The writing bug

This year I have been overwhelmed by moving house. The planning and organising has dominated my life: packing and unpacking boxes, trying to keep the family fed and watered, being there 100% for my children to settle in. My life - my aims and goals - have taken second place to the family chaos.

Yesterday, for the first time in ages, I sat down and thought: I want to write my book. I want to get this back into my time schedule. I want to make this space for me, for expressing myself, for being creative.

So what happens as of 3.15pm tomorrow? School holidays. Am I really likely to get a moment's peace?

Now I'm planning: take the laptop on holiday. Work out how to blog from mobile (have to confess this is highly unlikely to work!) Consider booking children into holiday camps for entire 5 weeks. (Would Grannie like them?) Insist on a couple of hours a day, uninterrupted, simply to write.

Or ... accept the reality. Enjoy the children while they are still prepared to tolerate me. Plan for a solid routine when term starts in September.

Which do you think will win?

Questions you cannot answer (2)

"Mum, is lion's wee red because they eat blood?"

Sports Day

Son had Cub Sports Day last night. His pack was competing against the other two in the village (there would have been a fourth, but they didn't turn up). It turned out that his pack were defending their victory in 2008. The trophy is enormous.

I assume (oh, terrible mother that I am) that he will succeed in sport as much as his mother did (i.e. he won't).

But before I had a chance to test this out I was approached by Arkala to score! Doesn't she know I am an accountant?

Accountants don't do numbers. Nor do Maths graduates. I am an utter failure with numbers.

There wasn't even a calculator available.

At least I got a seat.

Of course, all the mental brain exercise didn't stop me screaming like mad for my son to win every race he took part in: Three-legged race (for 8 year olds) and Obstacle race (for 9 year olds). I suppose that aged 8.5 this is permissible.

And guess what?

He won!

The strains of domesticity

I've had a week of feeling rather down: overwhelmed, I suspect, by the move and the changes. I seem to have little direction and focus in life, nor any great achievements at the end of the day. Instead I have become a domestic goddess (or perhaps slave, given my lack of enjoyment and gross incompetence) and spend my days washing, ironing and cooking. It hardly seems the best use of all my qualifications and abilities.

(But the raspberry jam is very tasty.)

So I was delighted to receive an award from Maternal Tales - a lovely blog! How good does that make me feel? Thank you so much for bringing a ray of sunshine into my life!

In my turn, I shall pass it on to Working Mum on the Verge ('cos she's fun and witty and lives near me - oh, darn, you've already got one), Gareth Bentley (simply because everyone should take this link and look at his wonderful photos of Zambia), Hadriana (who inspired me into active blogging) and Ladybird World Mother ('cos I never fail to laugh at her writing).

Today I bravely faced a local writers group. This seemed particularly foolhardy, given my current fragile state, but I was blessed with a group low on criticism and high on encouragement. I'm not sure it will help improve my book, Singing in a foreign land, very much, but it will provide a welcome respite from the cleaning and tidying for a short while once a fortnight.

I had an interesting (and quiet) weekend at home whilst my son was at cub camp. I got a chance to spend some time in the garden and hope one day to know what the plants are that I attack. (They were definitely raspberries. I think it might be an olive tree behind them.) Unfortunately, my son was sick and had to come home early, which I have written about on my other blog here. Thankfully a day without food or excitement (except the Wimbledon Men's final) and he was right as rain for school today.

Tomorrow: I resolve to get back to the writing. Surely the ironing can wait just one more day?

Dogs at the school gate

The school yard is a funny place.

For the kids, it is the place of freedom and play ... and sometimes bullying and trauma.

For mums and dads it is a place to catch up, to arrange playdates, to part from tearful children.

For newcomers to a school it is bewildering. There are no set rules about where to go. Other parents don't wear badges stating which class their child is in. They can stand there day after day without anyone talking to them.

Our new school is no different from the last. Someone, eventually, will put two and two together, matching me and my child up with theirs. Until then I observe.

But observing is funny. Parents who can't leave their children. Children who can't leave their parents. And dogs (or rather, their owners).

Don't get me wrong here: I like dogs. I cannot begin to understand people who dress their dogs, although I am informed that there are valid reasons for doing this with small, bald creatures ... but why get one of them, when you can get big, soft fluffy dogs such as Retrievers, Spaniels or Setters?

Yet our new school seems to have a surfeit of dog-owners with another pet hate (sorry - dreadful pun!) of mine. Carrying dogs. Why have a creature with four legs of its own and then carry it? Surely God designed these creatures to run around?

The first one I saw was clearly a puppy. A small concession here: perhaps it needed warmth. Still, why not leave it at home whilst on the school run? It only takes 20 minutes or so. I'm sure the puppy would survive that period without physical human contact if it was left in a warm room or with a hot water bottle.

The second I saw was a Jack Russell. This was no puppy, so why bring the dog and carry him? (or her!) The dog should have been tied to the railings outside to wait while mum went in to collect the children.

Today I thought the locals had finally gone completely round the bend. Walking through the school gates I saw a lady with what looked like a small St Bernard under her arm. Doing a double-take, I realised that it was actually a soft toy. Phew! The world hasn't gone completely mad.

You won't believe it, but ...

Yesterday my son had to have school dinner because his packed lunch fell in the fish tank.

Strange, but true.

Playing the waiting game

I have a simple problem: my left ear is clogged up. I assume it is wax (rather than a small piece of lego or a peanut) but it does now mean that everything I do echoes through my body. Walking back from school I could hear every step resound up into my head as big thuds. When speaking I feel like I am shouting in my own private cathedral, all the sound reverberating in a large, echoey chamber.

This has happened occasionally before. I know what to do: put ear drops in for a few days then go to the nurse and get it syringed.

Being a new patient to the practice (I sent the small rainforest of forms in last Friday) I know I need a 'new patient medical' so I ring the surgery for an appointment, thinking I can kill two birds with one stone.

"I'm a new patient in the practice. Can I arrange an appointment with the nurse for an initial medical?"

"I can fit you in next Wednesday."

Over a week away!

"I'm sorry, but I can't wait that long to have my ear syringed: I can't hear anything on one side." There is a hint of restrained anger. Only a hint, mind.

"I'm afraid you have to make an appointment with a nurse to see if it needs syringing first."

And thus I go quietly mad. Or rather, echoey, head-hurtingly mad. I must now wait for an appointment with someone who will tell me what I already know, and then have to wait for an appointment with her (presumably a further week later) to resolve the problem. Meanwhile I can't hear much except my own ringing ear.

When the NHS works it is brilliant; when it doesn't it is the most frustrating thing in the world.