, as she is so delighted to go out and play. But I worry for her, for the loss of friends as they develop at a 'normal' pace and my beautiful girl struggles to progress. Increasingly she will be difficult to play with - she won't understand the intricacies of a game or the social rules that children develop.

Today I weep.

For she is the most beautiful girl in the world. She is happy and carefree. She is trying so hard. She has a love of life and a love of people that does not judge or dismiss or become bitchy. There is nothing physically or genetically wrong with her, no diagnosable issue such as dyslexia or autism, no behavioural problems: just a markedly slow development educationally and socially. She smiles and laughs and giggles.

I have so few problems with my children compared to many people and I give thanks for the wonderful gift they are to me. Today I am seeing the black cloud rather than the silver lining. And today - just today - as I bear her pain, I weep for my little girl.

A new start for a new year?

2012-01-11T19:46:00.000Z

Writing Wednesday

I am ashamed to admit that my writing has taken a back seat over the last few weeks. I can excuse myself Christmas week itself, but in all honesty nothing much has happened since the beginning of November.

I have only myself to blame. I have read many, many blogs and books about how to write. One of the pieces of advice is: JUST DO IT! You cannot be a writer if you don't write. Ignore the phone, switch off Facebook and Twitter, tell your family you are going to be busy for a couple of hours and cannot be disturbed. Whatever it takes, give yourself the space to write.

I do not heed my own advice, you note. Nor others' instructions. Instead I let all the Christmas shows take over, my responsibilities to church overwhelm, my school governor duties take priority, work - well, that just seemed an endless stream of deadlines that thoroughly deserved the Night Out at the end!

But the worst bit of procrastination is because I know I have to rewrite my final chapter. As it currently exists it is more of an epilogue but - if I were to restructure it as that - my actual book would then end rather miserably and a little in mid-air. So a serious rewrite looms and, in the odd ten minutes I get to myself, the effort to actually do that is more than I can face.

Just do it! My resolve for the week ahead is to set aside a few hours - a morning or an afternoon - and just write. Even if the result is rubbish, at least I will have a basis to edit rather than a blank page.

Then all I have to do is pluck up courage to send query letters... *gulp* !

A little late...

2012-01-04T21:42:00.001Z

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Yes, yes: I know my greeting is a little late, on both counts but my excuses are many.

It is still the season of Christmas (up to and including, I believe, Twelfth Night or Epiphany, when the celebration of the arrival of the Wise Men concludes the Christmas story). On this ground, I am not (yet) late in wishing you a Merry Christmas.
We may be a few days in, but I still hope that the rest of 2012 is good for you. Indeed, this year we have an extra day to celebrate in.
Who really gets time to blog in the run-up to and during the festive season itself? (Oh yes: those who are more organised than me. Oops.)

To maintain that festive mood, here are two photos of the Withenay family Christmas. Firstly, the tree.

(It looked even better with the presents under it.)

And then a picture taken in the garden a couple of days before.

Isn't it great to see the beginning of Spring before you've roasted the turkey or brought lumps of coal to people's houses? What topsy-turvy weather we have been having!

So, to reassure all my lovely blogging friends, I haven't disappeared off the face of the earth. We have had a lovely family Christmas, full of good food, parties, games, fun with friends and wonderful presents. Celebrations may now be over as school and work resume their humdrum routine but it will be a year of many happy memories.

I'd love to say that I have a list of marvellous, virtuous New Year Resolutions, but I haven't. Last year I managed a month which (on past form) isn't bad. If I can myself, my house and (spot where this all falls apart) my family a little more organised, that will suit me fine.

Here's hoping God richly blesses your year ahead, filling it with love, joy and peace.

When housepride flies out of the window (again)

2011-12-20T21:49:00.000Z

I don't claim to keep the cleanest house in the world. In fact, I may be competing for messiest at the moment. There is paperwork everywhere, Christmas stuff lying around and general chaos. I tell myself that this is all part of the tidying up, part of making the house look better, but somehow that 'better' never arrives.

Despite my untidiness, this discovery when cleaning the kitchen floor (you see, I do some cleaning!) was rather a shock.

How did he get into my kitchen?

*runs off to check seals on back door!*

Read the label

2011-12-12T19:59:00.000Z

It is a well-known fact in our house that nothing stays in the same place for long. Pick it up ... walk around ... put it down ... go somewhere else ... can't possibly find the object ever again. The biggest culprit? My husband.

So it was with my kitchen scissors. To cut a long story short (ahem!) my husband lost them.

I've learnt over the years to show a little generosity of spirit about such things, a little patience, to give it all a bit of time. After all, who knows when something may turn up (just as you put down the forms for the school trip, or the music for the trombone exam, or you favourite pen...) Eventually most items reappear.

But after nearly two months without the kitchen scissors (yes, I improvised a lot using sharp knives) I gave in and purchased a new pair - not least because I wasn't quite sure how I was going to wrap the Christmas presents.

I buy new kitchen scissors. I get them home. I read the packaging.

Remove packaging and cut tie before use

Now just how am I supposed to do that?!

In which I wonder about my sanity...

2011-12-06T14:32:00.001Z

It is winter. It is cold. I need to wear socks and boots.

This is to be expected but, as I rummaged through the sock drawer this morning to find a pair of brown socks, I wondered whether I am I the only person in the world to only choose socks that match the colour of her boots?

Black boots, black socks.

Brown boots, brown socks.

You can't see the socks once the boots are on.

And the trousers won't necessarily match either the boot or sock colour.

Have I finally gone mad?

Gifts of ivory and gold

2011-11-29T09:49:00.000Z

It is in those bewitching hours of 3-5am that I have most of my greatest blog posts written.

Unfortunately, I am writing them in my brain, not wishing to leave the warmth of my bed even if I have left the satisfaction of sleep. By 9am, when I have the time and space to type, they have vanished, blown away in the gale of preparation for school.

Last night (or, technically, this morning) I recall planning to write about my mother and grandmother, who died 24 and 1 year(s) ago respectively. I recall wondering about the problems of mental health, and society's attitude towards it. I remember thinking about my recent nightmare in which I had a maths exam looming but could not bring myself to revise any of the relevant subject matter.

Maybe all these will become a blog post at some point. Maybe.

I cogitated the merits of blogging, the decline in comments (my own fault, for not visiting others' blogs often enough), the speed of reaction to twitter. I thought about my children and how they make me laugh so much, yet I find it more and more difficult to write stories about them on the blog. Is it just too intrusive on their privacy? I wondered whether it was interesting to write about school plays and trombone exams and concerts, all of which dominate my life and mind but are hardly unique to my family. Or I could be more topical - debate the NHS, or the Eurozone crisis, or write about Advent and Christmas, or give my take on Strictly and The X-Factor. Would anyone really be interested in all this?

But then I thought about how lovely it would be to write a post about my wonderful husband; how much I love him; how much I depend on him and how - even after 14 years of marriage - it is a privilege to know him. He has given me two wonderful children and a life with more adventures than I could possibly have foreseen, but more laughter and joy than I could ever have hoped for.

Happy Wedding Anniversary!

The Coco Pops effect

2011-11-23T14:11:00.001Z

We have a family tradition that when it is your birthday, you can choose a new breakfast cereal to have.

This doesn't sound like much of a treat, I know, but it truly is something to look forward to. The rest of the year we eat Weetabix. Or Cornflakes, Rice Crispies, Muesli or Bran Flakes. Nothing very exciting; high in fibre and (most importantly) low in chocolate and sugar.

Once a year, we each get to choose Choco Hoops or Frosties or Coco Pops or Crunchy Nut or... blimey, I'm almost salivating at the thought!

So imagine the scene when my daughter came downstairs (late!) for breakfast and discovered an empty box. It had been her birthday: her choice. "What's happened to all the-?" she whined.

My son stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth. We all knew the guilty culprit. Before I could say anything he said, "I'll go and sit at the bottom of the stairs."

And he did!

Now that's the most effective parental discipline I've had for a long time!

Five things I've noticed in editing my book

2011-11-14T14:53:00.001Z

This is at least my fourth complete edit of my book, In the shade of the Mulberry Tree, which tells the first year of my family's adventures living in Zambia. Every time I finish I think, 'Great! It's ready!' Then I find more things to correct and re-write. Is an author's work ever truly complete? Here are some things that have astonished me about my writing this time.

Though I pride myself in my correct use of grammar (I blame years of repetitive practice at primary school), there was a run of chapters where I repeatedly used its incorrectly. Its = belongs to it; It's = It is or it has. I know this...but there are gaps between knowledge and application...
I have a propensity to write sentences without verbs. So, not really sentences at all, I suppose.
Certain words repeat many times. I removed a lot of 'somewhat's before this edit; now I have replaced a lot of showing with revealing. Sadly, I don't think I've managed to squeeze the word indubitably in anywhere.
I write a lot of lists with no 'and' to hold them together. Lovely commas, no conjunctive.
There is no room for sentimentality. I cut 1000 words by just hitting the delete button, but I'd really enjoyed writing that chapter! I would just like the Broccoli family to know that if any James Bond film hits our screens which is set in Zambia, my husband and I retain the copyright. (Or at least the bottle of wine that created such a fantastic film!)

And so, to end. My final chapter ought to be an epilogue. But then my penultimate chapter would be my final chapter and it has a really miserable ending. My final edit stage is to split the final chapter into two: a new final chapter and an epilogue. I hope it works!

Then edits done, all I need to do is send it off to publishers or agents. As a meerkat might say, 'Simples!'

(Oh, the irony: blogger spellcheck wants to correct meerkat to market...!)

In which I notice a big change

2011-11-07T22:41:00.000Z

Sometimes you know that the season has changed.

It could be the colours of the leaves on the tree: the bright green buds of spring or the russets of autumn.

It could be the produce of the land: glorious flowers in the summer or barren earth in winter.

It could be the TV schedule: the return of Strictly, X-factor and Merlin from September or the plethora of sport in June and July.

Or you could be me.

I know that winter is coming.

Today I had to wear socks.

Water for Elephants

2011-11-02T15:00:00.000Z

Writing Wednesday

There are some books I look at and want to read immediately. Their cover attracts; the blurb on the back entices; the title is intriguing. None of this applied to Water for Elephants. The cover is ok, but not spectacular. The story is to be about a man who found love when he jumped on a circus train, and I have no particular interest in circuses. The title has most intrigue, but is not sufficient on its own.

Here lies the benefit of a book group. Being 'forced' to read the book was the only way I would pick it up. And it was magnificent.

Water for Elephants is a novel about Jacob Jankowski, a Polish American who is orphaned just as he is about to complete vet school. Penniless and confused, he jumps a freight train in the dark, to find he is on a circus train. By the end of the next day he has a job with Benzini Brothers and has fallen in love. Neither is straightforward.

Sara Gruen clearly spent a lot of time researching the details of circuses in the depression era and her efforts paid off. Her descriptions were light yet alive: I could feel myself on the train, against the horse blanket, being chased by mobs, feeding the animals. The whole circus atmosphere was realistically portrayed, showing the outward glamour and the behind-the-scenes chaos and rivalries.

It is a love story; but it is so much more. The circus is the majority of the book, but in flashback, being told by a 93-year-old man from his nursing home. One of the cleverest aspects of the book was the ability to intertwine these two stories, using the characters of Rosie and Rosemary, to have the contrast of keeping animals and keeping old people, and to call for the vet or the doctor.

I have not seen the film, though others at my book group had and said the book was better. The writing incorporates different levels of personalities and administration within the circus and, as I said above, it is much more than a love story. It is an expedition into the life of a second-rate circus in 1930s America.

If you wish to find out more about the book you can visit Sara Gruen's website. I would thoroughly recommend reading it!

Autumn clean

2011-10-24T21:58:00.000+01:00

It is half-term and the bookshelves are full to over-flowing, so indeed it is time for a tidy up.

We started in my daughter's room, principally because all her books and belongings were spread on the floor rather than in any shelves/baskets/drawers that may be available. It took several hours, in two sessions, but finally we have bottomed the room.

"What's this?" I would say, picking up another piece of tat.

"It's J's" she said, referring to a friend that stayed a few months ago.

"Where did you get this from?" I asked.

"J left it," she replied.

"How come you have a water bottle up here?"
"Whose is this hairbrush?"
"Is that headband...?"

"J's," she replied...repeatedly.

It would appear that her friend left more stuff behind than she took with her. And that her mum hasn't been missing it enough to ask for it back...!

Malaria marvels

2011-10-19T21:47:00.001+01:00

I never wanted to move to Africa. As I sat in my terraced house in London, all I could think about, cradling my 7 month old baby or chasing after my two-year-old toddler, was the risk of malaria. Malaria kills. One bite from the wrong mosquito and it could be all over. The prospect of that happening to one of my children, and not noticing it in time, was terrifying.

In practice, Lusaka was largely malaria free, with the greatest risk during the rainy season (November to March) and our awareness of the symptoms meant at the first sign of fever there was a rush to be tested. We had a few dashes to the clinic for what turned out to be nothing more than a cold. By the time a test came through positive I had been there four years, my son was now six and it all was a lot more manageable. (Don't misunderstand me: I was terrified for my boy, had sleepless nights and cried a lot, but it didn't make me rush for the first plane home.)

Malaria is a killer disease and millions die of it every year. It has been said that the mosquito is man's greatest enemy because of this threat (and that of other diseases). Across the world efforts are being made to eradicate the disease. There has been talk of breeding sterile mosquitoes and work persists in trying to find a vaccine. The Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation has been supplying millions of mosquito nets impregnated with insecticide. These are a first line of defence: if no-one is bitten by mosquitoes then the malaria cannot be sucked in by the insect and pushed out into the fresh blood of the next victim. Admittedly, there are many tales of the nets being used by locals as fishing nets rather than over their beds, but a saturated market must provide some level of resistance.

The fight goes on because we know the disease to be both treatable and preventable. No-one need die of it and simple measures can prevent its spread. A few months ago I shared this video with you - a marvellous piece of public education for the people of the Congo.

But the best news of all came this week: in the last decade worldwide incidences of malaria have decreased by 20%. A reduction of one fifth. Many, many millions of lives saved, quite probably most of them being children. Malaria is the largest cause of death in the under 5s, killing one child every 30 seconds. It is still prevalant in sub-saharan Africa (85% of cases) yet progress is being made. Although endemic in 108 countries, since 2007 it has been eradicated from Morocco, Turkmenistan and Armenia.

I hope that one day a vaccine will be found and this killer disease can be eradicated. In the meantime, let's celebrate the steps forward that we are making. Every life is valuable and every life saved is invaluable.

Apples everywhere!

2011-10-10T11:55:00.000+01:00

The only problem with modern Harvest Festival services is that we don't bring our own fresh produce any more. Instead, we bring tins and long-term food that a local soup kitchen/homelessness project/charity can use. Don't get me wrong: this is clearly a good thing, and I gladly give what I can.

But - it doesn't help me get rid of my glut of Bramley apples.

We are a little fed up of stewed apples. Our freezer is full. There's only so much apple crumble a family can stomach. And apple pie involves the major problem that (according to my husband) I don't make it like his mother does.

So yesterday afternoon was spent making chutney.

Firstly I made beetroot, ginger and apple chutney (as we'd had beetroot in the veg box this week).

It is a glorious deep pink colour and the ginger was a wonderful smell.

Then I made three times the recipe quantity of Spiced Apple Chutney.

Principally apples, onions and raisins, together with the (nearly) out-of-date dates and a huge pile of spices - coriander, paprika, mixed spice, more ginger and chilli flakes (as I didn't have enough of the other spices per the recipe). I'm glad I didn't put in the full spice quotient as it is quite hot enough as it is!

After bubbling away for hours on the Aga, then being bottled, this morning I am greeted with this:

Not only do have a delicious lunch to look forward to, but there's plenty of Spiced Apple Chutney presents coming this Christmas!

Now, to enter The Pink Whisk October Challenge I need to give you the recipes.
All I have learnt about making chutney is that you can be very fluid with your adherence to the recipe. Keep the basic proportions of 'dry' ingredients (why apples are referred to as dry I don't know!) to vinegar the same and any combination of fruit and spices can be made. For completeness:

Beetroot & Ginger Chutney
A Nigella Lawson special!

500g/1lb 2oz fresh beetroot, peeled and finely chopped
1kg/2lb 2oz cooking apples, peeled, quartered, cored, roughly chopped
275g/10oz red onion, finely chopped
2.5cm/1in piece of fresh ginger, peeled and grated
75g/2.5oz crystallised stem ginger, finely chopped
350g/12oz soft light brown suger
1 tsp salt
1 tsp ground allspice
750ml/1pint 7fl oz red wine vinegar

The only change I made to this recipe was put some of the stem ginger syrup in as well as the vinegar.

Put all the ingredients into a large pan, in the order shown above. Stir to mix well.
Bring to the boil, then simmer for approximately an hour until beetroot pieces are tender, stirring occasionally to prevent it sticking.
Spoon into sterilised jars, seal and cool.

Keep refrigerated and use within four weeks (if it will last that long!).

Spiced Apple Chutney (remember: I made 3x this recipe from the BBC website!)

225g/8oz onions, chopped
900g/2lb apples, cored and chopped
110g/4oz sultanas, raisins or chopped dates
340g/12oz granulated sugar

Spices were - to my mind - excessive in the website recipe. I probably added a total of 60g of coriander, paprika and mixed spice (mainly coriander), a generous tablespoon of salt, a tablespoon of dried chilli flakes and an inch of freshly grated ginger. Divide that by three to be in proportion to the dry ingredients above!

425ml/3/4 pint malt vinegar.

Put all the ingredients in a big pan. Bring to the boil until the sugar has dissolved. Then let it simmer for 1.5-2 hours, stirring occasionally to prevent it sticking to the pan.
When very thick, bottle into sterilised jars. Seal and cool.

It is recommended to leave it for 2-3 months before eating, ideally in a dark place.

Hope you enjoy!

OK?

2011-10-05T07:29:00.002+01:00

Writing Wednesday

It took me a week, but eventually I opened the package that I knew to be my book In the Shade of the Mulberry Tree to review the edits. Letting a completely independent person read my writing is quite scary, particularly as she was to criticise and correct it.

Thankfully, it is not too bad. She has found spelling errors and typos. And she has made suggestions for re-phrasing, most of which make total sense. And she has pointed out inconsistencies, which require a lot more thinking about but need to be resolved. As it is a memoir of our time in Zambia I know exactly where I was and when, but I don't always write it down as clearly as it is in my mind!

So I bravely set to. One thing she noted was that I sometimes wrote 'ok', sometimes 'okay', and sometimes 'OK'. Apparently I should always do the latter.

'No problem!' I thought. 'Find and Replace!' Word has its merits.

Do you know how many words there are in my book with 'ok' in? Here they are:

look, looks, looking (I do an awful lot of this)
book (I read them)
cook, cooker (half a chapter on the need for a cooker)
guidebook, handbook (we travelled around)
joke, jokes, joking (we laugh)
woken, woke (I had two children under the age of 3...)
broke, broken (I had two children under the age of 3...)
brook (only one)
took (travel with things)
coke (diet or otherwise)
smoke, smoky (unrelated to the coke above)
shook (fear: have you got close to a crocodile?)
hook, hooks, Hook (Bridge)
bespoke (we needed furniture)

I might have been quicker reading the whole book again, particularly as I still have to go through it for all the other edits.

Still, I have gone through five chapters in detail ... only 34 to go. (Hasten to add: They are short chapters - this is not some epic tome that will exhaust you by looking at it!)

It loOKs as if my boOk will be OK - oh, darn that Find and Replace tool!

No news is good news?

2011-09-26T12:16:00.001+01:00

It isn't very often that Africa hits the news, unless there is political unrest (Libya, Tunisia, Egypt) or famine (Ethiopia, Somalia, Niger) or violence (Kenya, Nigeria, South Africa).

One of the many reasons we loved living in Zambia was that it was such a peaceful country. It has made the transition from colony to independent state with little in the way of unrest. Black and white live - for the most part - happily side-by-side. And despite being landlocked, and bordering countries such as Angola, Zimbabwe and the DRC (formerly Zaire), has not been involved in international disputes.

Five years ago I was living there on my own with my children when the elections took place. The ruling president at the time, Levy Mwanawasa, was seeking his second term in power and his party, the MMD, won. There were many accusations of electoral malpractice, of fiddling the results, of ballot boxes being rigged with predetermined votes, but the Electoral Commision for Zambia (ECZ) declared the vote true and fair, and President Mwanawasa duly re-elected.

The MMD had been in power since 1991, when multi-party democracy came to Zambia, ending Kenneth Kaunda's long term in power since independence in 1964. Leaders are now only allowed two terms (like American presidents) and - so far! - this has been maintained and upheld, despite some candidates best efforts.

In the 2006 elections there was interest in the Patriotic Front (PF) and its leader, Michael Sata. He had served under Kaunda and Chiluba, but disillusioned set up his own party. It had a growing following. Prior to the election he made wild claims against Chinese investment in the mines (their treatment of their employees' safety was questionable) and in support of Mugabe's attitude to white farmers in Zimbabwe. As a white guest in Zambia it was concerning rhetoric. In a couple of townships in the capital, Lusaka, there was some unrest when it became clear that Sata had lost the elections and for a couple of days we just stayed home, to be on the safe side.

Levy Mwanawasa died in 2008, after we had left Zambia, replaced (after another election) by Rupiah Banda, also of the MMD. He only beat Sata by 35,000 votes.

Levy Mwanawasa Rupiah Banda

Last week the tables were turned, and Sata was voted in as the fifth President of Zambia for a 5 year term.

Banda gave an emotional but gracious speech of resignation, Sata was sworn in last Friday afternoon, and a new era in Zambian politics will ensue. I cannot tell what he will bring to the country but the handover has been swift, smooth and (for the most part) without violence. (There was some unrest in the Copperbelt towns as they waited for the results, which took over two days.) Indeed, since the declarations, there have been celebrations and partying by PF supporters joyful in victory.

As with every new head of state, Sata is promising much that is good: investment, peace, prosperity, reducing government size, tackling corruption. I hope and pray his actions will live up to his words.

This doesn't hit our UK headlines. There was minimal violence, no great upsets, generosity in defeat, a lack of vitriol, no white or British people were attacked or killed. For us, it is not news.

But on an African scale, a free and fair election with a peaceful handover to an opposition party - surely that is great news?

Writing Wednesday?

2011-09-21T22:41:00.001+01:00

Instead of this...

Writing Wednesday

... today consisted of this:

Day 1 done and dusted.

Words will wait: today was spreadsheets.

Scarily enjoyable.

Breast-feeding in church

2011-09-19T10:48:00.000+01:00

Yesterday's church service was a little unusual as our minister didn't produce a sermon but arranged us into groups to answer 5 questions instead. He didn't allow much time to answer, which for the first couple (Why do we need to meet with God? and Why do we need to come to church?) was fine. Nevertheless, the idea was that the grown-ups would answer the questions in ways that the children would understand.

My daughter was the sole child in our group and (if we're honest about it) she really wasn't very interested.

As the questions became more difficult to understand (How powerful is Jesus in your life since he was struck down? - I am above average intelligence but really, what does that mean?) ... she was more concerned about her doll.

So while the adults battled to answer the questions, she tended to her baby. He was cuddled, and shared, and talked about, and then breastfed.

I can categorically state that it is hard to have a serious conversation when your daughter has lifted up her T-shirt to feed her doll.

Baby was delicately held in the crook of her arm, maternal eyes gazing down lovingly at him.

And then she switched him to the other breast.

And when all was done, back to normal.

*head in hands*

*die of embarrassment*

**love my daughter more than words can say**

Dahl's Den on Dahl Day

2011-09-14T14:30:00.002+01:00

Writing Wednesday

Roald Dahl was one of the greatest writers for children ever. His books are classics, books that I loved as a child and my children have loved reading in recent years. We have a set of five of them as talking books read by Roald Dahl himself, who has a glorious voice to listen to. Fantastic Mr Fox got us through some extrememely late and slightly hair-raising driving to our holiday in Wales this summer.

Dahl is a national treasure, a great talent of whom we should be proud. His shed where he did all his writing has not been touched since his death in 1990. Due to a back injury during the war he was unable to write at a desk so all his works were penned (or rather, pencilled) from his armchair with an adapted writing board. All around the small hut are treasures that tell of his writing life - pictures and ornaments, special paper shipped in from the US, the ashtray and cigarette butts.

Can a place ooze creativity? Just looking at the pictures of it make me feel warm, as if any moment there could be another masterpiece emerging from its depths. It feels comfortable, exciting, inspiring. (Although I bet it was terribly cold in winter!)

Yesterday an appeal was announced for £500,000 to cover the costs of moving Roald Dahl's writing shed to the Roald Dahl museum in Great Missenden. This has caused a furore! Why should the public fund the shed's removal in these times of austerity when the Dahl family are so wealthy (and particular attention has been drawn to his granddaughter Sophie, a millionaire in her own right)? Given that Puffin sold one Dahl book every 5 seconds last year these arguments have weight. By my calculations, if each book gave 50p of royalty that amounts to £3,153,600, which ought to cover the preservation costs and still leave enough for his widow to live off. (And that excludes any film or other royalties!)

I am delighted that such a treasure is to be saved for the public. I hope and trust that many children (and adults) will be inspired by the room, just as Dahl was, and that further classics will emerge. The Dahl family's PR may have shot itself in the foot, but we should all enjoy this little piece of our collective history. If we can save the house that John Lennon or Paul McCartney grew up in, then we ought to be able to save Dahl's Den too.

Book art sculpture

2011-09-12T09:52:00.000+01:00

Book lovers, you just have to see this: mysterious paper sculptures

These works of art have appeared all over Edinburgh in recent months, and it seems that no-one knows who has made them.

I think my favourite is this one:

Although it may be this one...

(After all - this has tea and cake - what more can a girl ask for?)

No more maternity leave!

2011-09-09T14:17:00.002+01:00

This is the big news, alluded to in the last post. After nearly eleven years, my UK maternity leave is about to end.

I have an accountancy job, due to start in about a fortnight.

Eleven years since I walked out of the office in London, so pregnant with my boy that I didn't think I'd make it through another month end. I remember clearly spending the last six weeks BC (before child) watching (a) massive storms and floods across the UK and then (b) Bush being elected, and the tension over the Florida vote and missing chavs. It seems an age ago!

There are several good things about my new job.

It is part-time: two half-days to fit in with school hours.
I don't have to work any school holidays.
I'm going to be paid. (This is quite an exciting development after four years of being a SAHM!)

Of course, every upside has a downside. What the heck is corporation tax now? (And other such panicky questions about rusty accountancy knowledge!)

I do know that I have landed on my feet. The offer came completely out of the blue and I feel most grateful to get anything so flexible and appropriate for my family's circumstances when there are many struggling to get - or keep - a job at all. I know my fears will recede after a week or two, when I've got back into the swing of things.

In the meantime ... time to pick up those accountancy magazines ...

Ten thousand thank-yous

2011-09-06T17:32:00.000+01:00

I've had a bit of a blog-block this last week. The end of the summer holidays and a phenomenally enjoyable time with my children and the blog just seemed of little importance.

Today they returned to school; and I returned to my routine; and the blog-block is broken.

And why? Principally because I have the time to have a nose around, find out what is happening in the world, discover new things.

Firstly, I found my last post had been highlighted in the Tots100 Best of Mummy Blogs 10 at 10 ten days ago - wow! (There's a lot of tens in that sentence - just wait: there's another ten coming... with more zeros!) Carol's recommendation gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside - someone likes my blog! Even the silly tales of my children, or our family travels, or the tentative dipping of toes into the murky world of writing books.

And I've just found out that this blog has had over ten thousand page views since it started. Ten and lots of zeros! 10,000! How did that happen? Can that many people be interested in my ramblings?

Thank you, thank you, so much! Your viewings and your comments make it all worthwhile.

And just to tease and tantalise you (now that phrase is bound to get me some more page views!) there is news afoot in the Withenay household: major changes ... but nothing definite until the end of this week. Hopefully.

So now you'll have to come back and find out more! How long to twenty thousand?!

Can there be anyone nicer than me?

2011-08-23T07:54:00.000+01:00

I was chatting with my son and I tell him a story about how, in one of our many house moves, I managed to dispose of something my husband made before we got married. I'd never really liked it, it was too big and damaged and... well, you get the picture.

Filled with a rush of remorse and guilt I declare, "Oh, when you get married, make sure you choose someone nicer than your mother!"

"Easy peasy," he says, walking off with a smile.

A mighty inheritance

2011-08-17T12:21:00.000+01:00

"Dad," my son says, "why do you always use that glass?"

My husband looks at it carefully. "It's mine," he responds. "I like it. I've had it a long time and it is just the right size for my drink."

My son takes all this in, sagely nodding his head.

"Will you leave it to me in your Will?" he asks.

Somewhat taken aback, my husband replies, with a smile, "Of course. When I get round to writing my next Will I will leave it for you. But if I don't, then consider it yours regardless."

This is the glass:

Isn't it funny what children think important?

An ulterior motive?

2011-08-13T12:14:00.000+01:00

Last night I picked up the book my husband - the doctor - gave me for my birthday.

So much for that by Lionel Shriver (most famous for the Orange Prize winner We need to talk about Kevin, which I loved in a scary, lots of sleepless nights kind of fashion) has been sitting by the bedside for several months and I finally thought I had enough time to read it. It is quite thick (531 pages - I've just checked) so it isn't necessarily a light read for the beach.

I read the back cover. It mentions Africa, retiring to Tanzania. Interesting, I think.

It revolves around the question: how much is one life worth? Interesting, I think.

The Literary Review states: "British readers will close this excellent novel feeling grateful for the NHS."

Ah. So that's why my husband thought I should read it...

I am not tired and I will not go to bed!

2011-07-31T08:02:00.002+01:00

So, it is late. The children have been put to bed, stories read and sleep beckons.

I decide to have a bath - my husband's still not home from work, so I figure I could take my time, read a book, relax.

All seems right with the world.

After a while, who appears at the door but my Son, clinging to his teddies, rubbing his eyes, hair all askew.

"I can't get to sleep," he says. "I've tried every position possible on my bed."

Now, I'm not feeling very sympathetic (it is late, he's clearly tired - just sleep!!) He's interrupted my novel and I'm a little vulnerable, being as I am in the bath. And I don't really want to have to get out to deal with him. This is my justification for my next, fatuous remark.

"Have you tried sleeping on your head?"

It does stop him in his tracks.

"No," he says, looking at me as if I am mad. Perhaps I am.

"It's probably not a very good idea," I say. "After all, when you do fall asleep, you'll just fall down and that will probably wake you up and you'll be back to square one."

He laughs, in that way children do when they know their parents are both right and completely bonkers. And with that he sits down on the bathroom floor with his teddies. Then he lies down on the bath mat.

I figure, if he can't sleep, a few minutes lying on my tiled bathroom floor won't make any difference. I'll finish my chapter then deal with him. But I don't get to the end of my chapter before my next interruption: my husband comes home from work.

He walks in, grins at me, then gawps at my Son. At this point I sit up and take notice. Peering over the edge, I see him in all his childlike glory: fast asleep. For a mother, I suspect, there is nothing more beautiful than their children in peaceful repose, clutching their teddies or dolls, far away in the land of nod.

But he is on my bathmat, and I do have to get out of the bath sometime. Reluctantly we wake him and take him to bed. This time, thankfully, he falls asleep quickly in the proper place (head on pillow!)

Thick skin

2011-07-27T07:43:00.001+01:00

Writing Wednesday

I have often read that a writer needs thick skin. The battle to get published is a long and arduous one (well, for most of us, who don't already have a famous name to sell the book). Many, many writers have their world-famous writing rejected by publishers 20, 30, 40 times before success comes. Even when a book is published, there are reviewers out there and (heaven knows why!) some of them won't like the book. More criticism, more seemingly personal attacks.

Thick skin is not something I am famous for. I take far too much as a personal insult and, if hit with a criticism at a low point, can be utterly miserable for days. Unfortunately this fear can also be prohibitive: it stops me doing things for fear of failure, of comments that I won't be able to bear.

It is part of why sending my book to publishers and agents is yet to be done in earnest. I know that I need to be in the right frame of mind, so that I can accept the rejection letters in good grace, to receive any comments not as criticism but as constructive advice. (Cowardice is another word for the lack of action, but I prefer to think of it in more positive light!)

In the shade of the mulberry tree is currently with an editor for her comments. I am braced for its return, covered in red ink like a school essay. Yesterday I thought, 'It would be nice to have that back before I go on holiday, then I can look through it whilst I'm away.' Then I thought again. 'I don't want to ruin my holiday. I hope it comes back in a few weeks' time.' The latter is more likely; September's looking bleak.

I have also learnt that writers should ignore what their friends and family say about their books. F&F have no real idea whether it is good or not and are always more positive than the archetypal publisher/agent. This advice has made me most wary of my writing group, who always praise my writing. They get a further chapter each time we meet, and some ladies say they come just to hear the next installment. Fantastic! But are they the best critics? Probably not. Then again, in a break from tradition, last time I read them a short story I had written. That got thoroughly slated (and rightly so: it didn't really have a story, which is a clear drawback!)

Give my husband a chapter of my book and it comes back covered in suggestions and re-writes. Is he too critical? Is he writing it for himself? (He has admitted that sometimes he has different memories and wants to write it from his view instead!) Most interestingly, he usually simplifies the language. He would probably cut archetypal from the sentence above, but sorry - I like it - so it's staying!

Thick skin: that is what is needed. I'm developing it slowly and perhaps, when I've evolved from mouse to crocodile, I'll be able to cope.

Then again, at that stage I might just eat all the critics up!

***

During the summer holidays Writing Wednesday and other blog posts will be even more randomly timed than usual. Please bear with me! Normal service will resume in September.

Book Review: Coming back to me

2011-07-20T10:17:00.000+01:00

Writing Wednesday

I was quite wary about starting to read Marcus Trescothick's autobiography Coming back to me. It chronicles not only his lifelong love of cricket and his professional achievements, but also his struggles with depression and the impact it has had on his career and family life. It has had wonderful reviews, awarded the William Hill Sports Book of the Year 2008, so it had to have a quality worth reading.

As a cricket lover, the first part was not a great worry, although I have little interest in Somerset as a team, nor (to be fair) in Marcus's achievements, amazing though they were. And, if you don't have an interest in cricket then I would recommend skipping most of the book. Trescothick was (still is, I guess!) one of England's greatest ever opening batsmen. He scored prolifically and sometimes easily against the most feared bowlers in the world. He was part of the 2005 Ashes team that beat the Australians under Vaughan's captaincy. My only criticism of the book is that I struggled to follow exactly which year I was in, as a plethora of matches (county and country) were rattled through.

But what worried me about reading it was his admission of and reactions to depression. Yet that was also the prime reason for picking up the book. In my teenage years I watched both my parents suffer from depression, my mother to a level that hospitalised her for several weeks, and at university age another close family member was close to taking their life. Knowing what it is like as an observer, living with the highs and lows, made me wonder if I could really read what this brave man had been through.

Marcus set out in detail the steps leading to his breakdown - the pressures of being on tour for months on end and his evident love of his wife and daughters. He also writes about how afraid he was of going public, a chapter entitled 'The Lie' when he was interviewed and only told part of the story. But when he had a few more months to come to terms with the illness he recognised that the only way to explain his absence from international trips was by admitting to his problems. He did make one more failed attempt to play overseas, but didn't get further than Dixon's at Heathrow. The crippling anxiety attacks and fearful separation from his family were too much. England's best batsman is never to play international cricket again.

Depression is a dreadful illness, coming in many forms. Marcus' strength of character to write about his experiences will undoubtedly help many others to be open and honest about their own situations. Despite my concerns, I was eagerly turning the pages, willing his illness to vanish as much as he had. It is not a book for a non-cricket-lover, but anyone with concerns about mental health should read this for Marcus's openness, honesty and candour. As a Yorkshire lass I have problems with his prowess for Somerset, but huge admiration for him as a man.

Something funny happened in the car park

2011-07-15T12:07:00.000+01:00

So, there I am, chatting with my friend.

I hear my son sigh just by typing that sentence. He was at school, so not a witness to this event. I'd only popped to the shops to drop off some dry-cleaning and my friend happened to be doing something similar, and the sun was shining, and we just stopped to chat. Just next to my car. Nothing important, nothing to write home about.

Anyway, as we are chatting I notice the car opposite beginning to reverse.

Fine. It was reversing towards us.

Also fine.

Except it kept going. Slowly, but nevertheless in our direction.

As we realised it was about to hit us several things happened.

1 We each took a step out of the way (really, we are quite intelligent women!)

2 My friend, who was more in the firing line so-to-speak, hit the back of the car to indicate to the driver that he/she should stop - quickly - before hitting the car next to mine.

3 I looked to tap the driver's window and screamed, "Aaargh!!! There's no-one in it!"

The car was driving itself. Or, more accurately, rolling gently.

Thankfully the incline in the car-park is negligible so it just rolled to a halt without hitting anything or anyone.

But it was now in our way. (Well, mine. I was, despite my protracted conversation, about to leave and a rogue car blocking my exit was not in my plan.)

We stood there and scratched our heads for a while. We got abuse from drivers entering the car-park for being 'women drivers' - this really riled me. It was not my car, I was not responsible, I was having to delay my departure as we worked out what to do. I didn't need prejudicial assumptions laid at my feet.

The long part of the story is that we went to the local row of shops to see whose car it was and get messages put out on the tannoy. The shorter part is that we noticed a poster in the back of the car and rang the number - and got the owner (who was in one of the shops, but ignoring our dash around pleading for them to move their car!)

Irritatingly (given the verbal abuse I'd taken) it was a woman who hadn't put on the handbrake.

All's well that ends well. How and why the car started moving I have no idea. No-one was hurt, no damage done. The poor woman who rushed back in a fluster was about to get teased mercilessly by her accompanying husband.

And I left with a delightful and slightly bewildering tale to tell.

In the beginning

2011-07-13T07:38:00.000+01:00

Writing Wednesday

All the thinking about first lines last week reminded me of a moment when I had one up on my father. When it comes to words and knowledge and classics this is a rarity, which is why it stuck in my head and makes me smile every time.

My father has a degree in classics. This is important to remember. I don't. I did have an enthusiastic English teacher who spent a couple of lessons teaching us some basic Latin to help us in our comprehension of words (such as circum = around, thus circumference, circumnavigate, etc.) ... but my knowledge is severely limited.

On one occasion he visited me at university and we were walking past St Mary's Quad on our way to lunch. In the wrought iron of the archway into the quad are the words:

In principio erat verbum

"Ah!" my father said, "Genesis 1.1."

I stopped and looked at it. Genesis does indeed begin In the beginning... but continues God created the heavens and the earth.

My translation was In the beginning was the word. Verbum - surely this was like verb and thus word rather than creating heaven and earth? And if so...

"Or perhaps John 1.1?" I ventured.

My father looked at it again, gave a small grunt of agreement and walked on. I grinned and followed. (I was a student; he was paying for lunch. There was only so much gloating I could do.)

***

And now for the answers from last week.

1 It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. Jane Austin - Pride and Prejudice

2 It was the best of times, it was the worst of times… Charles Dickens - A Tale of Two Cities

3 Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. J K Rowling - The Philosopher's Stone

4 All children, except one, grow up. J M Barrie - Peter Pan

5 Roger, aged seven, and no longer the youngest of the family, ran in wide zigzags, to and fro, across the steep field that sloped up from the lake to Holly Howe, the farm where they were staying for part of the summer holidays. Arthur Ransome - Swallows and Amazons

Not the most obscure, and only one that I've not read. One day - I promise myself - I really will read a book by Dickens. Just not today...

It was a dark and stormy night...

2011-07-06T14:07:00.000+01:00

Writing Wednesday

The first sentence of a story is probably the most difficult to write. It has so much hanging on it. It needs to hook the reader, draw them in, encourage them to buy the book. It needs to set up the story, provide intrigue and raise questions. It can’t be too long; to short, and it won’t reel you in.

I heard Tim Key's Suspended Sentence yesterday on Radio 4 which prompted these thoughts. The comedian and poet was postulating writing his first novel and knew he had to start with the opening line (an error in novel-writing in my opinion, as that is the sentence that is most likely to change a myriad number of times). It was all a little tongue in cheek, but his discussions with experts show how difficult writing this opening sentence can be. You can listen to the programme yourself here.

I had previously learnt one rule about first sentences: Don’t start by talking about the weather. I suspect that is a good rule for beginning any conversation with a stranger (although being British the weather is something I am well-trained in talking about). The infamous start “It was a dark and stormy night …” from the 1830 novel Paul Clifford by Edward Bulwer-Lytton has precluded any of us from ever touching on the weather again. There is a competition named after him for writing the ‘opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels’ with thousands of entrants every year.

Hopefully, not mine. Here is the first line of my book In the shade of the Mulberry Tree:

We take a sharp left-turn through a gap in the hedge, avoid the ditch, and pull up in front of a wall.

At least I’ve not mentioned the weather. Could it have the same impact as these, more famous, openers?

1 It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

2 It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…

3 Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.

4 All children, except one, grow up.

I can begin to grasp why these lines work. I am already asking questions, picturing the scene, wondering why this statement is important to the rest of the book.

Is a rich man in need of a wife?

How can it be both best and worst of times?

I can picture Mrs Dursley – prima and proper – saying, ‘Thank you very much’ in her clipped Southern English tones.

Which child didn’t grow up (and why)?

And Roger? Well, I’m running with him, free from the constraints of everyday life and loving my childhood holidays.

What draws you in to reading a book?

If you wish to have a guess at these first lines, do so in the comments. I promise the answers next week!

Lost

2011-07-02T07:24:00.003+01:00

Early morning, and I go into my daughter's room to wake her. I find her sat on her bed, motionless, morose. Rather than my usual chirpy morning routine I am flooded with concern. Something must be wrong.

"Are you ok?" I ask.

"I've lost Doris," she croaks.

I'm not sure I've heard her correctly. "I beg your pardon?"

"I've lost Doris."

Presumably Doris is one of the vast array of dolls and soft toys that take over the bed. It isn't a name I recall but I could name most of the ones I can see, so maybe she is lost.

"Doris?" I query.

Her voice is fading, hoarse and raspy. "My card," she explains.

A light switches on. All becomes clear in my mind as I remember the Moshi Monster cards that are so precious to her and the joy of the previous day's acquisition.

She looks at me, all forlorn, for her world is falling apart.

"And I've lost my voice," she whispers and bursts into tears.

Why is it, at these tender moments, all I want to do is laugh?

(For info, both Doris and voice have been recovered!)

An Awfully Big Blog Adventure Online Literary Festival

2011-06-29T09:22:00.001+01:00

Writing Wednesday

This week, I must encourage you to plan for this:

This is a festival of 40 children's book writers blogging every half-hour over the weekend. Writers include Adele Geras, Mary Hoffman, Liz Kessler, Celia Rees and Nicola Morgan.

It promises to be a literary treat - and there are rumours of prizes and giveaways galore!

Mark it in your diary to go over and have a peek.

Frederic Chiluba

2011-06-28T14:57:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, Frederic Chiluba, second president of Zambia, was laid to rest. He died just over a week ago at his house in Kabulonga, Lusaka (not far from where we used to live). It is not confirmed but suspected that it was from a heart attack.

Chiluba came to power in 1991 after Kenneth Kaunda was persuaded (in the face of protests) to allow multi-party democracy. KK had been President since independence in 1964 and there were great hopes and expectations from President Chiluba. By all accounts he quickly brought some stability to the country and government which may have saved Zambia from implosion. He also encouraged foreign investment in Zambia.

But they say power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Chiluba sought to change the constitution to allow a third term in power, but this was defeated. Nevertheless, his protogee, Levy Mwanawasa, was elected in 2001 who, presumably to Chiluba's surprise, tried to eliminate (well, at least reduce) the corruption in the country. A large part of that was prosecuting Chiluba. They lost after 6 years of court cases in Zambia, but won a case in London (although the multi-million dollar fine was never enforced in Zambia).

It is hard to know what to say about Chiluba. Corruption is endemic in Africa, and Zambia is no exception. When we were living there the latest list of 'most corrupt nations' came out and we celebrated the increase from 9th to 11th most corrupt within the year. Not the most glorious of matters to celebrate! Yet stories abounded about Chiluba. Allegedly, when he was voted out, there was an entire container of Italian designer suits found which, he stated, had been bought entirely from his salary as President. Can that be true?

Whatever his record, he is only the second Zambian president to die (Levy Mwanawasa having died during his second term in office in 2008) and had a funeral like most of us expect: with family there, mourning the loss of a loved one. For Zambia, it is another milestone in its short history.

His detailed obituary is on the BBC here, and details about his funeral from a Zambian newspaper here.

The one where I learnt new things

2011-06-24T13:11:00.000+01:00

Family holidays actually force us to live together for a fortnight. In the humdrum routine of life, we pass by, rush around, seek our own space and generally only talk about what we need to. Holiday allows us to unwind and (sometimes) talk, and in so-doing we learn new things about each other. Here is what I have learnt.

... about my husband ...

He has a passion for fish finger sandwiches.
Where did that come from? Thirteen years of marriage and I discover that we have to experience this culinary delight. Supplemented by a healthy portion of chips and tomato ketchup, Sunday lunch was a whole new experience for us.

When he says he doesn't like slides, don't believe him.
I spent half our time at Duinrell holding his glasses so that he could try all the water slides. And when he says he doesn't like all the thrill rides, don't believe that either. The water slides were of increasing intensity (dark, steep, fast) and then outside it was he who rushed to go with our son on the wildest rollercoasters. Meanwhile, my daughter and I watched, waited and munched our way through a packet of sweets.

... about my children ...

They actually get on very well.
All the months at home when they whinge and whine, tell takes, thump, hit, fight ... and yet on holiday they can quietly play cards together, help each other set out clock patience and invent new games between themselves. Something, somewhere, is actually working correctly in this dragging up of children.

... about myself ...

I get too tense going on holiday.
When my son said on day 3 that I was really unpleasant, I had to pull myself in check. The adaptation to a new place, the stress of having everything in place (food, car, the final night in an as yet unknown location) was making me tetchy and liable to snap. Son objected - and rightly so. I think - I hope! - I improved after that. We're still talking to each other at any rate!

... about the Dutch ...

They are, on average, the tallest people in the world.
Incredible fact I was told. In our flat, when I sat on the toilet my feet didn't touch the floor. It must have been like mountaineering for my children! They couldn't see in the mirrors at all and none of us attempted to get crockery or glasses from the top shelves. At the Space Expo, I had to lift the children up for them to see through the peepholes at the planets. There was one I couldn't see in myself. I consider my 5' 4" a fairly average height for a female so I don't think we can base this on my diminutive stature. What makes the Dutch so tall? Milk and dairy products? Sun and fresh air? Cycling? Who knows!

To end my holiday week blog, a childish joke. I don't know any about The Netherlands, but I do know one about cows and, given their export of the black and white friesian cow to the rest of the world, it is a small tribute to one of their greatest (and smelliest) assets. (And my children taught me it, of course.)

Why do cows wear bells?

Because their horns don't work.

Photo: (c) The University of Waikato

The one with the graffiti and moonwalk

2011-06-23T17:49:00.000+01:00

Little did I know, when I set off on holiday, that the place we were staying was known for its graffiti culture.

Graffiti is illegal and in order to limit the amount around town a 32m long wall was built, known as the 'Wall of Fame'. This is re-painted every year by a collective of graffiti artists known as 'Ga legaal' and is next to a similarly vibrantly decorated skateboard park. Other art is produced around town during certain festivals and for special occasions - and it would be fair to say I saw very little evidence of graffiti anywhere other than by this skateboard park.

Sometimes I am astonished by how life all comes together, particularly when I don't plan it at all. This term my son's topic at school is "Cool stuff" and they started by looking at (you've guessed it) graffiti. They have progressed through spies and onto skateboarding (this week's homework was to create a scale model of a ramp for a skateboard park: I think I made a jolly good job of it...!!)

Personally I find graffiti a form of art, when it is not simply destructive, rude or obscene - or misspelt (that really bugs me!). So it was great to get a chance to walk around the graffiti centre and see some of the striking artwork.

Not to be outdone, my daughter's topic this term is "Space" ... and we found just out of town was the Space Expo. We spent a happy morning there spying on planets and satellites, the shuttle and the international space station.

It was far too high-brow for my 8-year old to do much more than enjoy the exhibits; and I found it quite depressing when a computer told me how much I would weigh if I stood on different moons and planets. The comparative weight wasn't the issue: what upset was seeing how much weight a holiday full of warme chocolademelk met slagroom can do to you!

Writing Wednesday - The one with the language barrier

2011-06-22T12:01:00.000+01:00

The Dutch - thankfully - speak English.

Almost all of them, much to my embarrassment. I asked one or two people, "Spreekt u Engels?" but for the most part we just started in English and kept going.

One of the things I love about language is how it can be picked up by familiarity. I remember hearing that my cousins learnt Spanish by watching TV (they lived in Mexico at the time). For me, I had a quick lesson in Dutch by reading road signs as we drove from the ferry. 'Afrit' means junction; 'Uit' exit - at least, those are my (unverified) translations.

On the first evening we ate at a restaurant and foolishly forgot the Netherlands guide book. The waitress was able to translate the bits that were beyond us, but it was amazing how much I could deduce, grasping at the remnants of my 'O'-level French and German. I believe that the Dutch do a similar thing to the Germans, throwing their verbs to the end of the sentence. When you translate literally, word-for-word, it sounds like ye olde englishe... but sentences were never something we really attempted (just advertising, signs and menus!)

Thankfully, pannenkoek (pancakes) was both easy to translate, and easy for the children to choose. Over the fortnight we had quite a few of them, and almost daily warme chocolademelk met slagroom (the 'whipped cream' element of that translation amused our superficial minds).

Other words had a logic to them. Fiets for bicycle, sounds similar to 'feet', and after all we do use them in order to cycle anywhere. There may be no etymological link or derivation but it helped me to place the words, particularly as they came up on signs around the place.

Not the most challenging translation, but a bit of a surprise for me was to find that the town we were staying in was at the mouth of the 'Rijn' - the River Rhine. I haven't travelled much across Europe but to me this was a great river that ran the length of Germany that I learnt about in my schooldays. It may not be the longest river in Europe but it was certainly one I had to learn and be able to place on a map. Clearly I didn't place it perfectly as it ends in Holland (Did I ever know that? Could I have thought of that? Probably!) My excitement in seeing the end of such a vast river was tempered by my husband saying it was only one of its mouths, as it had to be split and diverted in different directions in order to prevent flooding/eliminating the Netherlands. How does he come to know this stuff, I wonder? And he was right (grrrr!!) It also wasn't particularly beautiful, blocked as it is by a huge dam and pumping station; although the photo does show that, at sunset, almost anything can look great.

Perhaps thanks to the internet, English is taking over the world. Had my teachers been different I would probably have taken languages to A-level (both my parents had language degrees) but their weakness and the maths teachers' strengths led me on a different route. But the logic of translation and comprehension lingers on. One of the things I loved about the Harry Potter books was how JK Rowling used Latin (in particular) to create words for spells, creatures and places. Seeing how words come together and evolve to create new words is a delight.

And now I am hopeful that the children will pick up a love of language too. My son sent his friends postcards with a list of Dutch words and their English counterpart. Perhaps I'll breed a linguist even if I failed myself. In my opinion words are not a barrier, but an enrichment of life.

The one in which we burnt...

2011-06-21T06:36:00.008+01:00

The first week away we were blessed by glorious weather. Holland almost obligates you to cycle everywhere and it was a cloudless day when we cycled over the dunes and around the neighbouring villages for a day. My daughter was in a seat behind my husband; my son had his own bike and I was the packhorse (both rucksacks). I was, also, the only person who conceded at midday that perhaps a bit of sunscreen would be useful.

By the evening, my face was gently browning. My husband had worn a hat and long sleeves, my daughter appeared to have been hidden behind him, and my son wore knee-length shorts. Given all that, we burnt daughter's legs, son's arms, my arms and legs (I only protected my face...) and husband's knees. We hid from the sun for the next 24 hours and re-emerged later in the week, peeling gently...

Our second bike-ride was on a cloudy day, quite cool until after 4pm. It should simply be noted that it is possible to be quite pink even in the late afternoon sun. In four years living in Zambia we only got sunburnt once - at the Kariba Dam where temperatures can reach 54 degrees centigrade. A fortnight's European holiday and we all suffer.

We aim not to do anything by halves. If we are going to burn, we are going to do it in as many ways as possible. Firstly, my daughter drank her hot chocolate as soon as it was placed on the table, only to find it too hot and to drop it all down her front. Screams abounded. Her chest and stomach were bright red but she was saved by a can of Grolsch: straight from the fridge, its cooling effect quickly took away the worst of the burn.

Then later that day, my son catches his hand on a tray hot from the oven. He got a lot less sympathy than was fair, although there were more tears than the glancing burn deserved.

Thankfully, none of our accidents was serious, nor did they impinge on our activities too much. Hopefully we just learnt some valuable lessons. Or how useful it is to have a can of cold beer to hand ...

The one with the cycling...

2011-06-20T05:46:00.000+01:00

Our holiday was a fortnight in The Netherlands. As it was all spent in Holland (Nord or Zuid) I feel quite at liberty to interchange the country name but before I get any criticism I am quite aware of the difference between the county and country! A fortnight in The Netherlands was just what the doctor ordered ... and in our house, exactly what the doctor booked and organised. Somehow holidays have always been my husband's job to plan and execute: as usual, it was excellent.

Holland, of course, means cycling. Cyclists get priority at most junctions, which is fantastic if you are on one (and really not too obstructive if you are in a car!) We hired bikes on two days: once to cycle across the dunes near where we were staying (which was about as hilly a cycle-ride as you can get there) and once to visit the windmills near Kinderdijk.

This is a World Heritage Site and there is a point where you can see 19 windmills at once. They are obviously old and one has been turned into a museum. I would never make it as a miller myself, with all those steep stairs, and it must have been so noisy to live there when the sails were turning. Still, I can't get away from the ingenuity of the Dutch to shift so much water around, up and over the dijks they built to reclaim land. Having watched Coast last night I gained even more insight into their engineering prowess and massive land reclamation. How long will they win the battle against the sea? The prospect of them losing is too horrific to think about, for the loss of land, life and livelihood would be immense.

Cycling does give you a different perspective on the countryside you are in. Much of it seemed to be fields (bordered by canals rather than walls or fences) and most of the wildlife we saw - and smelt - was cows. Perhaps the most amazing moment was when we found a pair of coots with their newly hatched young on a nest island in a canal. As we stood and watched we saw the chick leave the nest, and we could hear cracks as one of the other eggs broke open. Driving would never have allowed us to view such a miracle.

Cycling did bring problems with it too. Not least is my ability to wobble (I had to concentrate very hard when we cycled on a bridleway between two canals: I was petrified I'd fall off and into one of them!) My son and I are unused to cycling for long distances and became a little saddle sore. And it was just a little embarrassing to be pedaling away like mad only to be gracefully overtaken by a couple in their seventies...

And of course there was the burning ... but that is tomorrow's post...

Writing Wednesday: Holiday books

2011-06-15T10:31:00.000+01:00

For me, much of the joy of holidays is having the time and space to read, to be so totally absorbed in a book that mealtimes and the rest of the world can go to pot. In my romantic imagination this involves curling up in a big, soft armchair in front of an open log fire, soft rain at the window ... or maybe a thunderstorm crashing outside.

It was bright and sunny on our holiday. We spent virtually every day out and about, arriving back at our holiday home in time to eat dinner and crash. Book reading quantity: low (but holiday enjoyment very high!)

In fact I only completed two:

David Nicholls One Day, a book describing one day for the two main characters, Emma and Dexter, over the space of twenty years. I loved it. Insofar as I could, I was addicted to this and crept away from the odd family game and ignored the washing up in order to read it. As the characters were roughly my age, and Emma comes from Yorkshire like me, and they first met at university in Edinburgh, there was a lot that I could relate to. Although I must point out that Dexter is nothing like my husband.

It has been widely read and reviewed, to great acclaim, and I can understand why. I began to wonder how he was going to end the book when about 14 years through, but the twist and then the ability to intertwine the first day with last was excellent.

In contrast, The Distant Hours by Kate Morton I found hard-going. The Sisters Blythe live in Milderhurst Castle, the youngest seemingly mad, the older twins caring for her for fifty years. The main storyteller, Edie, finds out her mum was evacuated to them during the war and that the sisters' father wrote her favourite childhood book 'The True History of the Mud Man'. In finding out more about that she stumbles across intrigue and loss.

I have read and enjoyed other books by Kate Morton and this followed a similar formula. For me, there was too much description and introspective thought in the first half of the book. By the end I was gripped, trying to work out what had really happened. On the plus side, I really felt I was in the thunderstorm of 29 October 1941. On the negative, I still can't work out why the three sisters would have carried on the way they did for fifty years after that. It wasn't unbelievable, but it wasn't totally believable either.

So a mixed review for Kate Morton's book, but a big thumbs-up for David Nicholls.

And a big thumbs up for holidays. I'd far rather spend the time with my family than nose-in-book any day.

A short gap in proceedings...

2011-06-04T11:24:00.000+01:00

We are on holiday. I'd hoped to have some Internet connection but this is my chance to grab a couple of minutes in amongst the family mayhem.

So far we have travelled by car and boat and bus and train and bicycles. Withenay wanders indeed.

If I tell you it is a holiday of canals and cheese and bikes perhaps you'll guess where we are.

Then again, we are also spending a lot of time on the beach with buckets and spades, burying the children and paddling in the sea. (We've dug the children up again each time - though sometimes the temptation is strong...)

Writing and family anecdotes will return when we do. Now ... back to that glass of wine ...

Writing Wednesday: The Writing Process

2011-05-25T12:23:00.000+01:00

I have set myself a deadline of Friday to complete the latest draft/edit of In the shade of the Mulberry Tree. It is looking tight: as I type I am at page 188 of 229. I have a lot of hand-written scribbles on my pages and I still have to type them up, and I know for a fact that there is a chapter coming up that is going to need serious revision. (Principally it needs cutting by about 25% but I'm not very good at leaving bits out. After all, I've slaved for hours to write them in the first place!)

Friday is not far away, and then there is half-term, which is bound to hinder the blog, the writing and everything.

So today's Writing Wednesday post is a bit of a cheat, in that it is a speedy link (albeit to worthwhile sites to look at). I came across the link through twitter over the weekend. So via Author Culture you can reach Discover, and Ed Yong's graph of the writing process.

It amuses me for the ring of truth. Clearly my memoir is a different beast to his science book, but there are a lot of similarities in the emotional peaks and troughs. I think I'm about halfway on the line up to 'It's done!' - although I don't have the surety of someone demanding (and paying for!) the book in the first place. Still, I can dream!

Malaria video

2011-05-23T10:04:00.000+01:00

I came across this in one of my random wanderings around the internet and Africa and good causes. These people are nominated for awards for their films and this is a particularly good example: a community advert for the prevention of malaria in the Congo.
My only question is: Why is it (predominantly) in English, not French?

Writing Wednesday: What's in a name?

2011-05-18T10:28:00.000+01:00

Every book needs a title.

A title draws the reader in. It expresses something of the style of the book, or its themes or scenario.

Some are blindingly obvious (Harry Potter and the... ) Some books put the series theme in such large print that it is hard to see what the actual book is called - just take a look at recent editions of Enid Blyton's Famous Five series.

I bought The Elegance of the Hedgehog for my father-in-law for Christmas based almost entirely on the title. It is quirky, enticing, intriguing. What on earth could that story be about?

Others use sub-titles to explain the book. This happens particularly with the self-help books (e.g. Business Stripped Bare (title) Adventures of a global entrepreneur (sub-title)) but can also be used to indicate a series (A discworld novel or An Hercule Poirot novel).

The problem with these is that they are already set, already known, already available in the bookshops. How do you go about getting a catchy title for your book which no-one knows?

I suspect that often it comes without thinking. Also, I imagine many novel writers write the book around the title more than the title after the book.

My book is a memoir. Everything has already happened, and in the interests of honesty I can tweak very little about the storyline! What are its themes? Motherhood. A sense of home. Poverty in sub-saharan Africa. The struggle to survive. What is its story? My transformation from misery at having to move to Zambia to my absolute love of the country and people. How can a title capture all these issues in just a few words?

Perhaps it can't. Originally I called it Singing in a Foreign Land, for I wanted to express how much I changed by living there. The problem it poses is that the story is not about singing in any way shape or form. (I do sing, but I don't write about it. Nor do it in public, given a choice!) For months I have been pondering a change - so much so that it has a new working title: In the shade of the Mulberry Tree.

There is a reasoning. We lived in a house with a large mulberry tree in the garden - so large that it cast its shadow over everything. Mulberries also have some medicinal properties, which feels apt given I was only in Africa because of my husband's medical research. And so his research cast a 'shadow' over where I lived and what I did. Not always in a bad way, I should add.

Is this title better? I don't know, although I am a lot more comfortable with it. For now it will do, but I remain open to the fact that any future editor or publisher may dismiss it out of hand.

Would that title encourage you to pick my book up and look at it? Can you think of a better title? (I'm open to suggestions!) I realise that there are a lot of other factors that also encourage someone to read a book, not least the design on the cover, but I would love to hear your views.

Losing the will to live

2011-05-16T11:17:00.000+01:00

That's it.

I've had enough.

Is it really worth it?

I'm thinking not.

Yes: it is insurance renewal time at the Withenay's. I have consumed all my 'spare' time this morning typing in my personal details on different comparison websites. This has produced a variety of numbers and offered different options - somehow, direct comparisons are virtually impossible. And I know I am of suspicious mind, so until I read the small print I don't really believe that I am covered for anything that would actually be a risk.

Why can't this be a simple process?

Why aren't all insurers on one website?

Why do they deceive you with their wording?

Why are new policies cheaper than renewals?

Most of all, why couldn't my husband have done this rather than me?

Writing Wednesday - Neither rhyme nor rhythm?

2011-05-11T09:42:00.000+01:00

Despite the fact that I prefer writing prose to poetry, I was delighted to find an article in Mslexia magazine this quarter about rhyme in poetry. I had been intrigued by a reader's letter in the previous issue (48) that questioned whether rhyme is ever used in modern poetry, if it has been pushed to one side whilst blank verse takes over. It is creeping loss that I have noticed too.

I am no authority at all on poetry, but I do have a musical ear and love rhythm and rhyme. I loathe trite 'greetings card' type verse but a well-written rhyming verse can amuse or tell an excellent tale. For my O-level (yes, I am that old) English Literature I had to study narrative verse. My heckles were raised when my English teacher stated that if we didn't like Keats we weren't going to like anything - clearly wrong, given the enforced The Eve of St Agnes did nothing for me but Rudyard Kipling's Tomlinson and George Crabbe's Peter Grimes were fascinating.

Yet all these poems rhymed. They had a strict meter and rhythm, some of them a little forced but there nevertheless. I have been brought up with rhyming poetry, from nursery rhymes and songs, to hymns, to the many poems that my father has written. He is (in my extremely biased opinion) one of the best poets I know, able to whip up a poem from virtually nothing. He won a small prize last weekend for something he wrote when visiting us (a miracle in itself, with the chaos of our family resounding about him). Very little of his poetry is blank verse; but then again, his mastery of words and language is similar to Stephen Fry's.

What I don't like are poems that really should be written as paragraphs of prose. I'm sure the discipline of writing poetry forces an exquisite choice of words, but when done poorly these poems can be loose and appear to be the ramblings of a sad person. I say sad because that is usually how they appear: they all seem to be lovelorn or miserable! On the other hand, I do have some empathy, as when I am feeling low or some earth-shattering event has struck me I have sought solace by writing down my emotions in blank verse. I just don't often share it with the rest of the world!

The Mslexia article raised an interesting answer to the demise of rhyming poems. In the old days, poems were all aural. The rhyme helped people to learn the words and to recite them to others. This must have been particularly true of all those narrative verse I had to study (most of which dated back to the 18th or 19th century). Rhyme also helps children: why else do we know so many nursery rhymes and learn simple rhyming songs as young children? They are easy to pick up, to repeat and can get a lesson across easily. (For example, Five little speckled frogs/ sat on a speckled log...)

Nowadays, with the ease of written print, poetry can become a much more intellectual exercise. Add in to that the many different ways of rhyming, by the clever twists of meter and using words that sound similar but don't technically rhyme (oblique rhyme, such as 'one' and 'won') then there is much seemingly blank verse that has a lyrical quality to it.

Rhyming poetry certainly isn't dead. For example, Roger McGough writes much that is appreciated and most of the poetry I hear on Radio 4's Saturday Live is still in rhyme. Ah, but again that is aural. I still don't enjoy reams of unrhyming, unmetered verse (and I fear even Mslexia are guilty of praising and printing too much) but the concept of the battle between 'ear' and 'intellect' has helped me understand more of what I read and hear.

What do you think? Do you prefer poems to rhyme?

What is your favourite poem?

You know you are getting old when...

2011-05-09T07:23:00.001+01:00

... you find a piece of tooth in your mouth when eating nothing more innocuous than a cheese-and-marmalade sandwich, and then your dentist says, 'teeth become brittle after the age of 35...'

... when watching a Yorkshire cricket match you note that the first match recorded in your scorebook featured the fathers of two of the current players (Bairstow and Sidebottom, in case you're interested; Yorks v Kent 1979...)

... your son comments on how your shoes are old-fashioned ...

... you remember Now that's what I call music (number free; the first) being released and your children (with Now 78) are confused as they thought one came out every year ...

... the gentleman opposite on the train asks if the two young children you are with (my nephew and niece, taking them home) are your grandchildren...

*reaching for my zimmer-frame*

Writing Wednesday: Two duds

2011-05-04T13:31:00.000+01:00

I feel it may be seen as a bit of a cheat to review books on Writing Wednesday. Surely this should be about the art and craft and process of writing and publishing? Yet the best way to find your voice, to improve your writing, is to read others. It is preferable to read books of high quality: even within what may be viewed as low-grade books or commercial genres there is good and bad writing, excellent and appalling storylines, excitement and dullness.

Now I am into the editing phase of my book I am much more critical of author's writing, looking at the style, the number of adverts, the 'show, don't tell' approach, the cleverness of their use of language. So it is a shame that I am going to slam the latest two books my book club has read.

The first was When I lived in Modern Times by Linda Grant. This novel won the Orange Prize for Fiction in 2000 (controversially, and ahead of Zadie Smith's White Teeth, which I have also read and loved!) It is set in 1946 Palestine, as the Jews displaced from across Europe after the Second World War seek to establish their homeland. Eva, aged 19 at the start of the book, travels from London, falls in love and experiences first hand the violent struggle for freedom.

There were lots of things I didn't like about the book. Overall I struggled to find a story: a beginning, middle and end. I didn't empathise with Evelyn at all and the story (such as it was) petered out in the final chapters. I felt there was a lot of unreal dialogue, where the history of the place and the people was set out. Getting facts into novels, particularly historical ones, is difficult to do without being clumsy. At times it felt more like a textbook, teaching me the politics rather than engaging me with characters. It is not a time, place or location that I knew a lot about but I'm afraid it didn't entice me to find out more. I was just grateful to put the book down.

The second book I've read is The Widow's Tale by Mick Jackson. It is about a woman who runs out of her house one morning and drives to the Norfolk coast. Renting a cottage she hides away, contemplating life without her husband. The cover includes positive reviews (obviously) including one from the Sunday Times which states: 'A wonderfully observant character portrait that veers between the side-splitting and the heart-breaking.'

To me the biggest disappointment was that it wasn't funny. If it is billed as hilarious then I expect to laugh, frequently, and, whilst the odd sentence amused me, it was really quite a depressing story about a 63-year-old woman who has gone off the rails. I don't think the writer fully understood how a woman that age and class might truly feel and react. I recognise that everyone grieves differently and just because I don't think I would be anywhere close to behaving like that doesn't mean that another person wouldn't have a different reaction. Still, it didn't ring true, which kills the character who is also the 'author' of the book. Mick Jackson is male and I felt he didn't get a woman's voice into the main protagonist. The writing was readable but not scintillating and the conclusion was unremarkable.

It is a shame to read two poor books in a row, but I have still learnt from them. Hopefully noticing their bad points will help to improve my writing in the future.

Wedding bliss

2011-04-30T09:16:00.000+01:00

I persuaded the children to sit on the sofa with me to watch the Royal Wedding.

"It's the dress I want to see," I told them. "10.51: that's when we'll get the first glimpse."

Sure enough, knowing her duty to her future family means sticking to the clockwork timetable, Catherine Middleton emerged from the Goring Hotel on time. I, of course, am engrossed. It looks big, not sleek and slinky. It looks lacy on top. But really, it is impossible to see much in those few seconds, what with the car in the way and a lady running around with a camera.

My son and daughter are less enthusiastic than me. My daughter is excited by her name. "Is it Catherine with a K?" she asks. When told no, her response is that it is like my name.

"Well, a bit," I say, "but mine has an A in it. CathArine, not CathErine."

You see - that's what I am: Catharine with an A.

My son is intrigued by the wedding malarky, but states quite categorically that he is only interested in the kiss. When they said their vows he asked, "Do they kiss now?" (Clearly not.) And when they were on the balcony he was looking away when they first kissed and had to rewind! Thank goodness they did it a second time when he was watching!

But this is leaping ahead. The bride gets into her car, the train follows, and then her father sits by her side. No-one seems too flustered, not even that photographer. Everybody settled in and the car begins to move away.

Then my daughter says, "Is Catherine the one in white?"

Happy Easter

2011-04-24T15:18:00.000+01:00

Wishing everyone many blessings this Easter time

Sing along now!

2011-04-20T07:48:00.001+01:00

Happy birthday to me!

Happy birthday to me-ee...

Happy birthday to me!!

And now life begins again...

Photo credit: www.weirdthings.org.uk

What happens when he grows up?

2011-04-15T11:16:00.000+01:00

This week my son went on a school residential for three days ... and I went all weepy.

I don't know why. My children have stayed away from home on many occasions during their lives - in the early years with grandparents, or with aunts and uncles. They have never had separation anxiety and neither, really, have I. Knowing that you fully trust the people they are with (and having my own self-doubts at being anything like a good mother so expecting that they'll do it better anyway) has enabled me to let them go.

And it isn't even his first school residential trip. I wasn't like this last year!

So, I have a list of things to blame.

1. Too much alcohol the night before.
2. Too little sleep (same evening - possibly probably related!)
3. His goodbye was an over-the-shoulder 'Bye Mum!' - no hug or kiss or hint of sadness.
4. I suddenly realised he's growing up.

He's growing up, and one day he'll leave home. Probably in about 8 years. This is less than the length of time I've already spent with him! Panic about him fleeing the nest has set in and I haven't even reached the horrors of teenage years yet! The house will be so quiet: No elephants jumping down the stairs. No conflicting volume control fights with TV/computer and sister in same room. No 'Can I play on your phone?' arguments. No screams from his sister when he hits her. No trombone practice. And, for me, no school pick-up and longer days and time to myself.

Calming down a little, I can also rationalise that when I've experienced the teens I might be much happier about him leaving home...

Writing Wednesday: My Mslexia Hit

2011-04-13T11:12:00.000+01:00

I was wondering yesterday what to write this week when what should fall through the letter-box but the new Mslexia magazine - the writing magazine for women. Instant inspiration! Us women are clever, creative people and this never fails to recognise this.

I promise you that I am not being sponsored to write this post. I was one of 2000 people who contributed my opinions for their revamped magazine via questionnaires. I was quite anxious that the new product would be very different: too much poetry (for me), too little opportunity to contribute my style of writing, too little education about the writing and publishing processes, too much that is uninteresting.

But the moment I saw it, through its clear plastic wrapper, I was excited. How great is that? I love the more solid feel of it, without resorting to glossy pages. At a glance, I found it easy to read and am looking forward to picking it up over the next few weeks (if I can hold back that long).

I always find it inspirational as I read others writing and am sparked with ideas for my own. At the back of my mind for some time now I have had a storybook for pre-schoolers (to learn colours, extending to a three-book series with ABC and numbers) and so I'm looking forward to reading the article on writing for toddlers. Maybe it will actually make me get my thoughts onto paper.

The competitions are also great, as they provide an opportunity to get one's writing known. Of course, my masterpiece (ahem!) didn't win the competition I entered ... but still, I'm not holding a grudge!

My only problem is that they have stuck to producing it quarterly: I could easily cope with this inspiration monthly; even bi-monthly would be better. So if you don't subscribe, buy a copy and try it out for yourself.

Writing Wednesday will take a break over the Easter holidays.

Writing Wednesday: The Sad Librarian within me

2011-04-06T10:40:00.000+01:00

Not so long ago I rescued one of my favourite books from my daughter's bookshelf. Sadly, at eight years old, she still doesn't have a high respect for books. I'm always telling her to take care of them, not to grab the pages so that they rip, to turn the pages nicely, to use bookmarks. I know this reflects on my own perfectionism, as I love crisp, clean books and that is probably why I spend so much money on new ones!

Another facet of my sad character is my organisation and logic skills. This has helped me get a Maths degree, but perhaps was personified as a child when my friend and I (she was under duress) organised all my books into a library. They were carefully labelled and ordered. Each had a slip inside, just like the old library card system (yes, that does age me!)

My rescued book - Beastly Boys and Ghastly Girls - was one of these. Inside is the old slip of paper, yellowed with age. Amazingly the sellotape still sticks. And look - it's No.1! Even then it was a high priority book. It is a collection of children's poems about naughty children, many contributed by Hillaire Belloc, such as Jim (who ran away from his nurse, and was eaten by a lion). It is beginning to crumble, as the paper and binding become crisp and have that gorgeous smell of 'old books'.

And then, via twitter, my attention is drawn to this: a personal library kit

Childishly, I have a secret longing to have this myself, even now! Unfortunately the miles of bookshelves that now fill our house preclude this happening. I would be bankrupt buying the kits and would spend the rest of the year sadly filing everything. But then, if you wanted to borrow a book it would seem mighty professional to stamp and date it before it left the house.

Or sad?

But still, a girl can dream, can't she?

In which my son is learning the value of money....

2011-04-02T22:38:00.000+01:00

It is late on Saturday night and Son is about to go to bed (procrastinating, but on his way). Cheerfully I say:

"So, will I get breakfast in bed in the morning?"

"Do I get paid for it?" he asks.

Happy Mother's Day.

Hair crisis

2011-04-01T09:32:00.003+01:00

I followed my neighbour's 10-year-old daughter to school this morning and thought,

That's a good way of doing your hair.
It is tied back, but also kept out of your face with a hairband.
I could do that.

Is it wrong to take hairstyling tips from someone thirty years younger than you?

Writing Wednesday: Seeking perfection

2011-03-30T10:18:00.001+01:00

Great was my pride when I finished Draft 2 of my travel memoir the other week. I had been working at the edits since Christmas and it was a wonderful feeling to reach the end.

I printed it out onto pristine paper so I could review it again. But silently, quietly, I was thinking:

Great!

This is it!

A few spelling mistakes, a couple of tweaks, and I'm done!

Hooray!

See how beautiful it looks! Clean white pages. Sharp black print. All in line, numbered, sorted and ready. It is even a brand new lever arch file (nothing but the best for my baby!)

I took a couple of weeks away from it, giving my brain a little space and a break from the words swimming around my head. I had been only a week or so late for my half-term deadline for Draft 2, so there was still plenty of time until my Draft 3 deadline (Easter). Why worry?

Besides, it looks great!

This week I resolved to do the final bits and pieces, pull it all together, begin the final run through. Yes, I was starting the third draft later than planned, but I remained confident that I could run through it before Easter, before the children are on holiday again and mess up all my routines.

Half an hour, and the first page looks like this:

*sigh*

Looks like I'll have to revise my deadlines again...

Writing Wednesday

2011-03-23T10:12:00.000Z

No man is an island, 

entire of itself.

Each is a piece of the continent, 

a part of the main. 

If a clod be washed away by the sea, 

Europe is the less.

  As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thine own

or of thine friend's were. 

Each man's death diminishes me, 

for I am involved in mankind. 

Therefore, send not to know 

For whom the bell tolls: 

It tolls for thee.

Is this a comfort, or does it just make us more miserable?

Written by John Donne in 1624 it was originally part of a meditation he wrote in prose, but is generally appreciated these days as a poem. (Which does beg the question, what is a poem? ... but that is a question for another day.) For now, I offer up thoughts on the sentiment.

When a loved one has died, is it a comfort to know that others are saddened by the death. When someone dies - distantly related, or perhaps unknown through an earthquake, war, tsunami, drought - is it part of us that dies too? Is that what makes us so upset when we witness disasters on television? 'No man is an island': we are all part of the worldwide community and another's tragedy is to be taken as our own. Thus we grieve, we mourn with our friends in Japan, or Libya, or with the poor and malnourished.

What Donne doesn't mention is that we should also share the joys. There are many of these too. And I celebrate life today, as I see the sun shine form a clear blue sky, bright yellow daffodils waving lightly in the breeze, buds appearing on the trees. Spring has sprung. New life will rise again. Even in death, there can be joy.

For Linda, 1949-2011

Motherhood across the generations

2011-03-21T08:05:00.000Z

I have been thinking a lot about motherhood lately. This is partly because of the themes in The hand that first held mine, which I reviewed last week, and partly because it was discussed at our writer's group last week (when I read a chapter of my book connected with my own mother's death).

This week I visited my friend's mother. I have known my friend since primary school, presumably since I was two when we moved to the village. On and off we have been friends throughout the last 40 years. His mother and mine were friends. We went to the same church. Our sisters were similar ages too, so there was a lot of time spent playing together as we grew up.

His mother was there for me when my own mother died of breast cancer. She told me: "You will always be someone whose mother died when she was sixteen." She was right: it is like a weight that I carry everywhere with me, invisible to most, unknown to many, but something that makes every day a little more difficult than I would like.

But she was more practical help than that. We often went round for tea (spinach and cheese pancakes - that's what I'll remember!) and their family home was a release valve for the stresses that being a teenager without a mother inevitably brought. She told me about different types of contraceptives, for example - a conversation that I cannot begin to imagine having with my father even now!

I went to visit her because she has only days to live.

She has breast cancer.

Oh, the irony of that. The lady who became so much of a mother to me when my own mum died of breast cancer is going the same way - admittedly 20 years later and at an older age, but even so.

But what has struck me is how important she is to me not just because of the time immediately surrounding my own mother's death, but also because of all those primary school years when we were in and out of each other's houses. It wasn't just her: there were other friends whose homes I played in. All those after-school adventures and games, overseen by 'shadow mothers': mothers who loved me as their child's friend, who loved me almost as a daughter of their own.

They had a hugely important part in my upbringing, in making me who I am today. They permitted different excesses, had different skills to teach (one could make bread; another could sew; another had piles of lego or mechano or monopoly), had different family relationships that stretched my understanding of 'normal' and broadened my horizons.

And now my children are running in and out of their friends houses I see history repeating itself. My friends - their friends' mums - are a part of their upbringing, of knowing right from wrong, of learning skill sets and of celebrating achievements. And so - in 30, 40, 50 years' time - they may mourn the passing of their 'shadow mothers' with a similar grief to mine.

Childhood days are never forgotten and I am so grateful that I have had such wonderful shadow mothers. I have been blessed by them throughout my life. I also know that I have wonderful friends now to whom I entrust my children on a weekly basis. Perhaps one day the children will appreciate them as I appreciate my mother's friends.

Writing Wednesday: Haiku

2011-03-16T07:20:00.001Z

Poetry is not a genre that I am comfortable with writing. I have read much which is good (moving, funny, story-telling) and much which is rubbish. Sometimes it rhymes (and I wince at forced rhyme) and sometimes it is rhythmic prose (and I wonder why they didn't just write sentences in a paragraph or two). Usually it passes me by.

Haiku is a unique style of poetry. I was taught that it was to be 17 syllables long, three lines, in the rhythm 5-7-5. It doesn't need to rhyme and sometimes is in the form of a riddle. It originated in Japan in the 1600s but is relatively recent into the Western world (principally in the latter half of the last century). The mathematician within me likes the style for its rigidity and logic. My father has written what I consider a feat of genius: ten haiku to describe the ten ways of getting out at cricket. Even its title is a haiku!

Every day I get an email from AWAD: A Word A Day. This week it is celebrating 17 years of existence. It is giving me a 17-letter word each day to consider - although it is most difficult just to read them, deciphering the syllables and stresses within the word. They are running a competition to write a Haiku about the words this week.

It is an interesting coincidence that this competition should be run at the same time as we are watching from Japan the results of one of the worst earthquakes the world has ever experienced. The scenes are horrific and my heart goes out to all those involved there: the homeless, the rescuers, those in positions of responsibility.

Inspired by these events I have attempted a haiku myself. It does not claim to be the best but even its simple creation has helped me work through some of the events that I am witnessing via my television. Perhaps poetry can help you too?

Quake sends out rings of fear

Ocean swirls and swells and floods

Nature always wins

Curling up

2011-03-14T09:36:00.000Z

Son wants long hair.

To be fair, he has had it quite long for the last year or two. I think he wanted to have hair like our friends' son's, who came to babysit at our old house. He was a mini-god in my son's eyes!

Unfortunately, our babysitter had straight, dark hair. His cut was very Beatles-esque: clearly stylish, well-kept. My 10-year-old Son's original blonde has darkened over the years. His hair suffers from running around, never being washed (unless under force and duress) and general boy behaviour.

But none of that would matter. His biggest problem is that he has inherited his father's curls.

Now, to look at his father you would never think he had curls. His preferred cut is a number 3 all over (or perhaps a number 2). His problem is hair loss, not hair gain.

But Son has curls, and the longer the hair gets the more noticeable they are. It makes the hair stick out at funny angles and, in the morning, is quite wild. They aren't ringlets (like Ryan Sidebottom, pictured above) nor are they tight Afro, but they are not loose enough just to hang in a wave.

We tolerate the lengthening hair well. No, I lie. I tolerate it well. My husband hates it and is longing to give him a number 3 all over (or, as a concession, a number 4!)

And so it was with trepidation that I sent them to the hairdressers together on Saturday. I fear my husband dictating the style. My more laid-back approach is that my Son is the one who has to live with it, be ridiculed at school or get frustrated by its mess. If this is his rebellion against his parents then I can cope with it! (I am dreading teenage years...)

Back to Saturday. Apparently the girl looked at my son and said, "We've got to get rid of these curls!"

A few snips later and he has a lovely, smart haircut. Curl-free.

But short.

Son doesn't like it.

It isn't as short as his father would like, but the length at the back has gone. On top there is still some volume and I can't deny that he looks great. So I tell him that, and reassure him that his hair will grow again.

Then I wonder. There's my son: losing his curls. And here am I: contemplating getting them put in.

Why are we never satisfied with what we have?

Photograph: Stu Forster/Getty Images

Writing Wednesday: The hand that first held mine

2011-03-09T11:07:00.000Z

The more I write, the more I appreciate the art of others' writing: how to draw the reader in, how to avoid adverbs, how to create movement, passion or tension. In Maggie O'Farrell's The hand that first held mine I was reading the work of a master craftsman. I was gripped from the first paragraph, from the first word.

Listen. The trees in this story are stirring, trembling, readjusting themselves. A breeze is coming in gusts off the sea, and it is as if the trees know, in their restlessness, in their head-tossing impatience, that something is about to happen.

The story is split between the 1950s and the present day, between the vivacious Lexie striking out in 1950's bohemian Soho, London, and Ted & Elina's struggles with the birth of their firstborn child. They are linked, but only as the plot slowly unfolds do we piece together their combined histories. It is a story of love, of motherhood, of maternal obsession and passion.

To an extent, we know what will happen. We know there is some link. I assumed Lexie was related (mother? grandmother?) from the start, yet I think much of the art of this story is that I still wanted to know more, I still wanted to know when events would happen, how they fitted in. The characters were rich and believable, the narrative tracing the passage of time, tying all the people and places together in the seamless way that history evolves.

I read this for a local book group and was concerned that the week I had given myself might not be enough. However I could not put the book down. I even woke at 4am on Sunday morning wondering whether Ted was going to talk to Elina or not - and had to pick the book up again to find out!

I long to be able to write like this, drawing pictures with a minimum of words, crafting a story that tantalises and excites. I have been told that other books by Maggie O'Farrell are even better, so they are already added to my wishlist. I can thoroughly recommend reading it - do let me know what you think!

The hand that first held mine by Maggie O'Farrell, published by Headline

Support your local bookshop or library!

The hunter and the hunted

2011-03-07T10:45:00.000Z

As we sit down for tea, I ask my daughter what she has been doing at school.

"A story," she says, "about a hunter."

"Oh! What's it called?"

"The Hunter."

Given my daughter's poor comprehension skills I am surprisingly delighted by this response! She struggles to recall stories and tales with any accuracy, and open-ended questions are a virtually a no-go area.

"So, tell me about The Hunter. What happens in the story?"

"Well - " She screws up her face trying to think. An open-ended question: almost impossible to answer. I prompt her again.

"Who is in the story? What are the characters?"

Her face lights up. She can do this. "A hunter." I'd guessed that! "A girl and an elephant - a baby elephant."

"Oooh. What happens to them?"

"The hunter kills the girl and the elephant. Shoots them." This with dramatic demonstration.

"Really? The hunter shoots the girl and the elephant?"

"Yes."

She is adamant and won't be dissuaded. The hunter kills the girl and the elephant. I can't quite believe that school are reading this to 8-year-olds, and there doesn't seem to be much plot line behind her retelling of the story. I'm highly suspicious.

"And is that it?"

"Yes."

"The end of the story?"

"Yes."

There is no movement in her tale and she doesn't seem at all upset. I leave it, but speaking to the teacher subsequently I learn a different story. The hunter kills the elephant's mother (shades of Bambi here, I suspect!) and the girl and the elephant run away to escape the hunter. A much more likely story, spread over a week of readings and class exercises.

It is just another demonstration of how she struggles to grasp the facts of a story told to her - and, of course, any other facts (such as the teacher telling them to sit down and do some sums, or make an aeroplane, or whatever is next). Because of this, she falls behind in class.

Yet, given the menu at Sunday lunch, she can read words like 'sizzling' without batting an eyelid. Reading good, spelling good, comprehension negligible.

I shall enjoy the memory of the dead girl and elephant for what it demonstrates about my daughter. And I'll continue to enjoy her story-telling because she is trying and she is caught up by the magic of the tale, even when wildly wrong.

Writing Wednesday: World Book Day

2011-03-02T13:06:00.000Z

Tomorrow is World Book Day, which (in our house) means creating amazing outfits without (a) going to any expense and (b) using up too much time. This year I am to create a butterfly and a leopard, in line with their respective school themes of Rainforests and Africa.

I love the fact there is a day to celebrate books. After all, they form so much of our history and our education. They enlighten and inspire. They make us weep and whoop! Even more so for children. They can be so caught up in a story, faces lit up by the suspense of the simplest tale. So celebrating World Book Day at school has to be encouraged as a way for them to make the paper and words real to them.

My only headache is that this involves costume work for me! I am, by nature, lazy, so enjoy the routine of school uniform (no decisions every morning, although mild panic when I look at the ironing pile). Of course, the children partly love World Book Day for exactly the reason I don't: they throw off the uniform and dress up.

The school try to make it simple. "Just joggers, a T-shirt and a made-up face is fine." And who makes up the face? I'm even less of a painter than a seamstress!

Wish me luck for tomorrow. We'll all be up at the crack of dawn, getting more and more wound up before school starts. One yellow-t-shirted leopard and one floaty butterfly, tons of face paint and two smiling faces: that's what we're aiming for.

Back to the grindstone

2011-03-01T11:39:00.000Z

Half-term is over! At last!

Now I can ...

get on with editing my writing
read the book for my book club without interruption
sneak a chocolate biscuit from the tin with no-one watching
enjoy peace and quiet in the house
not constantly be the arbiter in the sibling wars

I can also ...

file all the paperwork that I put on hold
pay the bills that have been building up
do the ironing in front of my TV choice
have time at home to do the washing and housework
find things where I leave them (well, roughly)

Oddly enough, I miss the pair of them. We had fun together, going shopping, playing games, having tea and toasted teacakes. They had time with their friends; they had time with their grandparents; I had a day in London with my husband (a big treat - thank you Grannie & Grampa!)

A week off, and we've all relaxed and unwound.

Now all I've got to do this week is swimming lessons, Cubs, Brownies, band, drama, choir, playdates, homework, birthday party presents and get two outfits sorted for World Book Day.

Back to normal then ...

Writing Wednesday - Libraries...again...

2011-02-23T08:05:00.001Z

Last weekend I found another benefit for libraries: cheap books!

Half-term, and they are selling off old books. Granted, some are rather battered and worn. And I avoided the hardbacks as I like to read in bed and find them too cumbersome. And a lot were of no interest at all.

But still - 6 books for a £1! Even with that cost I'm prepared to give some new authors or genres a go. A couple of music discs and I was out of there with heavier bags and only slightly lighter pockets.

All I need now is some peace and quiet to read them all in.

Roll on the end of half-term...

Love: Solving the Valentine's Day Mystery

2011-02-18T17:07:00.000Z

On Monday my son checked the front door two, if not three, times before going to school. He never normally looks in the porch in the morning. The post always arrives after he goes to school. I am the one who ventures outside for the milk. There is no reason to look. Unless...

... unless you are expecting something.

But, of course, he is a boy. A 10-year-old boy. They are not interested in girls and love and stuff. Oh no! Girls are the enemy, the slime on the earth, people to be avoided at all times.

So, of course, there is no reason to be checking the porch for a card, is there? None whatsoever.

When I stopped laughing at this (quietly, behind his back, in a loving mother fashion) I had a mild concern as I knew there was a card and present coming from a girl in his class, because her mum had told me so!

Nevertheless he had a full day at school and when he got home I asked, "Did you get any Valentine's cards then?" (I'd abandoned subtlety at this point.)

"No!" he said emphatically. But his eyes were gleaming and he was smiling from ear to ear.

"Really? None?"

"No. Nothing," and slunk off up to his bedroom.

So then I was baffled. I knew he was due to get one; he's claiming not to have one. Did she bottle out? Was our front door too difficult to approach, given the dug-up driveway? Is his funny grin a sign that he really did, or that his embarrassing Mother is being laughed at for asking?

A nosey mother only has one more route to go: talk to the girl's mother. Bluffing my way through the conversation I learnt that she did (via a friend - how else?!) give him a card and a little present, as expected.

Armed with this ammunition I ask my son last night one last time: "Are you sure you got nothing for Valentine's Day?"

Time had weakened his resolve (or I had battered it down relentlessly), for immediately he said yes, and took me up to his bedroom to show me. He was given a beautiful little bear, and a handmade card.

"But look, mum, I couldn't tell you," he says. "She wrote inside 'Don't tell anybody about this.'"

I have learnt my lesson. Not telling anybody includes - logically - his mum. He honoured the girl's wish. What more could a mother ask of a son?

Writing Wednesday: 5 reasons why I hate editing

2011-02-16T12:16:00.000Z

Editing is a job that has to be done. After months and months of labour writing thousands of words into something approximating a book, the next job is to review it all in detail and iron out all the mistakes. Of course, I never make any mistakes myself (ahem!)

Okay, okay - of course I make mistakes. There are spelling errors, tense errors, grammatical errors; there are flaws in the order or plot (a loose term, given it is a memoir, but I have discovered that in my draft I celebrated the rains arriving a couple of chapters after it was raining in the story...); there are bits that are poorly written, stodgy or don't flow well.

I have procrastinated for months, possibly years. Here are the reasons for hating editing:

It is depressing looking at work again and again. It becomes mundane, tiring, even boring, reading the same story repeatedly.
Each version looks worse than the one before. Why can't I just write it correctly the first time?
I keep wondering about changing fundamental aspects of it, particularly the tense. Currently it is all written in the present tense - would it be better in the past? How far should I stick to the true chronology, and how far can I flex stories so that it seems to flow better? And the title: I'd like to change it, but to what?
I am never good at finishing jobs. I am much better at coming up with ideas or starting projects. This is part of why our marriage works so well: I generate a plan and my husband implements it! (I'm sure he doesn't appreciate this quite as much as I do!)
Crossing out large chunks or scribbling over paper printouts in red pen is not building my self-confidence.

So, given all this, why am I quietly enjoying it so much? Is it because I can see the writing improving every time? Or because I know I am getting closer to my goal? Or because actually I am quite proud of my book and am looking forward to others enjoying it too?

I am loving my new-found excitement with my book and writing. It is a part of my New Year's Resolutions that I never thought would come to pass ... but approaching half-term and I am 75% of the way through my second draft.

Third draft next half-term...

Marmalade wars

2011-02-14T10:39:00.000Z

Over a couple of weekends, my husband and I have each made marmalade. Now, we are not competitive at all (ahem!) so I just wondered which was better.

First came mine: half normal (perhaps thin cut - I wasn't sure how fine I was supposed to slice the peel), half with ginger.

Thin cut

Ginger

Dark, but perfectly set.

And delicious (we have gone through a jar of each already).

Yesterday came his: half normal (chunky cut), half with lemon rind as well.

Lemon

Chunky

Both much lighter and - oh, his rind has rather floated to the top.

Did I win?

Best of all, my daughter must have been paying some attention. For months now her favourite sandwich for school has been cheese and marmalade (if you haven't tried it, you should: it really is very good!) It is partly for her that we've made so much. So imagine my horror this morning when she announced she didn't like marmalade.

"It's got rind in it," she says.

And it didn't before?!

Writing Wednesday: Libraries

2011-02-09T12:10:00.001Z

Recently there has been a lot of campaigning to 'Save our Libraries', at risk from the massive cuts that our government is introducing. There are arguments for and against, of course (the BBC gave one such balanced argument here, comparing it to the internet), but in my opinion the loss of a library is a loss of community, history and education. The internet and ebooks are here to stay, but so are paper books and ancient documents.

As a family we love our library and use it regularly. My daughter takes books that are pink or about fairies; my son can find endless books on Star Wars or Dr Who. It is a cheap source of games for the Wii and DS, games that can be tried and dismissed, tried and later bought or (due to my son's obsession and commitment) tried and completed within the borrowing period.

After months of being ignored, my book is being severely edited with the help of the library. I find that by forcing myself to go there I can sit in peace and without significant distraction and scribble all over my print-outs. Later, at home in front of the computer, I can translate my scribbles into prose. This way I get a better overall view of the story, can think as I write longhand, yet can do all the cutting, pasting and tweaking at home.

I could, of course, use the computers there as well, but I enjoy the freehand aspect of sitting at a desk to write. I also enjoy the people in the village who come in to read the newspapers (and have a quiet gossip on the side) and the children who come in for book readings. I use it to keep up with what is going on around me as I read all the notices near the entrance for the various local societies.

The library offers such a wealth of information for free. I can borrow a cookery book in order to make marmalade, or a book of local walks because we have a free weekend, or a book on cheesemaking (because I've never done it ... and now know I'm never likely to!); and I can even borrow novels to read.

Regular, long-term readers of this blog may recall that last summer I set myself a small library challenge. Whilst my children entered the local Summer Reading Challenge to read six books over the holidays, I decided I would try to do the same. My main excuse for failing is that my books were considerably longer than theirs! (If you are interested, I read The Tea House on Mulberry Street by Sharon Owens, Something Fresh by PG Wodehouse and Corduroy Mansions by Alexander McCall Smith).

What is particularly lovely about libraries is that, through the PLR system, the authors receive money every time a book is borrowed. This way, although they have no royalties from a sale of the book, they do receive something for it being read. Authors (with some notable exceptions) do not generally earn very much and these few pennies matter. We encourage and support musicians by purchasing their music (on-line or from shops); in the same way we should support authors for their hard work in producing quality prose or poetry.

So please support your favourite authors and local community and use your library. If not, you may lose it.

[Here is the author Julia Donaldson (The Gruffalo and other classics!) campaigning against the cuts in library funding.]

Slow and painful death

2011-02-06T20:56:00.000Z

Thankfully not mine. The computers'.

Ours are on their way out.

My desktop (supposedly the new one, with plenty of space and memory) has hung - tragically - completely immobile, three times in the last ten days. Each time has resulted in frantic backing-up (particularly as I am finally giving myself time and space to edit my book - how maddening if I were to lose that!) At the grand old age of three I would have thought it would cope with my blogging dabblings and basic word processing, but something has started to tickle the system towards closure.

My husband's laptop is five years old and is working more and more slowly. For about 6 months to a year we have been considering getting a new one but all the money has gone into the house renovations instead. It crawls through the open programs and creaks at the seams.

Then - even older - there is my laptop which the children use. I noticed the other day that it can go from 100% battery to 5%, red and - oh! - off within about 40 minutes. Whilst this is not yet death, it is fairly terminal. Replacing the battery is the obvious answer, but is that worth it, given the age? It is already through its second battery and upgraded memory. Should the children have a better (or even the best?) computer to do their homework on? Or will they just attack it so hard and be so careless that they ought to have the one that might die any moment?

What, in this day and age, is a reasonable life for a computer? Does it make any difference if it is a laptop or desktop? Do computers have 'dog years' like, well, dogs do? If so, how long is a 'computer year'?

The thought of replacing all three should send shivers down the spine of my banker (although he's probably too busy enjoying his champagne and caviar from the bonus that my mortgage payments have funded). So in the meantime: back-up, back-up, back-up is my mantra.

And my reason for disappearing right now!

Today is the beginning

2011-01-31T14:44:00.000Z

Today is Day 1.
Today my daughter will have the support she needs to learn.

I have blogged before about my frustrations with my daughter, and all the incomprehensible difficulties she has with comprehension, concentration and learning. Not much more than a year ago she was silent at school: she refused to talk to any adults. I'm delighted to say that this does not appear to be a problem at all now - instead, she is more likely to answer back and tell them they are wrong when they are not doing what she thinks is right. More recently I battled with the NHS, trying to get her seen by the right people. This is more 'on hold' than dealt with.

For my successful battle is with the school. And I mean with. Together we have applied for IPF funding, only for the council to decide to assess her for a statement. Much to my surprise, given these cash-strapped times, she has been successful in obtaining that and has twenty hours of funded 1-1 support. It was the best Christmas present we could have asked for. The school has been fantastic, fully recognising my daughter's needs in order to progress.

And today it began.
Today the teaching assistant (TA) began working with my daughter.

Today the TA sat in with my daughter and the Speech & Language Therapist to see how my girl performs and to be able to carry some of the lessons and activities back into class.

Today my daughter had a TA prompting her to remember the teacher's instructions throughout the morning's lessons.

Today my daughter had a TA prodding her into concentration, into keeping to the task at hand, into trying everything not giving up.

Today is the beginning.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

3 important things I've learnt this week about the Aga

2011-01-26T10:09:00.000Z

1 If you take a saucepan out of the oven, then put it on the hob/hot plate, do not then attempt to hold the metal handle without ovengloves on.
The red stripe across my fingers was sore for days. I struggled even to open door handles with my left hand.

2 If the oven door isn't open wide enough, do not knock it open with the back of your hand or wrist without protection.
This time my ovengloves were on ... but if they aren't long enough to cover that part of my arm they are ineffective. The oven door is also hot.

3 Pay attention to the information that Agas do not emit smell. Leaving the pudding in to cook for longer than the required 20 minutes will result in charcoal.
Must remember to use - and pay attention to - the timer.

Aren't you glad I've only had to learn three lessons?

The sweet pressure of inflation

2011-01-18T14:58:00.000Z

I walked into the supermarket the other day and found myself staring at the sweets on an aisle end. At eye-level, staring me in the face, were Polos: the mint with a hole.

I was flung into nostalgia. When I was a child I used to love these, because they always seemed such good value for money. For 5p I could get a whole pack. Each sweet could be sucked for hours. With a bit of good self-restraint it would last me an entire week until I had pocket money again. I didn't like the fruit-flavoured ones: those would go all sticky and glue themselves together before I finished them all. My favourites were the basic mints, with extra kudos points for sucking them into the finest ring without them breaking.

And then, of course, the price went up to 6p. No longer could I afford one tube each week. Now the pack would have to last longer. (I now know it is 20% longer, that over 6 weeks I could buy 5 packs ... but that was a lifetime to a young girl!)

In my teens Rowntrees was bought by Nestle, much to my disappointment. For a long time I have boycotted Nestle products due to their stance on baby milk; now all my favourite sweets and chocolates would have to be abandoned. In amongst the list were Polos.

So it was a shock to find myself staring at them last week and realise that they were now 44p. An eight-fold increase on my childhood memories! Could this be right?

I was once told a rule of thumb about inflation: everything doubles in price over ten years. Thus something costing £1 now will cost £2 at the beginning of 2021. For the sake of argument I am going to say that it is 30 years since polos cost 5p: that would make them worth 40p now, going by my inflation calculation. Given that I am sure the 5p price was more than thirty years ago (I hate to admit that: I have a round-figure-number birthday due this year!) the 44p price is probably in line with inflation over the period. How scary! I can expect my grandchildren to be paying closer to £4 per packet!

Yet, if I go to a website calculator for the period since, say, 1976, I should expect my 5p sweets to now cost 27p. That is a massive 17p per packet of increased profit for Nestle more than would be reasonable to expect. And that shows my rule of thumb to be flawed, at the very least! The UK must have had some delightfully low inflation years.

Today the government announced our CPI to be 3.7%, having been consistently over 3% for the last year despite the Bank of England's responsibility to keep it below that figure. To a large extent this is difficult for us to understand. All we know is that everything feels more expensive, particularly as wages and pensions are frozen or falling, and as jobs and careers are in peril. At that consistent rate, my 44p polos will cost 63p in ten years time: check back in a decade and find out how close we are!

So how much should your favourite sweets be costing now? Can such things as Penny Chews exist? Have a play with the calculator below and let me know what you find out.

Sheer musical brilliance

2011-01-15T20:30:00.000Z

Quick update to let you know my son passed his Grade 1 trombone exam.

Absolutely delighted, given he knew he messed up one piece completely.

We celebrated with fish 'n' chips all round.

(Privately, I'm celebrating never having to listen to Bright Eyes on the trombone ever again...)

Musical irony

2011-01-12T14:04:00.000Z

I had a long conversation with an old lady on Sunday about playing the piano. She took it up on retirement, but had to stop lessons when her husband got ill. Nevertheless, she achieved Grade 4 and since he died she's been playing again and loves it.

"Oh, no," she said, "I won't give up my piano. I love to go and play it. I love classical music - don't you?"

Now, I like to think that I have a broad appreciation of music. And yes, part of that is liking classical music. I love it's soothing tones and clever cadences; I love the way it can take me away from where I am to the middle of a battle or a love scene or a desert island; I love the fact that it doesn't finish in less than four minutes, as a general rule, but can sustain attention for long periods of time.

Yet, when put on the spot, all I could think was: I choose to listen to Radio 2. I choose the pop songs of my teenage years. I choose fun and upbeat, something with regular time-checks in order that I get the children to school before the bell.

I don't choose classical music.

Then, yesterday, at teatime I was listening to Radio 4 and my ten year old boy decided it wasn't for him. (It wasn't really, at that point, for me either: I just couldn't be bothered to cross to the other side of the room and switch channels.)

"Radio 3," he said, "is that classical music?"

"Yes," I reply.

"Urgghhh!" he exclaims. "I hate classical music. What about Radio 1? Is that pop music?"

"Erm... yes," I reply, and quick as a flash he has changed it over.

So tea was accompanied by a dull, thumping base and a whiny synthesiser overtones. That description makes it sound a lot worse than it was (I am, actually, physically capable of walking over and switching the radio off!) but I didn't spot much of a melody. It was a slight shock to realise that shortly I am going to lose my children to this tuneless beat.

Yet what surprised me most was my son's dismissal of classical music - or, more accurately, my immediate defense of the same type of music I had struggled to appreciate two days earlier.

"You shouldn't dismiss classical music, boy. Classical music is great. It has a lot of feeling and emotion, and great tunes and..." I stumbled through.

Am I a music hypocrite? Or just someone with wide and varied tastes? Or (and this is most likely) someone who likes different things at different times in different circumstances?

And how am I going to teach my son to appreciate classical music?

Time to dig out the Tchaikovsky CDs and go to a couple of concerts, I think!

Happy New Year!

2011-01-05T08:42:00.001Z

It is 2011. This year, everything is going to change. This year I will keep those resolutions that I make.

Obviously apart from the one where I actually make them before the New Year begins...

Actually, I find resolutions very hard to make because I know that I will break them. 365 days (thank goodness 2011 isn't a leap year!) is a long time to keep doing one thing. Or more than one thing. Particularly if you are not in the habit of it, or it involves getting up early on cold frosty mornings. Or if all you can think about is what you must do rather than what you want to do.

Take for example what I ought to do now:

Strip spare bed
Write thank-you letters
Check and file the pile of receipts.

Now, I can make these into resolutions ('Strip and make spare bed after guest leaves rather than an hour before they arrive...') but, in all honesty, I'd break them. And the second is only short-term (supposedly). Whilst all these things would be good to do, they are hardly inspiring nor likely to make me a better person.

The 'better person' comes with this list:

Go on a diet
Exercise more
Eat fewer biscuits

Again, I know I'll break them. Particularly the last one. (Would it still count if I substituted the biscuits for cake, or chocolate, or both?)

Then there is the 'must finish off the house' list:

Get the builders to finish installing the woodburning stove
Get the builders to fix the toilet seat
Get the builders to connect the TV aerial connections
Get the builders to fix all the plumbing errors
Get the builders to finish off the electrics
Get the builders to complete all the certificates for the building inspector
Get the builders to touch up all the paintwork where they've messed it up
Get the builders to correct the doors that stick
Get the builders to finish (full stop)
Employ a landscape gardener

Dull, dull, dull. Necessary, but dull. And hardly a New Year resolution.

So there is my list of what I am willing myself to do:

Complete the edit of my book (including possible change of title)
Send it off to agents and publishers, with plenty of positive thinking
Go out regularly for meals or dates with my husband

And here is what I have actually decided to do:

Put on some make-up every day. Just a little mascara or lipstick - nothing fancy (no-one would recognise me if so) but just something that will make me feel good about myself, give me a little confidence and won't break the bank.

For a non-make-up wearing girl this is quite some change. Five days so far and no failure yet! Maybe this year I will actually achieve my New Year Resolution thing.

Or at least for January.

Five Festive Fridays - Witnesses

2010-12-31T07:31:00.000Z

It is our Final Friday - week Five of Five Festive Fridays.

With Christmas Day past and New Year looming, it stops feeling quite so festive, but this week we are looking at the witnesses to Christ's birth: the shepherds and the wise men.

Shepherds (incongruously watching sheep in the fields, in the bleak mid-winter ... some bits of the story really don't add up with our assigned date of 25 December for the birthday) were lowly, poor people in the society of their time.

The wise men had travelled from afar, come by the signs in the stars, wealthy and respectable enough to be given audience with King Herod. What a peculiar mix of people to witness the birth of God's son.

The shepherds went home rejoicing.

The kings went home by a different route, avoiding Herod. Mary, Joseph & Jesus escaped to Egypt, before Herod unleashed his infanticide on Bethlehem.

I was thinking the other day of how awful events can taint so many lives. Take for example the recent story of Jo Yeates, missing for eight days before her body was found on Christmas Day. My sympathies go out to her family and boyfriend, worrying for days and only brought closure on what should be the most joyful day of the year. But I also thought about the couple walking their dog who found the body. Likewise, their day of peace and joy was shattered.

At the moment I am in the middle of the most escapist book (hoping for enough peace from the children to finish it this afternoon). There has been a lot of (fictional) death: shootings, explosions and wild escapes. I can tell there will be more blood and grief before the book ends! Anyone who might vaguely be a witness to the crime is on a hit list, as are their family, the police, the courts, judge and jury.

No-one can tell when they will be a witness to a major event. Sometimes we witness important events, such as car crashes or arguments. But every day we witness minor events, events that have no meaning at all to anyone but ourselves. We notice the grey hair in amongst the brown. We see our children sit, crawl, walk. We note the time that they beat us at a game without any assistance, and when we have tried really hard to beat them. We know when we are beaten, when the homework is more difficult than any that we remember. We watch our parents become more frail, need a stick more often, require glasses all the time.

We witness the passage of time in ourselves and in others. Now that Christmas is over, we witness the passage of Jesus life as he goes to his inevitable death on the cross. And after all, given that some supermarkets are already putting Easter Eggs on their shelves, shouldn't we begin to think about that sacrifice now?

  Truth of our life,
  Mary's child,
You tell us God is good;
  Prove it is true,
  Mary's child,
Got to your cross of wood.

From 'Born in the night' by Geoffrey Ainger

Five Festive Fridays - Mary

2010-12-24T08:27:00.001Z

Here is my fourth Festive Friday, taking a look at a contemporary issue in line with a traditional advent or Christmas theme.

Today is the turn of Mary. She endured a long journey to Bethlehem whilst nine months pregnant, suffered the ignominy of not being able to get a room in an inn and ended up giving birth in a dirty, smelly stable.

It was a far cry from the process that resulted in my two children. Despite my father's desire to have them born in Yorkshire, both arrived in London just a short journey from home. There was little problem about space in the hospital; in fact, the lack of space in the ward for my daughter gave us an 'upgrade' in that we stayed in a room of our own. The hospitals were clean and efficient both times. My eldest was induced, with all the technology whirring around me that our modern maternity units can provide. My daughter came of her own accord, with comparative speed.

Of course, not all women are as lucky as me. As I have got to know single mothers I am in awe of their ability to keep going. I find it difficult enough myself at times, and I have a fantastic husband with whom to share the duties (and the pleasures). Particularly in those early days, when up feeding repeatedly during the night, having someone as support was invaluable. As I said, I have total respect for those who bring children up on their own.

This travel blog photo's source is TravelPod page: Bed Bugs and Beyond

This Christmas I have spent much time thinking about Mary and Joseph and their long journey to Bethlehem, only to find there was no room for them. Could the same happen again? No room at the Inn? I fear it could. So many people are sleeping out on the streets of our towns and cities even in this freezing weather. Asylum seekers still arrive into the UK every day, looking for somewhere to stay - and often turned away. I used to do some voluntary work for a homeless charity in London and was frequently humbled by the way my co-workers could support and care for the clients. And in Newcastle I was taught about the procedure for dealing with immigrants: how they are given a number, not a name, and how they can fall through the system to have nothing unless charities step in. The journey may be long and arduous but there is no guarantee of comfort at the end.

So as we welcome Jesus this Christmas into our hygienic houses and warm homes, let us not forget that he actually came to a poor family with nowhere to stay, to a smelly stable surrounded by cows and sheep, to a young girl who probably was scared silly. Mary, who had motherhood unexpectedly thrust upon her (as well as Shepherds and Wise Men), was like every mother I have ever known and 'treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.' [Luke 2.19]

Have a very Happy Christmas!

10

2010-12-22T17:30:00.000Z

Today my eldest baby is ten years old. Happy Birthday, my wonderful child. I can hardly believe it is truly ten years since those long hours at the hospital, the time has passed so quickly. I have enjoyed every second. Well, if you excuse the chicken pox, malaria, sicknesses, tantrums, pooey nappies and whining. Almost every second.

In honour of the momentous occasion, here are ten things in celebration of his life.

At birth, the first thing he did was bite the paediatrician's finger (not his father!)
He loves his teddy. And his little sister, but probably in that order.
He could read before he went to school, and has never struggled academically since.
Every time we have moved house he has been very brave and managed to make friends easily.
He is immensely patient with his sister. And his mother, come to think of it.
He doesn't give up ... particularly if it involves a game or activity on the Wii or DS ...
His hair is beginning to make him look like Dougal from The Magic Roundabout (but he loves it).
This year he was assessed as 'gifted and talented' at sport! (Seriously questioning his parenthood now!)
He is very funny, and is learning to tolerate his parents' teasing of him.
He resents having his birthday on one of the shortest days of the year. (I anticipate him emigrating to the southern hemisphere as soon as he gets the chance!)

Overall, he is a most beautiful, loving child and I am delighted to know him, and even more proud to say that he is My Son.

Happy 10th Birthday. Next present when you hit three digits?!

Mum x

Five Festive Fridays - Angels

2010-12-17T10:31:00.000Z

Welcome to week 3 of Five Festive Fridays, taking a look at a contemporary issue in relation to the traditional Advent/Christmas Themes.

This week it is the turn of the Angels.

I have grown up with a slight resentment of Angels. I had blonde hair and blue eyes: I was always (yes, always) an Angel in the Nativity. Even aged eleven or twelve, I had to dress in a big white sheet with tinsel on my head. Never - not ever, not even once - was I Mary. I wasn't a shepherd or even a sheep. I was an Angel.

I'd love to say it was a reflection of my angelic personality, but I'm afraid a few would disagree with that.

Yet they are an important part of the Christmas story. Gabriel appeared to Zachariah (who I mentioned last week) and to Mary, and then a whole throng of angels sang to the shepherds. Clearly they were arresting: a sight to behold (although I can categorically state that there is no mention of tinsel in the bible).

Angels are God's messengers, the Royal Mail of biblical times. Today's messengers don't seem to have the same accuracy or style. If the postman arrived at the front door, glowing like the Ready Brek ads from head to foot and singing ... well, to be honest, I'd slam the door shut and call the police. Or the medics. But you can't deny the flair and panache of such delivery.

The playground gossip is about delayed deliveries. Like my friends, I have had problems with a couple of deliveries from Amazon. Despite the website stating that my goods are 'with the local deliverer' and despite living in a part of the country that has largely escaped the awful weather, it appears they are unable to convey my parcels on time. My order was supposed to arrive last week.

Perhaps I've been lucky, but for me this is the first time that they haven't delivered within the timescale they've stated. Should I be panicking? Should I rush out and re-buy the presents? Given the forecast for more snow, ice and general winter disruption this weekend, should I just give up now?

Yet I have received an email where they ask me to 'kindly wait' and ask for 'my continued patience', and imply that it will definitely be with me by 20 December. Christmas is going to be a little bare if it doesn't! What I like about the biblical story is that the angel said, "Do not be afraid." Amazon are trying to tell me the same thing, but are couching it in soft language - and allowing themselves some get-out clauses, some extra space for error.

Despite the angels' appearance (sudden, brilliant, Godly) they were bringing good news - peace, joy, hope, babies.

There are so many good things in life that we are afraid of. Babies is a prime example: despite the joy of finding myself pregnant, I did wonder what on earth I'd let myself in for. I still wonder that, ten years on! A new house; a new job; a new relationship: all can be exceedingly good things, yet fill us with fear and trepidation. It is that endless 'what if...' question. What if I'm not good enough? What if he's on the rebound? What if there is dry rot throughout? What if nobody likes me?

Yet the angel said, "Do not be afraid."

If it is good news ... and I sincerely hope that it is good news for you this Christmas ... then enjoy it. Sing and celebrate with the angels.

Sing, choirs of angels,
Sing in exultation,
Sing, all ye citizens of heaven above:
'Glory to God
In the highest'.
From 'O Come, All Ye Faithful'; 18th Century hymn

Five Festive Fridays - Water

2010-12-10T13:07:00.000Z

Here is the second in my series of Festive Fridays, when I take a contemporary twist on a major Advent or Christmas theme in the church.

Today is the turn of John the Baptist, Jesus' cousin, who was born to Zachariah and Elizabeth. Of course, being sane and human, Zach didn't believe the angel who told him that his barren wife would conceive. He suffered 9 months of being struck dumb for that disbelief, and I've always felt rather sorry for him in the circumstances.

Still, John's job was to make way for Jesus. And he is known as 'the Baptist' for being the one who baptised Jesus in the River Jordan when adult. So today I thought I'd look at the value of water.

There haven't been many periods in my life when I have not had access to water. Here in the UK we have an excellent water system so that we have fresh, drinkable water piped to virtually every house in the land. Really we don't appreciate just how valuable that is.

In Zambia we also had constant water supply. Most of Zambia's electricity is powered by hydroelectric dams - the most famous being Kariba Dam, but there is also one at the Victoria Falls and several in the North and West of the country. Despite a seasonality that has no rain at all April - October, then a rainy season November - March, there is enough water in the River Zambezi to power the country most of the time.

There is also enough water, pumped from miles away to the capital city Lusaka. Being wary foreigners, we filtered all our water, but it was still of good quality. I recognised that I had to stop worrying when I saw my children drink the bathwater - as any toddler will - and survive.

We only ever had one serious problem with water. My understanding was that they were servicing one of the pumps, which meant that the water pressure in our area of Lusaka dropped for a couple of months. Over the course of a couple of weeks one August it dropped so that we only had water flowing from the taps at about 6am, then maybe a little late at night. Having our own private borehole would have solved this problem, but we didn't.

But humans are resourceful, particularly when it comes to survival. It meant an earlier start, filling as many large bottles with water as we could. It meant doing all the washing up at once. It meant going to the toilet in succession, and then flushing (well, pouring a bucket of water down) after the last visit. It meant not watering the garden. It meant bucket baths and cold washes. It meant thinking about our water usage: how much and when.

It was a salutary lesson.

Many in our world walk for miles each day to get water. What they collect is often not clean - certainly not as clean as we in the wealthy West would deem acceptable to drink. And they survive on the few litres that they are able to carry for all their food, drink, cooking, cleaning and washing needs. Organisations such as Water Aid do marvellous work to get water pumps into rural villages, clean sanitation and toilet facilities. Have a look at this page to see what they are doing in Zambia, in particular.

Of course, water can also be destructive. This year, we should think in particular of Haiti: following on from the devastating earthquake it is now suffering from a cholera epidemic, a water-borne disease that can quickly kill. They remain under threat throughout the 'hurricane season', when the makeshift tents and houses could be blown or washed away. Water: that life-giving source, also the bearer of disease and destruction.

Water is necessary for life. This Christmas, let's take a little time to be grateful for a commodity that we often take for granted, but which many people struggle to obtain on a daily basis.

And there won't be snow in Africa this Christmas time.
The greatest gift they'll get this year is life.

Where nothing ever grows
No rain or rivers flow

Do they know it's Christmas time at all?

The benefits of insomnia

2010-12-06T21:36:00.001Z

Last night I woke at 3am, for no apparent reason.
It follows one solid night's sleep, and a previous four nights with similar rude and irrationally early awakenings.

It isn't very dark in our bedroom: the streetlamp casts a glow which reflects off the snow giving a general feeling of light. That doesn't help with getting back to sleep.

But now I've discovered the benefit to being awake. The Ashes Test Match. Clearly this won't work the-night-after-next, when the Adelaide match is finished, but it is an excellent way to use up time (and yes, some would say, to fall asleep again...)

My scheme now is to creep out of bed (don't want to disturb husband who actually has to save children's lives at work in the morning!) and to check the score on the BBC website. Then I turn down the sound on the computer and switch on the TMS commentary. I then gradually increase the volume again until it is just audible ... and then a bit more to be able to be heard from the bed (about 4m away, with door open). Then I can snuggle back into bed and hear England (a) pile on the runs or (b) take crucial wickets.

I'm not sure this really helps come 6.30am when the alarm goes off, but for those awful moments in the middle of the night when sleep eludes me I get great joy from the TMS commentators ... particularly when the Australians are struggling to think of anything positive to say about their own team!

And in the morning I can bounce into my son's bedroom, full of beans, calling on him to wake up, get up, time for breakfast, got to go to school (all said in one breath with Mary Poppins -like enthusiasm) and then cheer him up with the end of play score. Oddly enough he never seems quite so happy about hearing it at that point.

Still, at least at the moment the news tends to be good for us England supporters. What on earth will we do when Australia get their mojo back? I might have to resort to sleeping again!

Five Festive Fridays: Prophets

2010-12-03T11:44:00.000Z

I thought I'd write my own little Christmas series, covering Five Festive Fridays (really because four or six wouldn't alliterate), giving a contemporary twist to major Advent or Christmas themes in the church.

First up is Prophets. Or perhaps 'are Prophets', given there were many of them. Already my Festive Friday is confused by English grammar.

Anyway, what are prophets and who are our prophets today?

My dictionary tells me they are someone who interprets or passes on the will of a deity; somebody who foretells the future; somebody who advocates a cause or idea; or somebody considered to be an inspired leader or teacher. [Encarta® World English Dictionary © 1999 Microsoft Corporation.]

The common (secular) definition is that of telling the future, like soothsayers of old. When the prediction is right, the prophet is hailed and exalted; when it is wrong, they are slammed.

Much like weathermen. They try to foretell the future and are largely ignored if they get it right, but incidents like Michael Fish's famous dismissal of an impending hurricane are banded about as examples of their uselessness. And even if they get it right, knowing that there is more snow, more ice, more freezing temperatures (with Siberian wind-chill factor thrown in) doesn't win weather-forecasters friends.

My son has a tendency to add 'of doom' (much in the style of Private Frazer from Dad's Army) to any noun that passes his lips.

'It's the DS of dooooom!'

'Are watching Strictly ... of doooooom?'

'Ah, but these are carrots of doooooooom...'

'Prophets of doom' is a phrase that is often banded about. I wonder if we pay most attention to the doom-mongers, rather than those that promise hope and joy and peace. I, for one, am much more inclined to go with those who say, 'It's only Day 1: see what it is like when England bat...' than with those who are already celebrating our Ashes victory!

Then again, yesterday England lost out on its bid to host the World Cup in 2018. And lost badly, by all accounts. Much has been hyped up in our media about it during the last few days, with great and growing confidence of winning. The Panorama programme on Monday, alleging bribery and corruption within FIFA, was feared to affect our vote; the violence at the Birmingham/Aston Villa match on Wednesday was possibly a more serious setback. Yet still our Press said that the bid was good, the presentation was excellent, if we could get past the first round we had a good chance.

Of course, we didn't get past the first round. And with it went the dreams of many, many people.

Were the press wise to build up our hopes? Or to waste our time on a triviality? After all, there are hundreds dying from AIDS each day, and World Aids Day this week was nowhere near so prominently marked. Are the Press (TV and print versions) our modern day prophets?

Or maybe it is the Bookmakers. After all, their clever calculations and statistics are able to put a price on the probability of something happening. Although I gather they lost out badly on the November announcement of the Royal Engagement (William & Kate). They are in the business to make money - and usually do! - so are they better prophets of what is to come and when?

In truth, none of us have crystal balls, which is why it is so amazing that there were prophets in the Old Testament who foresaw the birth of Christ. They also predicted his death. But the reason for celebrating Christmas, for having a Festive Friday - or any other Festive day - is to wonder at the birth of that baby boy.

For to us a child is born,
   to us a son is given,
   and the government will be on his shoulders.
And he will be called
   Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
   Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

Isaiah 9.6

A last goodbye

2010-11-30T11:11:00.000Z

Here is the prayer I read at Gran's funeral last Friday. More cheery blogposts will follow, I promise!

Ok, God,

it’s time for a chat.

I know, I know – when it comes to prayers I don’t do much listening

and you are sitting back, waiting for the imminent discourse.

Well, today it’s like this.

Gran’s dead.

Ok – I know you know that too.

That’s part of being omniscient or omnipotent or one of those other long, theological words people use instead of plain English.

Anyway, we are here to remember her,

to thank you for her life,

and – to a certain extent – to say goodbye to her.

That’s the bit that’s really tough,

‘cos she was one of those people that you’d really like to live for ever.

She worked hard at that: 97 wonderful years.

And we are so thankful.

Thankful for being a part of her life.

Thankful for her faith, her serenity, her wisdom.

Thankful for her love of family and friends.

Thankful for her generosity and laughter.

Thankful for her elegance, thankful for her ability to make clothes.

Thankful for my wedding dress.

And even thankful that, in the midst of her dementia, she still had brilliant moments of clarity,

when her faith shone through and we could see the loving, mischievous lady underneath.

So we thank you, God, for giving her to us.

And we are sorry for the times we’ve messed up.

For times we could have spent with her and didn’t.

For times we upset her, or argued with her, or lost her famous bramble mousse recipe.

Yep … there is much to be sorry for.

But you are a forgiving God, and on that we depend.

Take care of her – please.

I know you promise us eternal life in heaven with you

and I rejoice that she is there

- with Mum and Grandpa –

a trio of people who spent time listening to you,

now worshipping you to eternity,

no pain, no crying, no sadness.

So look after her

and look after us

‘cos I’m looking forward to meeting up again. One day.

Family Heirlooms and Household Management

2010-11-23T22:40:00.000Z

There are few good things about the death of a loved one, but finding things in their possession that you never thought or knew they had is (or can be!) one. So far I have discovered a book of Schumann's children's pieces for the piano that Gran won as a Music Prize, aged 10, and a small tennis trophy that she won in the year of her marriage. Part of the fascination is wondering why some items are kept and others go by the wayside.

It turns out my grandmother had a copy of Mrs Beeton's Family Cookery. It cannot have been an original (that would have been called 'Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management', and would not have mentioned the War!) but is dated Nov 1928 when my gran was only fifteen. I wonder what a fifteen-year-old today would have to say to being given this tome?

Being a somewhat reluctant housewife at present, I decided to have a look at what Mrs B thinks I should be doing. It doesn't start well.

Housekeeping has been aptly described as the 'oldest industry.' It is certainly the most important, the very linch-pin of life's daily round.

I fear I am a failure by the end of the second sentence of the book. I bit further down that page I get a bit closer to the sentiment...

Whether the establishment be large or small, the functions of the housewife resemble those of the general of an army or the manager of a great business concern.

I know I only have two children, but nevertheless I do feel I am commanding an army ... though my regiment may not be the most disciplined or strict. I can also see how I am the manager of a great business concern: managing the finances, dealing with disputes (have you met my children?), negotiating, purchasing, meeting deadlines. Keeping everything functioning on an even keel around here would challenge the wealthiest FTSE 100 CEO.

The next sentence is ...

It is hers to inspire, to mould, direct; vigilance or slackness on her part will alike inevitably be reflected back.

... and I think I must have a poor reflection. I'm not sure I shall ever inspire anyone with my housekeeping!

And one of my favourite bits:

A woman's home should be first and foremost in her life, but if she allow household cares entirely to occupy her thoughts, she will become narrow in her interests and sympathies, a condition not conducive to domestic happiness. In many households, especially those where the exacting needs of a young family constantly clamour for attention, very little leisure can be secured for rest and recreation, but it is generally possible by proper methods of work, punctuality, and early rising to secure some, and this should be jealously preserved.

So - yes - my hour in front of Grand Designs is sacrosanct and - yes - my children will have to be more punctual in their habits for getting ready for school and - yes - I will get up early.... well, maybe not the last one, but two out of three aint bad! Long live domestic happiness!

Gran

2010-11-17T13:19:00.000Z

On Monday morning my grandmother passed away.

It is hard to know what to say. She was 97 years old, with a heart stronger than mine I suspect. Over the last few years dementia took an increasing hold, frustrating her and those around her. Her death was a release, but remains a profound loss.

For she was a joy to know. The picture of her as a baby, hung on the wall in her room, portends a handful of trouble: not difficulty, but mischief. Even then there is a glint in her eyes, as if she's saying, "I know: I look like any other baby, but I'm not. I'm me, and I'm going to let you know it."

Of course, I only drift into her hourglass at about twenty to the hour. But she was always special. She cooked the most amazing meals. She made many of our clothes, including the joys of my childhood dressing-up box with its bridal headdresses and flowing cloaks. She taught me how to sew and how to use a sewing machine. She had housemartins in the eaves that we would make lardy birdcakes for.

She was the contact point with my cousins - distant in location, but the most idolised relations we had. The summers were spent in the garden, playing silly games and chewing the grass. And when my grandparents moved into a granny-flat with my uncle and aunt living above, there was a new lease of life. Aged 71 she retrieved the tennis racket she was given for her 21st birthday and played against anyone willing to try. Given that she'd had a hip replaced about 15 years before it was quite remarkable to watch.

She was the reason we all spoke well in public. She had been trained as an elocution teacher, and woe betide any of us standing up in a school play and not being heard. Every consonant placed, no dipping in volume, head up, shoulders back: she's always (in my mind) sat in the back row ensuring I keep the speech on track.

And then Grandpa died, and we worried about how she would carry on. But fifteen years later she has seen three of her grandchildren married, and six great-grandchildren arrive and has outlived all the others of her own generation. Aged 84 she made my wedding dress. Aged 92 she had games and jigsaws out for my children to play with when we visited.

When I last saw her, just over a week before she died, she was frail and sleepy. I don't think she knew who I was, but she was adamant that she knew both her children (my mother and uncle). And she spoke of her faith, faith that I know I have inherited via my mother. She was in some level of communication with her God, repeating Amen in a comforted fashion. And, in a moment of clarity, she said, "If everyone loved God as much as He loves us, the world would be a happy place."

As I kissed her goodbye she thanked me and said, "You will remember me, won't you?"

Yes, Gran. I will.

Eco-friendly durability

2010-11-10T11:25:00.000Z

A couple of years ago I had a good sort through all our bedding. It was a moment of super-organisation for me, putting all the ones we use rarely (i.e. for visitors!) into bags and sticking labels on so I know what is in the bag. Astonishing organisation for me - and, it turns out, essential if you want to find a spare sheet in a hurry when one of the kids has vomited repeatedly all night. Knowing that a sheet is single or double, fitted or flat, or even (actually) a duvet cover is remarkably useful.

With the various moves since then there was an entire box that had not been touched and at the weekend we finally got round to sifting through the unpacked box of bags. Now, what I didn't mention above was that I didn't go for fancy bags, or special storage, for all these spare sheets. No: I reached for the bag of carriers and (it turns out) Tesco and Sainsbury's.

Our supermarkets are always telling us to re-use their bags, sometimes offering money back if you do. There is also eco-pressure to make the bags biodegradable, so they don't clog up landfill sites for ever and a day. So here is my non-scientific study of the durability of their bags.

Firstly: Sainsbury's

Secondly: Tesco

So, if you want strength and durability, go to Sainsbury's. If you wish them to degrade and fall apart, try Tescos.

Or, better still, buy a jute bag and keep reusing it. Even when degrading it must be more environmentally friendly than the flakes of Tesco bag I keep picking up off the floor.

The world is the size of a pea

2010-11-03T09:56:00.000Z

Crikey - it has been two weeks since I wrote here. That's the problem with wandering. Over half-term we wandered across the sea: this time, to Northern Ireland to see family. Grannie & Gramps looked after the children for a couple of nights, so my husband and I were able to get away and talk about things - and not just the house/builders/disasters at home!

It is a long time since I have stayed in a B&B: a very British institution, focussing a lot on homely accommodation and a huge breakfast. The first morning we sat down with the only other guests, a couple our parents' age. They were talking about visiting their daughter; about how many times per year they come over to Ireland; about how difficult it is to fly from Norwich now there's no direct flight to Belfast; about the rain (of course: there is a lot of it!) ... then as soon as my husband mentioned his parents in Belfast she said, "Oh - you're the Withenays!"

It was a slightly spooky moment. It turns out they know my in-laws from church in Norwich.

As I said at the time, the world has shrunk to the size of a pea. We can't even get away to somewhere we've never been before without being known.

The Mountains of Mourne are truly stunningly beautiful. Even in the rain. Given the moans and groans I gave throughout my teenage years, I think my parents would be astounded that I chose to go for a walk despite the weather. Most of the walk was through drizzle. It only really began to rain when we reached the dam at the end of the valley and the end of the walk.

Well, the end of the way out. We had a (much quicker!) 3 mile hike back to the teashop and car into which we dripped. I had water squelching around in my hiking boots and was quietly praying for the survival of my mobile phone in my trouser pocket. The tea was essential to warm us through again, but we left pools of water everywhere. Back at the B&B we left our clothes in front of the Rayburn and they were only just dry when we left the following morning.

Ireland isn't the Emerald Isle without reason: year-round rain means year-round green.

*****

I've changed my design background (in case you hadn't noticed!). Do you like it? Is it too brown? I liked the map image - it seemed to go well with my Wandering theme ... although I do now seem to be far more settled. It may all change again as I seek to find the design that suits me and the blog best. All comments and advice are welcome!

Photo of Silent Valley, copyright Awesome Stories

Tea at our house

2010-10-20T16:47:00.000+01:00

Why is 5.30-6pm the busiest time in our house?

It starts with, "Mum, I'm hungry!"

No - I lie - it is never so polite. It's more like:

"Mu-um ... I'm staarrrving!" (with added whine and moan factor).

Although my favourite bit is when this is followed by my daughter saying, "My tummy's rumberling."

So, clearly, at this point I have to put my vague thoughts about what we are going to eat into practice. Yesterday I was running a little late, due to the electricians messing around with the power all afternoon, so went for quick-and-easy oven chips, veg and the leftover roast beef.

No sooner had I put the chips in the oven when there was a knock on the front door. To my surprise it was a friend from my writing group, wanting to know if I'd recommend my builders. She didn't know it was my house but had been watching its progress over the last few months. (She and half the village, I am picking up. Someone told me they thought it was being made into an old people's home. How disappointing my screaming children will seem!) Clearly she also hasn't read this blog post, or she'd never have asked. Anyway, she came in and we chatted and I learnt about her house with marble floors and meeting Saddam Hussain and other things that really stop you thinking about cooking dinner.

Until, of course, you hear the whine from the children again. "Mummy - my tummy's rumberling."

Hopefully not too rudely I encouraged my friend out of the front door and rushed back to put the food onto plates. Cold beef first ... then the phone rings. It is my husband checking when he's supposed to be home so I can go to a meeting. Seven o'clock. Yes, stop work now and get a move on!

I return to the table to dish up the vegetables - only for the mobile to ring. My friend is dropping something off before going to the aforementioned meeting - is that ok? Yes, yes... any time is fine. (Obviously apart from right now. There are tummies rumberling.)

With some manic screaming from me, the children drag themselves away from the television (even rumbly tums are less important than Pokemon) and we settle to eat the now somewhat cool food.

Then all I have to deal with is both children talking at the same time, to and across each other and me: a constant barrage of noise. There's no such thing as a quiet tea at our house.