Age has its compensations

Reader, I am slumped on my sofa, fresh from a rather testy road-rage altercation right here in the middle of Sevenoaks.   Yes I know, you're as shocked as I am.  This genteel town,  perched delicately on the edge of the north Downs, a chalky landscape which serves as a stunning backdrop and a handy barrier between us (Sennockians) and them (greater Londoners), a place where nothing bad ever happens.

Until you're driving down a narrow road with parked cars all the way down one side and a distinct lack of any passing places that is. Then all hell breaks loose.  I have the misfortune to use this particular road quite a lot as it's the most direct route to my children's school and on the days when we cannot walk or cycle, we jump in the car.  In my opinion this road really should be subject to a one-way system as commuters park all down the one side and people try to drive along it from all directions.

This afternoon as I was leaving the school, kids in the back seat, all of us knackered and saying TGI Friday, I had made it along half of this road when a car suddenly was bearing down on us clearly with no intention of stopping.  I slowed and weighed up my options, bearing in mind that all the parked cars were on the other side of the street so technically I had right of way. However I travel this route often enough to know that that rarely makes a difference.

So I reversed, just enough for the other car to nip into a space on their side so that I could mount the small pavement and make it past.  I could see the mouths of the girls in the other car working furiously as they gestured that I should reverse all the way back to where the line of parked cars began so that they could continue in a straight line.  You know when something irks you and a slight red mist descends?  Yes, I got a bit fed up by this point and pointed to the space and indicated that they should turn their steering wheel and go into it.

Eventually they did, with a great deal of huffing and puffing and gesticulation in my general direction.  As I pulled alongside I put down my window and coolly, with a raised eyebrow, enquired if anything was the matter.  Reader, I know what you're thinking - why didn't I just drive past and continue on my way?  Well to be honest because by that point I didn't damn well feel like it and when you're a lady of a certain age, if you don't damn well feel like doing something - you simply don't.

These youngsters were trying their best to give me a piece of their (clearly tiny) minds with a bit of 'eff' this and 'eff' that thrown in for good measure.  I pointed out that since I had young kids in the back they really should quit with the bad language.  "I've got a little girl myself that I've got to pick up NOW!" the spottier of the two screeched back at me.  I returned serve with a pithy 'well in that case you should know better than to use such foul language'.  I added that it wouldn't hurt to give the Highway Code a once over and then they would see that actually, I had right of way.

"Oh f*** off! Just f******g  move!" yelled the fat one, her beady little face contorted with the rage of someone who has plenty of anger to vent but nothing of value to say.  Regretfully I shook my head at them.  'Oh dear, there you go again', I tutted with a frown, enjoying their frustration of not actually being able to drive off as I was still blocking their exit.  "Old people shouldn't be allowed to drive!" she spat just as I had selected first gear and was beginning to ease away.

I stopped, the space behind me just tantalisingly too small for them to drive through.  I gazed at them levelly with the wonderful confidence that comes with age. 'Are you quite finished? Are you?' I enquired, enjoying the feeling that I was successfully now messing not only with their heads but with their entire day.  They ranted on for a bit longer in a similar vein but now I was conscious that the traffic was building up and the pedestrians were also blocked by my half-on-the-pavement car.

So Reader, you'll be so pleased to know that I resisted the urge to use my substantial and well-built car as a weapon and ram their little Peugeot to kingdom come, although the feeling of satisfaction would have been almost worth it.  And in that parallel universe I would have sat there calmly, observing the looks of horror on their squat little faces and the steam rising from their concertina'd bonnet, and do you know what I would have said just before driving off?  'Face it girls, I'm older and I have more insurance'.

We will remember them

It was with my BBC news producer's hat on that I found myself at the Cenotaph in Whitehall yesterday.  My job was to produce the coverage for the BBC's News Channel which involved planning where we were going to be and who we would interview in the way of war veterans, serving soldiers etc.  'What exactly does a news producer do?', I hear you ask.  Just about everything, is the answer.  It would be easier to give you a list of things that are outside my remit on a live broadcast!

I had the good fortune to be working with a very competent correspondent which always makes a producer's life more pleasant.  I knew that with him, whatever the day threw at us, he would make sense of it and remain on air, calm and unruffled as I whizzed about behind the scenes trying to sort it all out.  You'd be amazed how often correspondents, even ones that are household names, resort to prima-donna-ish behaviour or get really uptight if something out of the ordinary occurs.  I could tell you a few stories there but that's probably going to have to wait until I get my novel published and you can all try and guess who the fictional characters are based on!

Anyway, I digress.  Remembrance Sunday, in my opinion, is very important to our nation in many ways.  Critics who denounce it as a day glorifying war have got it wrong.  Yes it's true that the survivors are celebrated among their peers and the public applauds their courage and efforts to march past various war memorials up and down the country.  But in a way it exposes not just the heroism but the horror of warfare and acts as a useful pointer to the ability of man to wage war on his fellow man.  Isn't the point of studying history to prevent us from making the same mistakes in the future?

From a young age, my kids have been taken to our local war memorial and we've stood in the sun, fog and rain and observed the 2 minute silence together.  I've attempted to explain to them the significance of what those soldiers did in the two world wars and how both conflicts altered the course of history and how different our lives might be today, had the outcomes been reversed.

Yesterday, shading my eyes against the low autumn sunshine, I watched as the crowds grew progressively larger and as members of the royal family and the armed services took their positions around the modest white structure of the Cenotaph.  The music of the Massed Bands filled the air, as it has done every year since 1920, providing a melodious accompaniment to the golden leaves as they swirled lazily from the horse chestnut trees onto the assembled heads below.  The music played was standardised in 1930 and although it sometimes changes, the basic shape has remained much the same ever since.

With the pomp and circumstance of 'Rule Britannia' drifting over Whitehall followed by the more reflective 'Skye Boat Song' and Elgar's hauntingly beautiful 'Nimrod', the mood in the crowd became sombre and subdued.  The solemnity of the occasion broken only by the five hundred or so smart phones and tablets thrust high in the air as the Duchess of Cambridge appeared on the balcony of the Foreign Office, the fake 'click, clack' shutter noise punctuating the silence as we awaited the arrival of the Queen.

When Her Majesty appeared from the innards of the Foreign Office precisely at 1058:45, her diminutive appearance, as always, belied her importance.  In the crowd the recording devices went into overdrive and disappointingly some people even found in necessary to click clack away during the 2 minute silence.  Hmmmm.  At 1100 the canon boomed, the noise ricocheting off the Portland stone buildings, Big Ben began to chime and heads dipped in unison to remember, and for those of us lucky enough never to have personally experienced the horrors of war, to imagine, in silence.

I expected to cry.  I always have done either sat at home watching the service on TV or standing at the Sevenoaks war memorial.  A tear inexorably rolls as I think of the mud, guns, horses and Tommies of WW1 and of the concentration camps, sunk ships and downed aircraft of WWII.  The young lives cut short by our government's recent decisions to deploy to Iraq and Afghanistan and the horrific injuries sustained by our troops cut down by IEDs or Taliban AK47s which once would have guaranteed death but now, thanks to improvements in battlefield first aid, means a generation of amputees and brain-damaged young people are here to stay.

I think of the bravery of those who are still willing to join the armed forces or become reservists knowing full well that when push comes to shove, they will be expected to die or suffer life-changing injuries for their country.  I think of my own darling children and that potentially one day in the future with another pointless conflict raging overseas, I may be that clench-jawed mother sitting at home dreading the knock on the door from a uniformed officer, come to give me bad news.

So I cry selflessly for others and I cry indulgently for my imagined future self.  But yesterday no tears came.  Maybe it was because I was surrounded by my peers, a bunch of hardened hacks, or maybe my journalist's brain just couldn't switch off enough to get that carried away.  I must admit to quietly calculating the risk of a terrorist attack and what a coup it would be for any nutter wearing a suicide vest to get that close to wiping out the royal family, the leaders of all three political parties, a large proportion of the cabinet and the heads of the Navy, Army and Air Force.  I did find myself scanning the crowd for any sweating person sporting a rucksack with wires.

But thankfully the day passed off with the precision of a well-oiled machine that has been whirring for the best part of ninety-plus years and the veterans all escaped the cold and went off for their lunchtime reunions and I got home in time to spend some time with my family.  My opportunity to shed a tear came just now in Sevenoaks High Street as I lined up dutifully outside Tesco to join the 2 minute silence led by the small group of veterans who do it every year at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, come what may.

They stood by the road, their colour proudly raised against the grey drizzle and steadfastly performed their ritual, a poignant sight given their age and diminishing numbers.  I dipped my head and welcomed the lump that made its way to my throat and the tear that escaped my eye.  I ignored the cold and the rain. It was the least I could do, after all, they gave their today for my tomorrow.

What are we doing?

Is it April 1st?  I had to wonder when I heard on the news this morning that Facebook has decided to allow videos of people being beheaded to be shown on its site.  I did the aural equivalent of a double take and turned up the radio, convinced that I must have misheard.  But no, sadly everything I heard was accurate.

Apparently Facebook did have a temporary ruling in place that blocked the showing of such scenes, but has decided to allow these decapitation videos again (or snuff movies as they used to be called) so that users can "be free to watch and condemn such content".

Laudable or laughable or just downright bonkers?  Have we become so immune to inhumanity, suffering and torture that we think it's somehow OK for it to be streamed on a social media site where most people turn for a bit of light gossip and a few holiday snaps?  Do we not believe that if children or vulnerable people have access to such sites then the content should be monitored?

What is wrong with this situation?  Er...quite a lot actually.  PM David Cameron has stepped into the fray branding Facebook "irresponsible" and saying it needs to "explain its actions" to worried parents.  I'm sorry but I don't want some spotty 21-yr-old FB employee "explaining" to me why he or she thinks I need to be able to view such content so that I have the "freedom" to  condemn it.

Why do we need to witness something in order to condemn it?  I know that paedophilia is abhorrent.  I do not need to see it in action to have that confirmed.  I also know that someone having their head cut off is indicative of an unlawful and not-very-pleasant situation and although it may pass for accepted retribution in some parts of the world, I do not need to see it to realise that it must be condemned.

The internet is a wonderful tool but its major downside is that it allows people, sat on their behinds in their own living rooms, to see stuff without any effort on their part whatsoever.  In the past if you had a strange urge to experience another culture in which decapitation was the norm, some effort would have been required.  You would have had to do some fairly detailed research to discover where this sort of practice took place.  Then you would have worked out how to get there arranging visas, vaccinations etc.  Then you would have had to earn (yes earn through having a job) the money and taken the time off to travel.  Once in situ you would  have (hopefully) gained some understanding of the country and its people, and then if you were "lucky" enough to witness the desired decapitation, it would have been horrific but at least you would have been able to put it into some sort of context.

But some numpty who's taken time off in between gaming and ordering pizza to surf the internet looking for weird stuff?  How is that right that they should be able to view something as deeply disturbing as the film that supposedly drew attention to Facebook's decision which was of a masked man murdering a woman, possibly in Mexico.  Nice.

This whole debate is symptomatic of the society we live in where some people think it's acceptable to film episodes on their mobiles and post them onto Facebook and other sites purely for the amusement of complete strangers.  It's voyeurism of the worst kind and it's happening all the time.  At one end of the spectrum there's the teen who points their phone over the cubicle door and snaps their mate on the loo, and at the other, the gang rape of a drunk girl.  There is little awareness from individuals who do this of the effect that it may have on the person being filmed.

We also seem to have conveniently forgotten that there are large numbers of primary school age children out there who (unbelievably) have a Facebook account.  There is supposed to be an age limit of 13 (still babies really) to set one up but I personally know of several much younger Facebookers.  Why they are allowed by their parents to set up an account I do not know, perhaps in some cases the parents simply aren't aware.  But as I'm always banging on to my own kids who, you will not be surprised to discover, DON'T have anything to do with FB (!) once you've seen something horrible you cannot 'unsee' it; it's imprinted on your brain forever.

Come on Facebook, show some initiative and take a stand against such vileness being streamed through your site.  I've said before that while I am very much anti-censorship I am also totally pro-child protection and sometimes we so need to sacrifice our "rights" to be all seeing in order to protect those who can't protect themselves.

I predict a diet

Calories - 1900 (oh poo), exercise - none (bah), alcohol consumed - lost count (oops).  Yes I have been making like Bridget J recently and jotting down all the little things that when put together, go towards making up the bigger picture.

Reader, just two weeks ago I stepped on the scales and almost fainted.  The digits that flashed before my sleepy eyes came as a shock.  In effect about twelve pounds of extra flab have crept slowly and silently onto my frame over the past year, resulting in straining seams and a general feeling that all is not as it should be.

I'd been aware for a few months that clothes were feeling a bit on the tight side, especially around the midriff, but I put it to the back of my mind, assuming that all would right itself once the summer was over and I had more time to exercise.

But no, it is not as simple as that.  It would appear that after four weeks of slugging it out, every week day at a mixture of circuits, aerobics, taekwondo, kick-fit and total body workout (like circuits but harder!), the weight is simply not shifting. The flab is more toned but it's still there; the clothes are still not fitting. Which is a complete pain as it means that I now am looking at the dreaded calorie counting, or in other words - a diet.

God how I detest having to think about every damn morsel I put in my mouth.  I'm much more used to being so active that it doesn't matter a jot what I eat or drink, a much more satisfying state of affairs but one that is seemingly temporarily (or so I hope) unavailable to me.

It makes me ponder on whether I'd rather be a) stressed out but thin, or b) happy but plump. It's a tough one to call.  Clearly life is just a bit too comfortable just now (poor little me eh?) So today I started a secret food diary (secret in that I never talk about 'dieting' or being unhappy with my body in front of the kids) into which I aim to note everything that passes my lips to see exactly what I'm doing wrong.  Thank God for the internet.  I can simply Google "how many calories in half an avocado" - 133 in case you were interested - and fill in the little column and add up as I go along. Riveting.

So I'm an adult, with forty-odd years of yo-yoing up and down between the dress sizes which I regard as a minor nuisance but not earthshattering.  My self-confidence and esteem are generally high and while I might hate the muffin top, I love the person underneath it. But how do you deal with a 7-year old girl who is also overweight?

Yes it's Daughter.  My wonderful, funny, clever, beautiful little girl has been overweight for about 2 years now and it's getting to the stage where it's a struggle to get clothes to fit.  At the beginning of term I happened to be in BHS in Oxford St and noticed that they do a school uniform range in a 'generous' fit.  I was simultaneously repulsed and relieved.  I quickly bought her a pair of these trousers and was then sad but relieved that they fitted.

Last September we had real problems trying to get skirts and trousers to fit.  We traipsed around the shops, trying on larger and larger sizes, but she's only little and the age 8-9 clothes just about did up round the waist, but of course swamped her everywhere else.  Until that point I'd kind of ignored the weight, putting it down to puppy fat that would simply melt away when she grew a bit, I felt really uncomfortable about the prospect of putting a, then 6-yr-old, on a diet.  I personally know of a woman who died, just a few years ago from anorexia which in turn stemmed from childhood weight issues. I absolutely LOATHE the current thin obsession and would much rather focus on being fit and strong, with a healthy weight a convenient side effect.

On that shopping trip I was almost in tears in John Lewis, struggling to get a pair of school trousers done up, I suddenly decided that enough was enough and my continued ignoring of the issue was tantamount to child neglect.  At home we sat down and had a talk about healthy eating, exercise and all of the family needing to reduce our 'jelly-bellies' that had crept on over the summer.  "But not ME!" son helpfully shouted from his bedroom, "I don't have a jelly-belly!".  No darling, not you (through gritted teeth, trying to keep it all light and non-judgemental).

So we decided that as pretty much everything we ate at home was healthy, and that she did lots of daily exercise (PE, taekwondo, swimming, gymnastics, trampolining in the garden, scootering to school), the only thing she could alter was what she ate at school, most specifically the puddings. I look at their school lunch menu from time to time and shake my head in wonder that the school has a 'no chocolate' policy for the packed lunch brigade, but thinks nothing of serving up sticky toffee pudding, jam doughnuts, apple crumble and custard, caramel shortbread every single day.  Empty calories, as my mother would say.

So bless her, last year she agreed that as she would like her clothes to fit better, she would have pudding only twice a week, and the other 3 days would opt for a yoghurt or fruit.  Reader, the difference was immediately noticeable.  Her sticky-out tummy became more streamlined and she began to look like the other little girls again.  But just recently I've noticed that it's happening again.  We bought a (larger size) dress on Saturday for a dance competition and it wouldn't do up.  Oh dear.  I got that sick feeling, a mixture of guilt (that I'd let it creep on again), desperation (am I doing the right thing by making it an issue?), fear (of triggering some sort of eating disorder) and downright weariness - here we go again.

It transpires that at school she has returned to eating a pudding every day, just like her dad (in a crisis blame him) if a pudding is in front of her and a queue of people behind, she simply cannot resist.  So as from today, we're trying packed lunches which thank goodness, she is really keen on and at the moment, I have time to make.  If we can control the calorie intake, surely the weight will disappear?  There's been a big 'push' recently by the NHS highlighting the problems caused by childhood obesity; they're calling it the 'foremost public health threat currently facing the youth of this nation'.  Children, like my daughter, who carry excess weight in their early years are much more at risk of developing type 2 diabetes, high blood-fat levels, liver disease, joint and mobility problems and some cancers as they get older.

Reader I sincerely hope the packed lunches make a difference, otherwise we'll have to get the doctors involved then it really will become an 'issue'.

Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be......

I'm sure I'm not alone in adopting many different roles as I trot along in life trying to figure out what it's all about and how best to stay sane(ish).  I've been 'dynamic mum' (come on kids!  let's do a page from your work books every day during the holidays and we'll go swimming and cycling every day too!); that one never lasts long. 

For many years I was 'career girl' which was fabulous until I found myself being pulled every which way by the demands of motherhood and it came down to the simple fact that something had to go; kids or career.  It was a close call.

I'm often 'caring friend', sharing and listening to woes, hopes and dreams.  'Party girl' I have had to scale back a tiny bit as it's taking me longer and longer to recover but I'm bravely working up to the coming Christmas period so that she can have quite a few well deserved outings.  I'm sometimes 'seductive wife', well ok, only on birthdays and special occasions - Reader, it would never do to spoil him.

During September I have mostly been, entirely of my own volition, 'perfect wife and mother', yep it's a totally new one on me too.  Basically I've chosen not to accept any paid work and have instead concentrated on being around and nurturing my family with love, attention and fresh, home-cooked food EVERY SINGLE DAY.

This unusual (for me) situation came about as a result of several factors, Husband's new job which means that during the week he is largely absent from family life, being one of them.  Son is also now in Year 5, which will mean little to those of you who have very young ones or are child-free, but to those in the know, it's a pretty tough academic year for those poor little 9-year-olds with tutoring, homework and expectations piled on daily.

I've also been busy designing and drawing up plans for our Big House Project which is a sizeable extension and remodelling of existing rooms.  I love the creative and mathematical process of measuring and drawing but blimey it's hard work.  I console myself with the knowledge that while I may not be earning, I'm sure as heck saving us a whole heap of money in architect's fees.  Plus I can fiddle around to my heart's content, drawing and re-drawing until I've predicted to the nth degree, how we will want to live for the next umpteen years.

But the whole wrap around nurturing, caring wife/mother role is one that doesn't come easily.  I don't feel particularly privileged when anyone needs me on a regular basis, I feel trapped. I enjoy variety and have always been able to flit about doing lots of different things in the course of a day or week, and I'm also accustomed to receiving money and praise for my efforts. 

When you're in the home all day every day, the pay and conditions are crap. In my experience nobody particularly thanks you or even notices that you've emptied the dishwasher (again) or tidied up inside that cupboard so that the door will actually shut.  I find myself pointing out these small, mind-numbing tasks to anyone who will listen, which is often just the cats.

There are some perks of course.  I have been able to exercise properly every day of September, reprising my 'fitness queen' role, something that working in London doesn't allow, and I've caught up with copious friends for coffee and lunch, but if I am to be there at the beginning and end of each day for my loved ones with an imaginatively crafted, healthy, nutritious meal in the oven, well, that all takes time.

When I began this I wasn't sure I would be able to keep it up for a whole month and keep a smile on my face too.  But I've surprised myself by taking some pride in my domestic skills and by the effect it seems to have had on the family as a whole.  The kids are enjoying the certainty that Mummy will be there to collect them every night and because my presence is felt, the homework is being done with minimum fuss and bother.

Husband departs each morning safe in the knowledge that he will return home to a calm and happy household.  He keeps mentioning in a duly respectful and grateful tone (he's no fool that one), how much difference this is making to his work/life balance. Damn it! Why did they have to respond so well?  Serious respect to all of you who successfully make this role your own, day in, day out but Reader, despite the obvious advantages to home and happiness I cannot do it forever, something will go bang at some point and it'll probably be me. 

My house plans are complete and about to go in for the council's perusal and I'm beginning to feel that unmistakeable twitch, that thirst for adventure and a change of scene.  I feel another role fast approaching and you can safely put money on that it will have little to do with dishwashers.

What's in a name?

Well quite a lot as it happens, and a recent name-related event has led me to question how far we have come, or rather haven’t come, in the past hundred or so years since the word ‘feminism’ first entered our lexicon. 

My consternation was piqued when two friends recently tied the knot.  They shared over a decade of history and 3 kids, so you could argue that the marriage bit was just a formality. But to them it wasn’t; it meant a heck of a lot, especially as one of them had done it before, only to experience a miserable divorce just a few years later.  So this was the opposite of a rush-job; meticulously planned with every detail given due thought and consideration.

The bride isn’t a Brit so the main ceremony took place in her home town overseas, then they had a wonderful British wedding party so that all their local friends could celebrate with them.  The venue was stunning, the sun shone and the champagne flowed; Reader it was fab and all the guests agreed that everything was pretty perfect.  Until, that is, towards the end of the night when the rumour started circulating that the groom had taken the bride’s surname.

It was a bit like a fart in a lift in that nobody wanted to be the first to mention it.  It fell to a rather inebriated gentleman to bring up the subject which he did in what I thought was a particularly delicate and sensitive manner.  The exchange went something like this:

Pissed bloke: “Oi!  I just heard that you’re changing your name to hers?”

Groom: “That’s right, I am”

PB: “What the **** d’ya want to do something like that for?”

Groom (impressively still sporting an engagingly polite smile): “Well we decided it was easier for one of us to change, ie me, rather than her and all the kids having to change theirs.  It’s no biggie”

PB: “***** me!  Wouldn’t catch me doing something like that – no way!”

Now isn’t that just so supportive?  I must admit we had stolen the march on most of the guests as we'd seen the happy couple just the week before for a pre-wedding celebration (it’s any excuse to pop open a bottle or 3 at our gaff) and they’d told us about the surname decision then.   My reaction had been to say well done, open another bottle of fizz and congratulate them on putting the flagstones on yet another step towards true equality. And I meant every word.

When I got married it didn’t even occur to me to change my surname.  Why would I?  It was part of me, no, not just part of me, it WAS me.  Why would I want to suddenly, at the age of 29, acquire a new identity?  I generously offered to share my surname with my husband-to-be, but he had similar views to mine where his identity was concerned so we just stayed as we were.  We were married, we knew it and all our friends and family knew it.  I viewed it as a simple, personal choice that would be respected by all who knew me, at that time and in the future.

Now I happen to loudly and proudly refer to myself as a feminist and I always have done.  I consider it to be neither a dirty word nor a complicated one.  I believe men and women are equal and should therefore be treated as such. Neither gender should dominate the other, and from the moment of birth, the same opportunities should be open to all including later on, the choice of which name to adopt upon marriage.  My kids will parrot “there’s no such thing as boys’ toys or girls’ colours” because I’ve taught them they can wear what they like and play with what they like.  I’ve never understood why a parent would automatically bar their child from fifty per cent of experiences anyway. Bonkers.

If you struggle with the concept of feminism, then the journalist and author Caitlin Moran neatly sums it up by posing the question: ‘do you have a vagina?’ and ‘do you want to be in control of it?’ and apparently if the answer to both questions is ‘yes’ then congratulations, you are a feminist. Simple huh?  Only it’s not apparently.

My first Christmas as a married woman was a revelation when cards from all our dear friends, many of whom had been at our wedding, began to plop onto the doormat.  Despite everyone being made aware of the fact that I hadn’t changed my name, I would say that about seventy per cent of the cards were stubbornly addressed to Mr & Mrs D.....  Some of them were old fashioned enough to write to Mr & Mrs P D....., thus not only stripping me of my surname, but of my own initial too.  And as we all know, generally speaking who is it that writes most of the Christmas cards?  Yes, the women. 

My new in-laws committed the faux pas too, but somehow I can forgive more easily the older generation their outdated views, but my peers who themselves claimed to be believers in equality?  Much harder to accept, especially when I was happy to respect their choices to take their husband’s surname.  I didn’t feel the need to continually address them by their maiden name just to prove my point. 

At the time I felt irrationally upset by what I saw as our friends’ obstinate reversion to a bygone age where women ‘knew their place’. ‘I’m different! ‘I wanted to shout and yell ‘I make my own rules!  I have my own name!  But I calmed down and came to realise it’s not me, it’s them.  It’s other people who are most disturbed when a woman makes a stand, however small.  And I have some experience of making a stand and refusing to let other people tell me what is and isn’t possible purely because of my gender.

I’ve spent most of my professional life operating in a man’s world, first at Halfords, then inside the Ministry of Defence, then as Defence and Security Producer for the BBC and latterly as a property developer sporting (pink) steel toe capped boots and hardhat, bossing builders around.  At each juncture I’ve had to stand tall and prove my worth and knowledge as men (and occasionally a few women) tried their best to talk over me and ignore what I’ve had to say.  I guess I must be drawn to the challenge but I’ve never yearned to be a man, I love being a woman but being able to choose how I work it.

I’m sure that the less charitable among you are now concluding that I was probably born with a tad too much testosterone or something, but let me assure you that I can rock a skirt/blouse/heels combo and talk kids and home with the best of them.  And no, I don’t shave my face or arms.

Life should be about having the freedom to choose and being true to who you are and I take my hat off to my newly married friends with their new (for him anyway) joint surname and I wish them every happiness.  After all, he’s only doing what women have done for millennia and if we’re all truly equal then where is the quandary?  I don’t see one and neither should you.

Baby Bumps

Remember that feeling of amazement when the Duchess of Cambridge appeared from the innards of the Lindo Wing, proudly clutching her new little baby and looking, to be frank, still pregnant?  I could swear that there was a collective gasp from all of us mothers watching when we clocked that even Kate, perfect, gorgeous, never-puts-a-foot-wrong, fashionista babe with her ever glossy mane and sylph-like figure, was a bit like the rest of us after all.  I bet if she’d been standing at a bus stop, some dopey but well meaning fellow traveller would have offered her a seat.

My own post-partum humiliation was visited upon me as I stood in a queue in Boots buying nipple cream or something just as ghastly.  Husband stood to one side with 5-day-old Son in the pram as I suffered the indignity of the woman at the till asking me when my due date was.  I just remember blurting out “I had it, it’s over there” and pointing numbly at the pushchair.  I don’t really recall much else of that episode but I quite possibly burst into tears.  Up until that point I’d probably been feeling that I was holding it all together remarkably well, having managed to get up, shower, dress and make it out of the house, but that one misguided comment pierced my fragile sense of self like an arrow, such was the overwhelming feeling of failure at my early attempts at motherhood.

Any fears about how Kate might be coping were safely laid to rest when she stepped out for her first royal engagement the other night.  ‘My flippin’ God’ I breathed as I took in her silver, shimmering column dress, high sparkling heels, relatively normal sized boobs and TOTALLY FLAT STOMACH.  She looked, to be frank, like the perfect MILF (look it up) and behaved like a normal, smiley, contented person, not someone who had given birth just 6 weeks previously.  There’s no way on earth that someone would mistakenly offer up their seat on the tube for that!

Which brings me nicely to my second post-partum moment of humiliation (yes you’ve probably guessed that I was on such good terms with my baby-weight that we couldn’t bear to be parted for quite some time), which took place some months after the birth of Daughter.  Son was safely at nursery so I succumbed to requests from my work colleagues to bring the new baby into the office so they could all have a cuddle.

I duly arrived at Television Centre and found my car parking space that a kind friend had organised.  Bundling up Daughter in her pushchair I wound my way down the familiar corridors, past the beloved but grotty tea-bars, feeling the slight apprehension that comes when you haven’t been somewhere for a long time.  I did a quick tour of the vast, open plan BBC newsroom while the going was good, but when feeding time approached I retreated to my old office of the world affairs unit where if she started yelling I knew there was a sound-proof radio booth into which I could scurry.

Daughter was delightedly passed around the world affairs correspondents and producers who all cooed and fussed in the appropriate manner, and to my relief, she managed not to be sick on any of them.  I wondered what I had been so worried about.  I was just getting ready to leave when another, esteemed correspondent who despite being a household name shall, for the purposes of this post, remain anonymous, swept in, fresh from the set of the One o’clock news.  After a quick ‘how are things’ chat, they gestured towards my stomach and coyly (but loudly) asked “so is that baby number 3 in there then?”

Reader, the silence was deafening.  Never have so many computer screens and documents been examined so forensically by so many people, all of whom longing to snigger, all of whom admirably managing not to. But did I crumble?  Did I burst into tears?  Did I heck.  By this time I was quite resigned to the fact that yes, to some I probably did still look a bit pregnant, but with a baby and a toddler to look after, quite frankly it was the least of my worries.  I finished tucking Daughter in and turned to face my accuser. “What, this?” I asked, staring them coolly straight in the eyes “no, I’m just a bit fat”.  And with that I swept out, wearing my dignity like a (maternity sized) cloak.  Reader, even though I say it myself, I was magnificent.

 

Secrets, lies and war

Watching David Cameron trying to whip up support for the possibility of bombing Syria gives me a strong and uncomfortable sense of deja vu.  During the Afghan and Iraq conflicts I was the BBC's Defence Producer, a role which gave me a ringside seat to the political storm and military intervention and aftermath of the two conflicts. Cameron's early recall of Parliament and impassioned speeches, detailing President Assad's many and varied abuses of the Syrian people had more than an echo of Blair 10 years ago, confidently denouncing Saddam and his infamous (and as it so miserably turned out, completely invisible) weapons of mass destruction.

The MPs' rebellion left Cameron defeated and politically impotent, but it made me wonder if our PM wasn't playing a rather clever, longer game.  It was kind of obvious, even to the casual observer, that the UK was not going to be heading into military action in the middle east, to use that phrase so beloved of news correspondents "any time soon".  After the 12 gory years fighting in Afghanistan and the shorter, but no less blood-stained invasion of Iraq, the public is war-weary.  As a nation we simply don't have the stomach for yet another C-17 discharging its cargo of flag-draped coffins at RAF Brize Norton and more recently, RAF Lyneham.

Surely Cameron must have foreseen this?  The fact that he appeared to be working to Obama's timetable would have been doubly off-putting for MPs.  We like America and the cachet that comes from being a friend, we just don't want to be THE friend anymore. Remember those Blair/Bush love-ins?  The back slapping, the lingering looks, the shared belief that God was guiding them personally - pure car-crash TV; nauseating but compulsive viewing.

Whatever your opinions on Cameron, he is not a stupid man.  He does not lack judgement, he knows how to read people and situations.  So why did he rush the whole vote?  I rather wonder whether he actively wanted a way out.  By going to the Commons with some intelligence material but not all of it (funny how US Secretary of State John Kerry provided a whole lot more just 2 days later) and lots of tactics but no clear strategy, he was almost inviting a rejection of his motion.  Perhaps he wanted to be seen to be doing and saying all the right things to keep Obama onside, while actually maintaining a stance of non-intervention by proxy.

Obama's premise is that military intervention would comprise a few quick surgical strikes to serve as a "shot across the bows" and show Assad that the use of chemical weapons will not be tolerated.  Great, but then what? The trouble is with launching any kind of strike is that it doesn't end there and there is no such thing as limited military intervention.  That's a bit like saying someone is a 'little bit pregnant'.  War, like pregnancy demands to have a beginning, middle and an end.  And there will always, always be a lasting legacy to be taken care of.

Rather hilariously it's now the French who are rushing forward to be America's BFF.  Anyone remember those 'cheese eating surrender monkeys' jibes from 2003?  Or the 'freedom fries' that took the place of French fries in US eateries?  How quickly we forget.  I don't get the impression that Cameron is feeling remotely threatened by the French and American presidents' sudden closeness, or by Russia's alleged assertion that Britain is a small island that no-one pays any attention to.  I reckon that he's (probably rightly) predicting that Syria will go belly up and the further away he is from it, the better to enter the pre-election period of 2014/15.

It's all a gamble.  Would military action force the Syrian government to negotiate?  Or would it effectively topple Assad thus creating a vacuum and lighting the fuse to the bone-dry tinderbox that is the Sunni, Shi ite, Muslim Brotherhood, Al Qaeda, jihadist cocktail just waiting for the opportunity to control Syria's future?  Obama's hope that any attack would form part of a broader strategy to "support rebel forces" and ultimately "allow Syria to free itself", does sound somewhat naïve.

Syria has no credible opposition, there simply isn't an organised, democratic faction ready to step in and take control if Assad goes.  That is both the harsh truth and the main stumbling block to any kind of intervention in the murderous, miserable hell-hole that is now Syria.

The Super Summer

The other day, Son sidled up to me, "er, Mum, I'm not being funny or anything.." I inwardly sighed, as he often begins conversations in this slightly abstract fashion.  Mistaking my silence for rapt attention he continued, "...or trying to be nice on purpose" (eh??), "but this summer has been the best, BEST summer holiday ever.  In the world."  That nugget safely off his 9 year old chest, he hugged me and wandered off to annoy his sister.

Reader, for once I had to agree, and I was surprised because being stuck at home with the children for six long weeks doesn't always fill me with unbridled joy.  In fact in previous years I've looked forward to September with the enthusiasm of a starving person presented with a groaning buffet table; a sort of 'let me at it' mentality.  On the first day of term while other mums stand around the playground dabbing their eyes and waving, I can normally be spotted half a mile down the road kicking up my heels and yelling "FREEEEDOM!" at the top of my voice.  Because let's face it, six hours of free childcare, five days a week is not to be sniffed at.

This year was different.  Sure the amazingly hot, sunny UK weather undoubtedly helped by ensuring that the garden was a go-er every day.  But the really big change was that for once, the children's bodyclocks shifted so that when we let them stay up 'til nine or ten o'clock, they actually managed to sleep in until eight or nine the next morning.  This has never happened before and I was always left foaming enviously at the mouth at friends who took their kids out to dinner and had to WAKE THEM UP the next morning for breakfast.  Ha!  Husband and I decided years ago that there was absolutely no upside to keeping two, tired, crotchety kids up for a nice supper en famille because a) they'd give us indigestion and b) stubbornly wake us up at the crack of sparrows for no good reason and then be miserable again all day because they hadn't had enough sleep.

But what a result; halfway through our two weeks in Spain, Husband and I realised that that unfamiliar, wide-eyed feeling we were experiencing each morning was a direct result of having had enough sleep! So for that we were grateful in the extreme and gazed upon our offspring with newly affectionate and appreciative eyes.

Another reason it was a good holiday is that Husband didn't disappoint in his quest to provide at least one, hilarious, never-to-be-forgotten moment for each foreign trip we take.  The kids (with my encouragement) have wised up to this and are alert, spaniel-like, for when daddy does something strange/dangerous/plain daft which will provide us with many hours of glee.

A few holidays ago in Spain, Husband took it upon himself to save the life of a little boy in the local swimming pool.  It was magnificent.  He leaped off the sun lounger with surprising athleticism, peeled off his t-shirt and shouted "don't worry Charlie" (for that was the victim's name) "I'm coming!" thus ensuring that everyone around the pool turned to look.  He executed a racing dive of which Ellie Simmonds would be proud, and determinedly front-crawled to the little chap in the middle of the deep end and heroically dragged him to the side.  Oh bravo, I hear you say.  The only trouble was, the little boy wasn't drowning at all, simply playing a drowning 'game', of which everyone, apart from Husband, had been aware.  Husband became known as The Hoff after that.

The next year, while holidaying in the same part of Spain, we took our visiting friends to the local bull running as it was fiesta week in the village.  It's not quite on the scale of Pamplona but the premise is still the same.  Barriers are erected either side of the main street and the hapless bulls are let out of their trailer to run up and down while 'brave' men leap out in front of them and scurry back behind the barriers for safety. I always feel sorry for the bulls because while they're not actually harmed in any way, only poked and prodded, it still makes me incredulous that this passes for entertainment in modern-day Spain.

Anyway, Husband decided to slip through the railings while the bulls were safely at the far end of the street (or so he thought) to take a photo of the whole spectacle.  Sadly while he was fiddling around with the camera, one of the smaller and more nimble bulls (still sporting a massive pair of horns mind you) made a sudden dash for our end which made all the 'brave men' leap as if one, in the direction of safety.  Husband was caught unawares and came crashing backwards through the barriers and landed, on his back, on top of the camera, our kids and our friends' kids. It provided much amusement for the rest of the holiday as the kids took turns to act out the scene, one playing the part of the bull, one being Husband, or El Matador, as we were now calling him.

This year, just to add variety, all the drama took place out at sea.  "We'll go sailing!" decided Husband, "the kids are both strong swimmers now and I used to love my sailing!".  So this being Spain, we were able to rock up to a marina and hire a Hobie cat (for the uninitiated that's a small twin catamaran with sails) just like that.  No proof was required of address, damage deposit, ability to sail... we just grabbed a few life jackets and off we went.  How refreshing I thought as we bobbed through the harbour.  In the UK you'd be made to go on a course, sign a waiver and watch a 45 minute safety DVD before even being allowed to THINK about renting a boat!

Hanging over the side looking at the pretty fish, my reverie was interrupted by Husband suddenly yelling "Senor! Senor!  Can you help us!!"  Yes, we were still in the harbour and heading merrily towards the rocks.  Turns out there wasn't quite enough wind and Husband hadn't sailed one of these for, oooooh, about 17 years so the finer points of steering the thing had momentarily escaped him.  Thankfully the nice Spanish man paddled over and climbed aboard and somehow got us heading out to sea.

Of course by this time,  Daughter, who was a bit nervous about the whole venture anyway, was sobbing uncontrollably and pleading with Daddy to please take us back.  "Well!"  I said brightly "this is FUN!"  Contrary to all expectations we didn't die a watery death and once Husband's memory had returned we had quite a jolly little sail.  Daughter eventually stopped crying enough to open her eyes and Son had a fine time operating the front sail.  Husband's name after that one was El Capitan.

So now the holiday is over and we're back to the old routine which is both a comfort and a chore.  It's been a revelation to me that being with the kids for so long can actually be a fairly pleasant experience.  I'm now quite looking forward to the October half term.....!

Beauty and the Beast

I wish I could say that I hold an unrivalled place in Husband’s affections.  That I was his one and only true love, that my chassis was classy enough to make him stop and stare.  But I have a rival.  She’s a few years younger than me too, just to rub salt in the wound.  We do have quite a few things in common; a somewhat unpredictable nature, we both require a fair bit of love and attention when the going gets tough and over the years he’s spent a small fortune keeping us both happy.  I know that he loves me, sure, but HER?  Well, he adores her.  The kids do too.

I used to curl my lip whenever she was mentioned or Husband needed (or wanted, more like) to spend time with her. He says “I’ll only be gone about an hour”.  It’s always, always longer.  “She’s complicated” he protests when I dare to grumble. She’s completely unreliable too, I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s let him down.  I always refer to her as ‘The Beast’ and try to have as little to do with her as possible. 

Recently The Beast and I have been sort of thrown together. We’ve been forced to find a way of getting along.  Husband’s new job has meant that he needs a decent car to get round the M25 – the cue for him to take my lovely motor and disappear off into the sunrise every day.  You’ve probably guessed by now that The Beast is a mechanical rival; she’s a rather old Land Rover, a bone shaker of the highest order.

Sometimes she starts, sometimes she simply can’t be bothered.  Either way she emits a big puff of blue smoke, a sort of ‘Gallic shrug’, you know like the Parisians whenever you dare to complain about anything.  Even if she is minded to start, it doesn’t mean she’ll keep going, oh no.  Last week she had a funny turn at the Bat & Ball traffic lights so I was forced into a kind of hot shoe shuffle as my feet darted between brake, clutch and accelerator while my hand frantically worked the ancient, upright handbrake like I was drawing water from a pump in a drought.  Happy days.

But oh my goodness does she draw attention!  Chugging along I suddenly become aware of many eyes upon me which I always put down to the ghastly noise she makes.  Small children stop and point and wave, sometimes their dads join in too (yes always the dads, never the mums).  The other day I was halfway up the high street when another Landie, a tad shinier than The Beast, was coming in the opposite direction.  As it drew closer I saw the (rather fit) bloke driving it raise just his index finger off the steering wheel in a kind of clandestine salute. Not the whole hand, just the finger. I felt compelled, as if by some unseen force, to raise my finger in return.  I did. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, I nodded and we carried on in our separate directions.  I have a feeling that should The Beast decide to really ruin my day and properly break down, I wouldn’t be stranded for long….

But just as I was starting to feel a tiny bit of affection towards her and was busily making plans for our next outing, we very nearly came a cropper. I’d asked Husband which one of the three coloured levers I would use to put her into overdrive so that an exhilarating top speed of approximately 49mph might be reached.  I’ve seen him do it a thousand times and he did start to explain very clearly but Reader, to be honest in those 25 seconds my irreverent brain had skipped onto a completely different subject and I must confess I didn’t really listen properly.  I was probably thinking that I really must take those sheets out of the tumble dryer before they got all creased up.  Or something like that.

Anyway the next day, trundling along, I eyed the three knobs warily.  Hmmmm, now what did he say again?  Probably not the yellow one, as that has something about 4-wheel drive written on it.  I dredged the depths of my memory and recalled him saying something along the lines of I would have to reach quite far forward to engage it.  So it can’t be the black one then as that’s up near the gearstick.  Right, it must be the RED one all the way down there!  I ease her into 4^th gear on a nice straight bit of road and the familiar whining noise increases as we build up a bit of speed.  I reach down and give the red knob a firm push.  JEEEEEEZUSSSSS. The noise is like nothing on earth; a deafening combination of crashing, grinding, thrashing, grating metal on metal, the lever bucks angrily against my hand.  I’m sure I can see actual sparks flying.

My panicked eyes flick up, we’re still travelling forwards.  Maybe I didn’t push it firmly enough?  I try again. NOOOO!  Wrong decision.  Even more of a racket than before. The Beast is telling me very firmly that I have selected the wrong lever and will I please leave off.  The sweat of fear is now prickling my armpits. I tentatively press the throttle, the engine races but clearly there is now nothing connecting that to the motion of the vehicle, I have lost all transmission.  What have I done?  Thankfully there’s a layby coming up, I indicate and glide to a halt.  Lifting my sweaty, shaking palms from the steering wheel I gently nudge the red lever back to where it was and after a few gulps of fresh air, recover my wits enough to carry on, alert for the possible smell of burning which thankfully doesn’t come.

Husband’s reaction when I tell him later on is so distressing it’s almost comical.  He sits, head in his hands, ashen faced; “you pushed the RED one? As you were going ALONG? You could have broken her” (yeah thanks, not me, her – but I don’t say this out loud) “what were you thinking?  I SAID the black one…blah blah..” and so it went on.  Reader don’t get me wrong, I was truly sorry that my inattention almost resulted in a ruined gearbox, and I am eternally thankful to The Beast that she kept on going and didn’t leave me high and dry with a massive problem to fix.

In fact the past month has made me reconsider. I started off thinking that if she was The Beast then I must be the beauty, but now I’m not so sure. It’s she that is strong, seemingly unbreakable and entirely loved by our family.  It is she that all the children’s friends want a lift home in. It’s she that draws admiring and wondering looks everywhere she goes.  She takes whatever we throw at her, be it muddy bikes, bits of furniture or rubbish for the tip and just keeps on chugging along.  But if she’s actually the beauty, then oh dear, what does that make me?

Waity Katy

I feel for the Duchess of Cambridge I really do.  I mean it’s bad enough being heavily pregnant in the middle of a sudden and rather unexpected heatwave.  But to have the eyes of the world fixed beadily, figuratively speaking, upon your cervix, well it must add a whole heap of extra stress to the mix.  I’ll be amazed if the royal cervix in question actually manages to overcome what must be an almost paralyzing intensity of focus and manages to dilate in the proper fashion instead of yelling ‘that’s it I’m outta here!’ before slapping itself shut and running for the hills.

The poor woman had to endure endless press speculation during her and William’s long courtship about ‘would they, wouldn’t they’ ever tie the knot which earned her the somewhat dubious moniker ‘Waity Katy’.  They duly got engaged, to collective gasps of ‘isn’t she posh?’  ‘isn’t she too thin?’ etc etc as soon as she opened her mouth.  The wedding bells had barely finished pealing when the speculation about when they might breed began doing the rounds.

Her violent and sudden hyperemesis gravidarum (that’s extra crappy morning sickness to you and me) kind of let the cat out of the bag and they were forced to go public early, to a drooling media camped outside the King Edward VII hospital day and night.

As I write this, I have the pleasure (is that the correct word?) of being on call for the BBC for when Kate finally shows a glimpse of being in labour.  When we get the merest whiff of a contraction it’s all systems go and I’ll be one of many journalists camped outside either the hospital in Paddington, Buckingham Palace or Kensington Palace for hours, possibly days on end.  Just like going into labour oneself, it promises to be long, grueling, uncertain and sweaty.  I don’t know about Kate but I reckon we’ll all be needing a bit of gas and air to get us through.

In the newsroom just now, it’s a sort of collective lingering, watching, trying to go about everyday business, calm-before-the-storm atmosphere as plans are checked, tweaked and endlessly discussed.  It reminds me of waiting to give birth to my first born.  I went overdue by two full weeks and basically if Kate does that then we’re all stuffed, as the end of term is fast approaching and the working mums who are essentially the glue holding BBC News together have mostly booked annual leave to be with their own sprogs.

In my own two weeks of confinement (well actually it was more like a whole month because of course you daren’t actually go anywhere leading up to your due date either!) I mostly sat on my backside, swollen ankles elevated, eating giant bars of chocolate and imploring various friends and relatives to nip to the chip shop on their way home and bring me my usual.  I would, occasionally venture from sofa to kitchen to garden then back to sofa.  God I was bored.  I even began to welcome those annoying calls from well-meaning friends asking if there’s ‘any news yet’. NO!  I’m still sat here the size of a flipping whale just like I was the last time you asked.

When it finally happened and I felt the first odd twinges of a contraction, I kind of dismissed it and didn’t even tell Husband as he left for work that morning.  I did some gardening before huffing and puffing my way around Tescos, alarming the poor checkout lady as I wheezed through a contraction and carried on packing my shopping, an odd assortment of cat food, a marrow and a lightbulb if I remember correctly.  Labour had been so elusive I really could not believe it was actually happening.

So now I’m sharing Kate’s confinement in that I daren’t go anywhere too far from London.  We’re all sharing William’s burden of attempting to go about every day life while jumping every time the phone beeps. I’m making tentative plans with friends, school mums for end-of-term coffee and the hairdresser, but on the understanding that I may well cancel at the last minute if the balloon goes up.  Come on Kate love, eat some pineapple, have a curry, get William back down south for, ahem, that other activity that is meant to bring on labour (or do the royals have staff for that kind of thing?), please get on with it before the kids break up!

It's the little things

Husband has two domestic duties; one is to mow the lawn, the other is to put the bins out.  Both of these activities need to happen once a week if we are to avoid any kind of strife/messiness/dubious pongs.  My chores, on the other hand, are numerous and varied and have no set timescale.  They just seem to be ongoing and ever-changing.  I won’t bore you with a list as I’m sure that you are very familiar with the minutiae of every day life involving kids, pets, a job, a hobby, other people’s hobbies, eating food, providing food/clean clothes/transportation/first aid – oh look, I’ve bored you with a list.  Sorry about that.

It struck me as I was heading into work the other day, paid work that is, not the kind of niff-naff and trivia that takes up most of my time (see above), just how much my brain has evolved into a running ticker-tape of ‘things to remember and do’.  As is customary on work mornings, I had got up 45 minutes earlier than everyone else to ensure that I could at least perform my basic ablutions and partially dress without external interference eg; Daughter, coolly appraising my outfit “mummy I haven’t seen THAT dress before” accusatory tone “is it new?” Me: “what this?  No darling, I’ve had it for ages…” Oh crap, one more person to lie to…  I had fed the cats and kids and then reminded Son and Daughter that it was non-uniform day and made sure they were dressed appropriately. 

I had also remembered that one child needed an envelope containing £2, a ‘fine’ for the non-uniform, and the other a bottle of wine for the school fair tombola.  This, the culmination of  a week that had involved two separate sports days (coloured t-shirts and PE kit required – different for each child – natch), a school trip (packed lunch, sun cream, sun hat), an assembly (another coloured t-shirt), and a guitar lesson (guitar!).  The one high point came at 7.30am when my marvelous childminder appeared and because their children attend the same school, I was able to quickly check the finer details before handing over the reins.

As I approached the BBC, dodging those annoying, early-riser tourists meandering about in Oxford St, my work-related thoughts (Mandela, royal baby) were interrupted by my stomach which loudly reminded me that I had not given it anything to eat yet.  When was it exactly that I began to refer to parts of my body as separate entities rather than a whole being? Probably when I became a mother because let’s face it, your body is not really your own after that; “bad cervix, only dilating 3cm after 36 hours of labour – how could you!”.

Nipping into Starbucks (boo hiss, tax avoiders etc – but any port in a storm) I remembered that I hadn’t managed to get to my Taekwon-do class the night before so therefore hadn’t burned my full quota of calories that week.  #Fail.  As I reach for my purse my hand lightly brushes my newly-acquired mini pot-belly. Damn.  There is nothing remotely healthy at breakfast time in a coffee shop – fact.  Reader, I got an almond croissant anyway because by then I was feeling all rebellious and as if I’d already done a day’s work.

The journalist and author Daisy Waugh has a new book out called ‘I don’t know why she bothers’, apparently a guide to guilt-free motherhood for modern women. Daisy I try, I really, really try! I would love to be all laid-back but keep on being overtaken by events, dear boy, events.  I don’t want to be a worry-wort, all creased forehead and endless lists.  I couldn’t be a ‘pushy parent’ if I tried – time and motivation severely lacking there I’m afraid, so it’s not like I’m trying too hard.  I actively discourage my kids from attending after-school clubs as I can’t be bothered going back and forth every night of the week picking them up.  Homework gets done quickly, just the basics, no more, no less.  And if I could exist in a bubble then all that would be lovely.  But I can’t, and because I can’t, I’m party to conversations that go like this: “yes we do about 15 minutes of maths every night, B can’t afford to fall behind…” (B is just six by the way), or “sorry we can’t do Wednesdays as S does ballet, swimming and violin, all back to back). I’m tired just listening to this.

So as we approach the end of term (hurrah), my resolve for September is as follows: keep on making lists – inevitable unfortunately given just how hectic life is, keep getting up super-early on work mornings just so I feel vaguely in control of the day ahead, and remember to smile at my kids just a little more often.  Because as much as death and taxes are the only certainties, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to look back on my life and wish I’d spent more time remembering tombola prizes.

And finally, I’m not going to sweat the small stuff – mini pot-belly going on?  That’s what spanx were invented for. Fact.

Playground Porn

If you don’t want your kids looking at or being shown hardcore pornography in the playground, and I’m guessing it’s not up there on your list of  how to bring up a healthy, well balanced child, there is a radical but simple solution.  I’m feeling quite smug as I’ve worked this one out all by myself.  Can you guess?  Go on, have a go.   How best to prevent children and teens downloading dodgy sites and showing the contents to all their mates?

Don’t give them a smartphone or indeed any pocket-sized device with internet access. There.  Shocking in its simplicity isn’t it?  If you think about it, the rise in the number of underage kids accessing online pornography has rocketed in the past 5 – 8 years, along with the advent of the iphone and all the other copycat androids.  Of course children have had access to computers for much longer than that, and some kids have had laptops which they use in their bedrooms, often late at night, with no parental supervision. Hmmmm.

But think about it for a minute. It’s one thing for a child to take the risk of searching for and viewing pornography on a 12 inch computer screen, within the confines of his or her home.  It’s quite hard to hide what you’re doing if a parent suddenly looms up behind you.  But on a smartphone screen, average size just 4 inches, it’s a whole different ball game.  With an iphone cupped in hand and a few heads crowding round, it becomes a very furtive activity indeed.  Easily disguisable from anyone watching from afar and quickly snapped shut and put in pocket if a hapless adult does suddenly appear alongside.

I simply don’t understand why a child or teenager would need a phone/device with internet access anyway?  Surely the purpose of giving your offspring a mobile phone is so they can contact you or be contacted in an emergency?  The world won’t stop turning if they fail to look at Facebook for a few hours.  Is it because we’re now so addicted to our mobile devices we think our children should be too? Why do they suddenly need to have 24 hour access to the whole universe at their fingertips?  Because that’s what you’re giving them as soon as you let them loose, unsupervised, on the web. 

And on the web you can find out about anything, anything at all. And what is it that kids are naturally most curious about?  Sex.  And when they search for sex related topics what pops up on the browser?  Porn.   And let me enlighten you, porn sure ain’t what it used to be.  If you’ve got some fuzzy memory of a partially clothed twenty-something woman being ‘surprised’ by a ‘plumber’ who’s come to ‘fix the pipes’ and is suddenly finding it ‘very hot in here’, think again.

The videos and images freely available to anyone who cares to conduct a rudimentary search are quite literally beyond belief in their violence (almost always towards women, natch), extremism and graphic, close up, technicolour detail.  For a young, developing brain, these images once viewed, are imprinted there forever.  Children interviewed who  have seen such material, either by accident or design, report symptoms common to PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder), described by the NHS as: “a person (who will) involuntarily and vividly relive the traumatic event in the form of  flashbacks, nightmares or repetitive and distressing images or sensations…and have feelings of isolation, irritability and guilt”. 

But hang on, your child wouldn’t, in a million years want to watch any of this, surely?  Think again.  Here are some stats.  According to an article in this week’s Sunday Times, ‘the average age of first exposure to online pornographic images is six’.  Yes that’s SIX YEARS OLD.  It goes onto say that ‘the largest child consumers of internet porn are the 12 – 17 age group’. What the heck are we exposing our children to?  Forget about non-organic produce, chemicals and pollution, this is a way more serious risk to health.

Now, before you start thinking that this blog is being written by Mary Whitehouse reincarnated (sorry, you have to be of a certain age to know what I’m referencing there!), I’m not of that ilk.  I like to think of myself as a hardened hack; a ‘been there, seen it, got the t-shirt’ journalist of nearly two decades experience who is firmly in touch with reality and certainly not pro-censorship in any way. But this is different.

When my son was just 7, he wandered away from the group of similar aged boys he was playing with at the leisure centre and whispered: “mummy, H says that if you type this into Google you can see a woman having sex with a bike.  What does that mean?” It was at that moment that I truly discovered the meaning of ‘gobsmacked’.  I recollect my jaw literally hanging open for about 5 seconds while I collected my thoughts.  I think I said something along the lines of - well that doesn’t sound very nice and that’s not something we want to see is it?  I then turned to look at H’s mum who was sitting a few seats away and wondered what the heck was the socially correct way to deal with this?

Such was my own dismay and confusion it took me about 20 minutes before I could tell her what her son had said to my son.  She was shocked too of course but said he must have heard that from another, older boy with whom he was playing earlier.  So that’s how it starts folks.

I’ve always discussed, very openly with my own kids how babies are made, what is sex, what is love, what are relationships etc etc as soon as they ask me.  I benefitted from an honest and open relationship with my own mother who imparted to me the mechanics of sex as soon as I was old enough to ask and I realize now how very fortunate I was and try to follow her excellent example.  Yes sometimes the frankness of the conversations with my two make me want to shove my fist into my mouth with cringeworthy embarrassment and I often have to file away some really funny little question or comment in my head to share with Husband later on so we can both have a good giggle.

But discussing pornography?  I never thought I’d have to address and explain that particular issue so early on, but it seems I will, we all will.  Until the internet providers wake up and realize they have a responsibility to prevent young minds being warped, sometimes irretrievably by accessing depraved sexual scenes, I’m afraid it’s up to us.  We do have the power and we can make a difference.  Supervise your kids.  If they’re young, don’t let them on the computer unless you can see exactly what they’re viewing.  If they’re older and not with you for long periods of time, don’t make it easy for them to access the internet or to receive clips sent from friends. 

Children in Syria and other war-torn countries suffer PTSD from witnessing horrific acts of violence.  Do we really, in our comfortable town in this peaceful country want our kids to suffer also?  I don’t think so.

The Grandpa Annex

 May I share something with you? It’s a little ditty that’s been occupying my headspace.  To the tune of ‘The Drunken Sailor’, altogether now:

What shall we do with the aged parent

What shall we do with the aged parent

What shall we do with the aged parent earl-ie in the morning

Hooray and off he wanders

Hooray he’s talking nonsense

Hooray I’ve kept my patience

Earl-ie in the morning

Good job!  I could almost hear the harmonies.  Regular readers of my blog will be familiar with the grand plan I put into place last summer which was to move my elderly father in.  Not in with us, strictly speaking, that way accidental patricide might lie, but into a separate annex or little flat so he’s there, but not THERE if you get my drift.

Intergenerational living is going to be the next big trend, I’m willing to bet on it.  Have you seen the cost of care homes?  I took one look (average weekly cost circa £500) and as our trans-atlantic cousins might say, did the math.  Even if the NHS picks up the tab, many care homes don’t get a very good press, in fact some of the recent horror stories documenting pensioner abuse make me wonder if the staff were trained at the Goebbels-Stalin school for care of the elderly.  But I digress, and also apologise if you have recently settled a loved one into, or are indeed currently residing in a care home.  We all have to make our own decisions.

In my situation it seemed ludicrous to have us in one smallish house, my father in another smallish house also belonging to us, 25 minutes away, as a kind of remote sitting tenant, covering the mortgage but not making us any profit. To me it made perfect sense to pool resources and hey, if you want to purchase anything sizeable in Sevenoaks it’s either that, or send your kids out to work or secure yourself a big fat bonus from the boss.  The kids weren’t keen on being sent up chimneys (the indolent creatures) so the other options had to be examined.

Sadly at my level in my industry (broadcast journalism), annual bonuses are the stuff of legend, although I did once get an extra 700 quid for risking life and limb going to the Kuwait/Iraq border with US troops just before the 2003 invasion. So that was worth it.  But in fact as far as people just giving me money, frankly I stand more chance of finding rocking-horse droppings. 

So with that in mind I hatched a plan and like any good strategist, split it into digestible chunks.  Phase 1 – make some proper money from broadcasting, writing and property development.  Phase 2 – find a house in good location in Sevenoaks with potential for us (me plus husband, son, daughter, 4 cats) and space for said annex/flat.  Phase 3 – move into house.  Phase 4 – create annex.  Phase 5 – move father into annex.  Phase 6 – renovate and sell father’s current property.  Phase 7 – use money from that property to create nice family home.  Phase 8 – oh you get the picture – Phase 126 is probably ‘live happily ever after’.

Amazingly, after a few years of hard graft, I now find myself at Phase 6 (please see above as I really can’t be bothered to go through all that again) and moving my father has been anything but straightforward.  First of all, he was a hoarder.  Not just a slight hoarder with a few piles of Reader’s Digest and old newspapers stacked here and there, oh no.  A class A, fully paid up member of Hoarders Anonymous, you know the ones who would go to weekly meetings but can’t actually find their front door behind all the stuff – boom boom.

Clearing out his house was traumatic to say the least.  He must have spent thousands of pounds over the years accumulating stuff. I’ve never seen so much tut.  For example, we’d clear out a corner of the living room and amongst all the junk, put aside 5 packs of scissors, unopened.  Then we’d open a drawer and find another 3 packs.  Then in the kitchen there would be 8 more packs stashed in various cupboards.  It was the same with fishing tackle, screwdriver sets, tool kits, packs of stationery, socks, photo frames, t-shirts, plastic colanders, boxes of tissues - the list was endless. It’s quite distressing on a personal level when you realize that a parent has been living in a kind of hemmed-in hovel for years with just narrow walkways to shuffle from room to room.  Cleaning and general hygiene had gradually slipped way down his list.

Now, I have the good fortune to be married to a very kind and practical man who recognized how upsetting I was finding the whole house clearing process, and gently took charge of the worst bits, and between us we managed to salvage the good stuff and bin the rest.  It took a week. We then did a boot fair and made enough money to make the stress almost worthwhile.  Every cloud and all that.

My dad has been here 5 weeks and has settled in nicely.  We established a few ground rules such as phoning first, thus maintaining each other’s privacy and avoiding “it’s only meeeee!” scenarios.  He invites me round for a cup of tea and to help him with paperwork.  We invite him for weekend lunch and the occasional barbeque. Last Friday he joined us for wine and tapas in the evening sunshine to celebrate Husband’s first week in his new job.  The kids love having Grandpa in the annex and like nothing better than a quick half an hour after school watching his TV and scoffing biscuits in his cosy lounge kitchenette.

So, am I counting the completion of Phase 6 as a complete success?  Hmmmm, being a natural cynic I’m taking it day by day!

ipadmummy? i'mafraidnotdarling.

Kids and computers, or games consoles, ipads, ipod touches, X-Boxes, wiis or Nintendos or any other thing you can think of which has a screen and moving images, all these devices are being likened to a kind of crack cocaine for children, such is their addictivity (is that even a word?) and appeal.

I have long been viewed as a parent with slightly fascist tendencies, not allowing my kids anything electronic apart from advert-free TV (limited to weekend mornings and occasionally after school if they've been well behaved) and very occasional supervised computer time if they have to research something for homework.  They have recently been given for their birthdays (7th and 9th) second-hand ipod nanos on which they can listen to music only; no games, no internet access.

Son started nagging for a Nintendo when he was 6.  A lot of his friends had either got them already, or were on a promise for a forthcoming birthday or Christmas.  We said no.  I almost wobbled when I found him, aged 7, with an empty mini cereal box, a piece of string and one of those little pencils you get in Argos or Ikea.  He'd made himself a 'pretendo', complete with stylus (the pencil) attached via the piece of string, sellotaped to a corner of the box.  He sat there for a while pretending to play games like he'd seen his friends do, before chucking it in the corner and running outside to kick a ball around, as kids should do. 

Husband and I laughed privately (so cute! so inventive!... la la la) and then had the inevitable discussion about whether he was somehow missing out by not having the real thing, whether we were taking the hardline for the sake of it.  I questioned friends who had succumbed bought various portable games devices for their kids.  I wanted to know how they decided what to buy, how much they'd spent and how much time on average, their offspring were allowed to use said device during a normal school week.

The answers did not much sway me.  Most had taken the plunge because of prolonged nagging and a belief that if other kids the same age had them then it must be ok. Hmmmmm.  The money spent varied from £40ish for a second-hand Nintendo and pre-owned games, to a few hundred pounds for a new mini ipad.  Double hmmmmm.  When did it become the norm to give a young child such an expensive (and breakable) toy?

Roughly half of those questioned said that they'd had to severely limit the amount of time the child spent playing on it, using it as a reward for good behaviour and setting a timer to signal when to stop. The other half confirmed that the child 'hardly went on it anyway' after the initial excitement.  Which lead me to wonder what was the point of buying the damn thing anyway?

On the rare occasions that we eat out as a family, it's now commonplace to see other groups, adults talking, the various children, heads down, concentrating fully on a small screen in front of them.  Yes I can see that it makes for a much more peaceful gathering - don't get me wrong - Husband and I often exchange weary glances over yet another mealtime ruined by childish bickering, brattish tantrums and questions of the extremely silly variety (and that's just us - boom boom!) and wonder why on earth we bother.

But we do bother, and continue to bother, believing strongly that children should be aware of and fully engaged with their surroundings and need to learn how to exhibit good manners (table or otherwise) and contribute to interesting conversations.  As soon as you stick a screen infront of their young, impressionable faces, they cease to do either.  Recently in China, brain scans were carried out on adolescents diagnosed with internet addiction, an increasingly common condition.  The scans showed that the white matter of the brain - the part that contains nerve fibres - was significantly altered as a result of prolonged exposure to electronic screens. Described as "groundbreaking", this research revealed worrying evidence that nerve fibres used for emotions, decision making and self-control were damaged by too much screen time.  Nobody yet knows how much of this damage is reversible.

Two summers ago we drove to Spain, camping on the way.  We were offered by kind and thoughtful friends the loan of: a portable DVD, a laptop (on which to play games) and a Nintendo. We declined all, opting instead to buy the kids a selection of doodle books, reading books, magnetic puzzles, CDs and crucially a photocopied map so they could track our progress.  All in all I'm glad we did.  Yes the journey had its 'moments'.  Yes there were times when I contemplated the benefits of opening the door and throwing myself from a fast moving vehicle to get away from the flipping whining emanating from the back seat. But they were small moments and they passed and we all look back on that holiday as being quite magical.

I feel a need to qualify my ranting: neither Husband nor I are 'anti' technology - we don't live in some sort of self-imposed exile, shunning all attempts at modernisation and communication.  Far from it; I spend most of my working life in one of the most technologically advanced media hubs in the world, regularly and enthusiastically grappling with new and advanced kit.  Husband knows his way around a hard drive (matron!) and we both own whizzy smart phones.  But we are adults and we use our technology as tools to do our jobs.  Our brains are fully formed by virtue of having spent our formative years enjoying a combination of playing outside, playing real sport - not waving a wand at a wii, getting muddy, reading books, climbing trees, making dens, doing jigsaws, watching rubbish 1970s TV and most importantly having time to be well and truly bored. I want all that for my kids too.

Be careful what you wish for

Regular readers of my blog will have noticed a certain bored, twiddling of thumbs going on of late.  People who have the misfortune to actually speak to me on a daily basis (yes that's you, school mums) will have observed first hand just how listless and moany I become when I've only got one or two things going on in my life.

When I have fifty things that need to be done I seem to be in my element, dashing about here and there, planning, doing, laughing about how mad life is.  For a while.  Until the novelty of being super-busy wears off and I get a little tired and start wishing for life to quieten down again.  Contrary?  Moi?  How very dare you.

Anyway, the other night I was on my way to Taekwon-Do, all togged up in my gear when suddenly my phone rang.  It was the BBC newsdesk asking, ever so nicely, if I could possibly get myself over to Gatwick airport - ASAP - as some of the gas-plant hostages had been released from Algeria and were apparently on-board a secret flight back to the UK. 

My heart did a little leap and I got that surge of adrenaline that used to be my drug of choice in the old days when this type of call was the norm.  At this point I could have massively flattered myself by thinking they'd called me because of my specialisms in defence and terrorism and they knew what brilliant and incisive questions I'd be able to ask the wretched hostages about their ordeal, putting the whole thing into a global context whilst expanding on the concept of AQIM (Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb).  But really I knew that they'd called me because basically there was no-one else and I happen to live about 25 minutes drive from Gatwick.  Keep it real.

I hesitated for a nano-second: I was meant to be meeting some girlfriends for a hot-chocolate and a gossip straight after training and it was bloody cold out that night!  But Reader, how could I refuse a small taster of my old LBK (life before kids)?  So I found myself about 30 minutes later, my 'TV face' on, dressed in 3 layers of thermals, driving to Gatwick all ready for an action-packed night.

Of course it never quite pans out how you think it will.  The camera-man and I spent at least 20 minutes driving madly round the Gatwick internal ring-road in a Benny Hill-like sequence trying to evade the cops who'd clocked us acting suspiciously in an effort to locate our satellite truck.  They eventually got fed up with tailing us and simply blocked our path with one of their 4x4s, just as I'd spotted the damned satellite truck up ahead.

Needless to say the hostages never arrived, it must have been duff intelligence.  We spent most of the night sitting in the Arrivals hall (as if the hostages were going to walk through like tourists and present themselves for interview!) along with Sky, Fox, NBC, ITN etc watching a board that never changed, waiting for the plane that never came. 

I managed to persuade the newsdesk to send someone over to replace me at about 5am as I suddenly realised that in my haste to get out of the door I'd completely forgotten to check with Husband what train he had to be on in the morning or whether or not he could do the school run.  Oooops.  Kids.  I have some.  Responsibilities.  I have lots.  Sigh... it can never be truly like the old days....