Euro tunnel fires, Bio diesel and killer seaweed – why do I always think the worst?

Why is it that I always think the worst? My Boys go with their Dad to visit Granny in Yorkshire and until I know they are there safe I worry. For three hours I worry, I can feel my grief welling up at the thought of losing them all in some freak accident on the A1 involving a high sided Eddie Stobart artic called Dolly Mae or Sally Anne.
I feel the emptiness and I wander their rooms touching their clothes, straightening their beds and putting their toys away.
I can’t settle at all, the TV can’t distract me and I daren’t leave the house in case I get the call from the police or they come round for a visit. I watch the clock incessantly. I have a bath, I read, I restart my elliptical manoeuvres round the house.
I pounce on every telephone call, curt and almost rude with those who ring for a chat too close to the time when I know they should be arriving. Then of course I miss the all important one, I’m outside putting he chickens to bed and it takes me half an hour to check the ansaphone and it’s fine they got there and then, well then I can go to sleep can’t I without a care in the world, until it’s time for them to return.
Now my mind is working overtime about our trip to France. Firstly a kindly dear overhearing me chatting about my trip as I cancel the newspapers in the Village Shop says that wasn’t there a fire in the Channel Tunnel recently and how she couldn’t bear to be trapped underneath all the water. I laugh, albeit a bit nervously, but on the walk back home I start to hyperventilate at the thought of thousands of tons of seawater rushing to swamp me and mine and all the people running screaming along the train but to no avail – strangely the vision looks very similar to that scene in the Dennis Quaid film The Day After Tomorrow when New York gets drowned.
Then my in-laws call to warn me to remember NOT to put bio diesel in my car or was it Gazoil and how will I know which is which? I have visions of my beautiful new car dying and the moment juste on the Autoroute and being flattened by a giant German Juggernaught because of a mistake made by me on the forecourt.
Finally just as I am getting to grips with the inevitability of the vacation, my Mother rings to tell me all about killer seaweed.
Apparently and this is true, tons of sea lettuce is washed up on the shores of the Cotes D’Armor in Brittany and it then rots giving off a bad egg smell. But the killer thing about it is that the sea washes over it leaving the seaweed covered in a layer of sand that then dries forming a crust and it is when the seaweed is rotting and the crust breaks from the pressure of animals and even people walking across it that hydrogen sulphide escapes totally over powering you and making you unconscious and even making you fall in a coma. Obviously the closer to the ground you are the more quickly you will be overcome. Several dogs have died and the Prime Minister of France has even stepped in saying that something must be done.
I can tell you after looking this up on the web, as I did not believe my Mum, my brain has been in overtime. I think I can probably keep my children safe by basically never letting them get more than three feet from me but what of Dear Charlie? The man is on a health kick and insists on going off running. How am I going to be able to protect him – I really, really do not want to be off running with him at 5.30am every other morning and besides who will prevent the children from chocking on their cereal or falling off their bunk beds?

Silver Dream Machine

I am now hooked on getting the most miles per gallon out of my car. I’d like to think this will make me a better driver, safer, more considerate and a better bet for my insurer. But I don’t think so.

Nope. There is a tiny, iddy biddy bit of a glitch about all this, although it will help me save money on fuel and of course make me feel all warm and green woolly as I can do my bit for the environment - even if I am driving a turbo charged diesel around the country lanes – what they have done is kinda distracting.

It’s all VW’s fault, honest! They’ve got this computer thingy in my new Volkswagen Bluemotion Golf Estate that tells me how efficiently I am driving. Of course, the better I do that, the better my miles per gallon is and it tells me in real time too - there on the screen, in front of me; all in bright, angry glowing red so I can see it even in the dark.

It also has a clever arrow icon that comes on telling you when to change gear but I think it’s a bit slow on the uptake and I am already a little ahead of it. I tried to follow it on the drive home from the showroom earlier today, moving through the gears as, and when, it suggested. It got a bit exciting on the very steep left hand corner at the top of the hill where there is a reverse camber in the road and it told me to change up to fourth. I sloshed round the bend mightily fast with the big back end doing a cracking imitation of J-Lo shaking her derriere.

Good thing was I also got to test the ABS braking system at the same time, as I narrowly avoided ploughing into a tractor carting corn off the field next to the road. The farmer was pretty impressed too as he stopped to wave at me as I darted past – a flash of silver, a swirl of dust and all at 54mpg.

I don’t think that the short four-mile run from Barnards to home has helped me to get accustomed to the sheer size of the new car and I think I was a tad previous when I overtook the Tesco courtesy bus - but there again things are supposed to look larger in your rear view mirror are they not?

I was sad to say goodbye to the VW Polo but to be honest it was a bit of a mistake to buy it in the first place. The BIG idea last year was to exchange my beautiful but defunct Land Rover Discovery for a car for everyday rather than every eventuality. However, we went too far on the scaling down side and it became a bit of a problem deciding whether to bring home the weekly shop and the children at the same time. Eventuality I solved the problem by getting a lovely aerodynamic Thule Roof box and the shopping, rather than the children, came home in that – but it was usually a close run thing. Space was a premium in the Polo and with two booster chairs in the back there wasn’t much between, which usually led to much Argy Bargy, screams and whining and me blowing my top and vowing to attach the boys to the Thule just for the sake of some peace! Needless to say this was one threat my boys practically begged me to carry out. But, as I have said to them in the past, the purpose of a parent is to continually disappoint its offspring.

Another problem that came with the Polo was that I could not for the sake of love nor money get Bog Boy my youngest’s Mclaren buggy in the back without twisting the chassis and/or scratching the rear window – suffice to say Bog Boy learned to walk distances a tad earlier than his brother.

But these were minor day-to-day problems and easily outweighed by the fact that the savings on running costs compared to the Land Rover were in the region of £150 per month on fuel alone. Then there was the fact that being a much smaller, closer to the ground sort of vehicle, the school run was done considerably faster and dare I say it more safely, with less queasiness than previously.

The decision to get a slightly more spacious vehicle came about after the annual camping trip to Wales. This was when my husband, Dear Charlie, became personally aware the problems of trying to accommodate four dogs, two children, one Kyham six berth tent, four sleeping bags, four wet suits, two boogie boards, two double lilos, four pillows, buckets, spades, teddies and food for a small army - as he hates to shop when we are down there - all into a vehicle with a somewhat limited cubic capacity.

We still managed to get down there and back, not once but twice just to make sure. But the second time down we took the sports car too tossing a coin for who would drive the Mazda MX5 and have the relative luxury of only having to cope with one vomiting whippet plus sundry goods.

So, as with all decisions in our nuclear family, once made plans have to be put into action as swiftly as possible. It is with many thanks to the long-suffering folks at Barnards in Stowmarket, in particular David Webster, that within the space of three weeks the exchange was made.

Getting the score (or why it pays to play sport at prep school)

There are many unwritten rules at school and not just for the children. I have just come back from the secretary’s office fuming at the injustice of it all. Thinking myself well organised and ahead of the game for once, I popped in to return the Holiday Sports Club form.

“I’m sorry your too late – there’s no more room.”

“What do you mean too late? The form said get your reply back by Monday -it’s Thursday afternoon and you only sent them out yesterday!”

I am given a pitying look and before I can say anything more in my defence she answers the telephone and I realise I am being summarily dismissed.

I flounce out of the office and although I would dearly love to slam the door I am prevented by the mechanism at the top - mentally I berate Health & Safety.

Normally I would not be worried by this setback. So what if my son can’t play cricket and football during the holidays but it matters - trust me

The car park at picking up time at the end of term had been alive with rumours about the latest 11-year old sporting prodigy at the school. He was spotted at a Cricket match by one of the leading private schools’ sports masters, who was acting as umpire, and there and then the boy was offered a bursary. As the child was already accepted at another school the father approached the aforesaid school to say sorry that the child would not be accepting the place as he had been offered a golden opportunity elsewhere. Short story long the school he was meant to go to offered the boy a Sports Scholarship on the spot without even seeing him play only for the other to offer a full Scholarship. It was, as they say, too good an offer to pass up – what a position to be in especially in the light of the Recession.

How I had laughed at the increasing number of mothers dolled to the nines who had come to watch their little darlings at After School Sports Club. I thought it was because everyone had heard that the new sports master Mr French was rather dishy and more excitingly, recently divorced. Now I realise that it was for far more sinister motives -to secure little Johnny a place on the Holiday Club list.

Those lucky enough to get into the Holiday Club will get the notice of Mr French, which will stand them in good stead for the rest of the year, and those with sporting prowess no doubt will be fast tracked. For sport at school is not just about keeping fit and working as a team it is about the kudos the top teams bring to the school and about the rewards that those individuals can earn – those unwritten rules of life.

The more I learn about the system the more I realise that it is a far cry from the civilised and polite environment I had always thought I was paying for. Getting ahead here is not about money, it’s about being cut throat, determined, even underhand. It was quite obvious that the word had got out and there had been a run on places even before the rest of us were officially told.

Luckily I have been given an even better tip off. I have found out that if I want my son to get the best sports teachers in the school he will have to secure a place in the Under Nines’ A or B teams by the time he’s eight otherwise he’ll be taught by the Gap year student and have even less of a chance to succeed.

So I have grabbed the yellow pages and frantically called up all the Cricket, Rugby and Football clubs in the area expecting them to laugh at my pretension but lo! they even have Under Six training sessions and my boy is signed up for the next three years. If you can’t join ‘em - beat ‘em…

The Last Great Show On Earth (or reasons why it is the last Royal Show ever)

Well in a few minutes I'll be on the road heading for the last Royal Show ever - bit of an historical moment I suppose, a bit sad. Maybe it's been on the cards for years. Farming is a sideline and no longer as important as it once was - but should we really have given up on the Royal? Should we really give up and give in at a time when our rural and urban societies are still so divided? Surely shows such as this are important to bring these two disparate tribes together. And where better than at The Royal, which brings together all the best from the whole country?
I don't know.
I haven't been to The Royal in 20 years - the last time I had just finished at Seale Hayne Agricultural College and got wildly drunk and landed up asking anyone who was anyone to: "Gi'e us a job".
I got taken on by Farming News but to this day believe it was really all down to the fact I was wearing a very tight white T-shirt and my more obvious attributes sealed the deal rather than my scholarly mien.
I wonder how it has changed....the Show, folks not my attributes: they remain the same (or at least that is what Dear Charlie says!)
Some time later - actually the next day...
I can understand why it's the last one. Not because it is not a great day out, it was and anyone who is within an hour or so do go because you will be so welcomed and it will be such fun.
I spoke to loads of people there from livestock folk, trade stands and retailers, from the guys picking up the litter to the punters walking around - there are lots of reasons why they think it's the last one but probably the most telling thing I saw was the Flower Tent.
Twenty years ago you had to pay extra to go in and when you did it was like walking into a sultry Eden, heavy with the perfume thousands of exotic blooms. At every turn there were simply stunning flower creations, sculptures and concoctions in every hue imaginable and plenty that defied description. I used to be so jealous of all that talent as however much I try I just cannot make flowers do anything but die in a vase.
Now when I walked in it felt half empty, lack lustre and the grass underfoot had not even been mown. It was full of weeds ready to trip you up. At one end there was a table where a florist was preparing to demonstrate the art of flower arranging to a few desultory show goers.
There were some lovely displays but no care had been taken in their placing, there was no drama, no anticipation and to be frank one felt that well - they had given up. Perhaps this really was Eden but after Eve had eaten of the apple.
Down the cattle lines and in among the pigs and sheep there was a much livelier atmosphere but also a kind of desperation; I felt that everyone was looking for that last rosette confirmation that they had been there, when something great had died.
Somewhere along the line something went badly wrong at The Royal Show for I can tell you other shows I attend are jumpin' The Royal Welsh, The Suffolk and The Great Yorkshire Show seem, at least to me the mere punter, to be packed out and thriving.
Yesterday I asked what had heralded The Royal's demise and these were tha answers I got:
Too much emphasis on the corporates
So busy chasing down sponsorship that the fundamentals were forgotten
Letting a management company in who alienated the smaller trade folk
Lack of care for the details
Cutting corners on hospitality
In essence failing to care for the members, their wants and needs and letting greed get in the way. But there again haven't we all been doing that?



PS. If you are still waiting for my report have a look at The Best of British Mummy Blogger Carnival over at http://britsinbosnia.blogspot.com/

Are you a Saint Mummy? ( or Why I will never be canonised…)

“Are you a Saint Mummy?”
As much as I would have liked to say: Yes! I had to admit that no, I was not and probably never would be.
I always feel the discussions I have with The Boy on the school run must be a bit like travelling through Helmand Province; you have to tread warily as you are never quite sure where the next bombshell will land or indeed if you will get away with none going off at all. While that may keep you on your toes, it is quite exhausting and I will admit I am very relieved when I am back in the relative safety of camp and can escape the more generally lobbed questions round the dinner table leaving it to someone else to take the full brunt.
But it got me thinking. Are there any Saints who were also parents? I asked Google - No results found was the reply. Looking on it logically I shouldn’t have been surprised but I am not one to give up so easily. So I decided to check out if there was a Patron Saint for parents and lo and behold St Rita of Cascia came up in 0.43 seconds. But what I found rather disconcerting was that St Rita is better known as the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes.
With that happy though to sustain me I pottered downstairs to re-enter the fray that is my daily life. In the few minutes of my absence a situation had occurred between my offspring that required my immediate mediation.
Bog Boy, my youngest and most determined, had taken over the hammock under the tree and was not allowing his elder brother to join him. I was requested to reason with him. Bog Boy is just three. No one reasons with a three year old, especially one that has such a rigid view on the right and wrongs of fair play. He also knows that he has a strong hand to play being: A, the smallest, B - the youngest and C – the most blue eyed and blonde headed of my two children.
Assessing the situation as I clear the garden of Dog doings, I start off softly.
Me: Be kind boys, both of you can play in the Hammock
BB: No
Bog Boy responds without hesitation from the shroud he has made within the Hammock.
Me: Go on Bog Boy let your brother in
BB: No
Me: Let your brother in Bog Boy
BB: No
Me: Bog Boy share!
BB: No
OK a straightforward tack isn’t going to work and I see that Bog Boy is getting entrenched. Bribery!
Me: Do you want to have any treats Bog Boy?
BB: No
Well that was quicker than most days, usually we manage to have a discussion about what treats are on offer before he makes up his mind whether to give in or not. Today it is definitely a “Not” day. Revert to Plan A: straight forward ask.
Me: Bog Boy let you brother in the Hammock.
BB: No
Me: Let your brother in Bog Boy
Getting a tad more exasperated as I miss scoop a Doing and nearly tread in it.
BB: No
Me: I’m warning you …
Bog Boy raises his head from the depths of the Hammock and peers at me as if to say ‘And…’
He looks at what I am carrying and well a thought suddenly crosses my mind and it is far from saint like.
Me: Bog Boy if you do not share the hammock with your brother I am going to dump all these Doings on you.
I leave my children playing happily in the hammock under the tree together a picture of filial bliss.

Going Topless...

There is something wonderful about going topless; it’s exhilarating and, well just liberating.
Dear Charlie says I don’t do it often enough and complains that I am not exactly spontaneous. In my defence I have been known to do it abroad while on holiday, in fact I went topless on a train all the way across France on our honeymoon.
Yesterday I went topless on the school run and had to endure looks of approbation from all the other Mummies who either couldn’t or wouldn’t do the same.
I blame the credit crunch and the eco-stasi.
Mostly the eco-stasi.
The eco-stasi would put the kybosh on most things really but I suppose the thing that drives them nuts is when people flaunt it.
Yesterday I flaunted for all I was worth and I felt great. I had a smile on my face so large the sun probably had to put shades on.
It was absolutely fabulous!
I do love driving sports cars. I especially like driving my own without the top on. I know it’s not the thing to do, that I really should be trying to save the planet and not drive a thirsty little fuzz bomb around the lanes of Suffolk scaring all the locals but I really really needed to blow off a little yesterday and well it seemed so harmless.
It’s not the fastest sports car in the world and for sports car aficionados it probably doesn’t rate at all but for me it’s a taste of all the things I once was or thought I was before children, before commitment, before mortgages and well before I knew the planet really could be saved by regulating how I drive and remembering not to put black plastic bin liners in the recycle bin.
Babe, as she is affectionately known, is an 11-year old Mazda MX5 – the first of the non-pop up headlight versions and she is so sleek. I love her lines. She is a work of art to me and if it wasn’t for her Dear Charlie and I would never have got together in the first place – seriously!
Way back then DC had a problem he couldn’t get a girlfriend and he wouldn’t go out with me in case he ruined our friendship despite the fact that that was all that I had longed for, for years. But hey there are none so blind who cannot see.
So that summer Operation Girlfriend was launched. DC underwent a makeover, went to cordon bleu school to meet girls and bought a car. Having looked at Mercedes, BMW, MG and the like, he finally settled on the new Mazda MX5 ‘cos he could fit his golf bag in the boot.
The car was to act as a lure to attract attention, preferably from girls, and in preparation we decided a road trip would be a good idea. So Dear Charlie and I hopped in the Mazda and drove through France down to the Pyrenees and fell in love – finally!
So when I drive the Babe magnet, I cannot help remembering what she means to me and now 10 years of marriage later it reminds me how thrilling it all was to be free and topless of course!

Memoirs of a Marathon - How could I have done it without you?

To the Cheshire girls in all their fake tanned glory
With streaked blond hair and make up awry
With “Daddy’s booked us supper at the Ivy!”
And champagne on ice you really should try me
To the men who ignored it and the boys who couldn’t help it
And the clitter and the clatter
Of the train full of chatter
As it rattled its way further and farther
Silence loomed and so died the laughter
To the back streets round Greenwich full of hope and ambition
Of the boasting and preening
Of the Vaseline and sun screening
For the shade of sweet Spanish Chestnut on the uphill walk
The hum of humanity and chastened talk

To the Conductors, the Guards, the Marshals and Scouts
For the banter and the cheers putting fear to rout
Of the queues for the loo and all that endless waiting
Last minute stretches and anticipating
For the news on the tannoy of the official start
Then the waiting again ‘til its time to depart
Slapped in Pen 9 right at the back
“Move over Darling, cut us some slack!”
Squashed by a donkey, squeezed by a pear
Isn’t that Superman just over there?
Scuffling, shuffling, retying laces
Hoping to find some more familiar faces
Then the realisation that the crowd is thinning
There’s the start line and our marathon is beginning.

To the boys and the men and the girls in the bushes
Giggles and laughter cannot spare your blushes
Caught short at the start I couldn’t help grinning
An army of backsides saluting the beginning
Past the chapels and churches
And kids on their perches
A sprinkling Holy Water to make you run quicker
Blessings from the Fathers, the Rector and Vicar
Past trumpeters and cheerleaders
And transvestite speeders
Clapping and calling
Hallooing and caterwauling
On up past the Barracks and down the far side
Feeling quite good now and into my stride

To the Rhino, The Nurse and good old Tobermory
Paddington, Rupert in all their fine glory
Panting and puffing and pushing on through
Each plodding resolutely one of the few
High fives and low fives
Things to make us re-vive
Madness, Survivor and Don’t Stop Me Now
I start to sweat and to mop my brow
Past pubs and clubs and backyard parties
Handed out sweeties and half melted smarties
Over pingers and bleepers
Are we speeders or creepers?
Now under dark bridges with fantastical drummers
The sky, now so blue, like the height of full summer

To the ones who ran in the memory of others
Of the brothers and sisters, of fathers and mothers
“Running for Emily” “Running for Dad”
“I’ll never forget you – I’ll make you glad”
The amputee soldiers ran nevertheless
The roar of the crowd was unceasing ceaseless
Willing them, urging them, forcing them on,
Their rights to be a hero, a conclusion forgone
Running for the animals, running for the kids,
Running for the blind and those on the skids
Water Aid, Arc, Epilepsy Action too
Age Concern, Scope and Dreams come true
To celebrities and showmen, to Pete and to Jordan
For keeping your cool: “Respect for you. Yo Man!”

To the ones who sprayed water on a baking hot day
Our bodies sang relief what more can I say?
The sun was relentless beat down on our heads
Our legs felt like iron and our feet like lead
Pain now set in and joints they were creaking
Our throats so dry we didn’t feel like speaking
Over Tower Bridge now we come face to face
With those who are running a much faster race
Our thoughts they turn blacker we’re only half way
So what does it matter if we walk part o’ the way?
Walking or slogging
And limp start jogging
Now we face demons of all our own making
To run or to stop: it’s our choice for the taking.

To the girl in the pink dress who called out my name
How much you did help me to rekindle the flame
Exhausted in body I could hardly reply
I gave you a thumbs up as I struggled on by
I started to dig deep down deeper than ever
To find in myself a reason whatever
Though tired and lonely and aching and more
I picked myself up from down on the floor
Now my legs started pumping
And my heart it was thumping
From a walk to a jog
To a constant hard slog
Each yard it got better and better and better
The girl in the pink dress: I’ll never forget her.

To the drink station volunteers and gallant first aiders
The homeowners, the publicans and East End traders
To the woman who offered the cheese and ham sarnies
You pitied us all and thought us all barmy
You chattered and nattered and cheered us along
“Keep going there luv the end’s now not long!”
To the singers and bands, the DJs and jocks
For Up Town Girls, Sex Bomb and heavy metal rock
How you kept us all going
Even when we were slowing
Chanting and clapping
Singing and rapping
Calling our names shouting for more
The roar of the crowd is hard to ignore

To the last half mile of this very long run
It’s been quite exhausting and well…really great fun!
Now there here just ahead of us rises Big Ben
Towering over the multitudes and the policemen
Cordoned and guarded we’re funnelled on through
Tamils on the left of us calling for their due
Tourists on the right of us cheering us on
“Move your self girl - get a move on!”
A runner on one knee
Calls will you marry me
The woman in the yellow dress
We all hope she said yes!
Now up past the Palace in glorious sunshine
And there just ahead of us is the finish line.

To my sponsors and their generosity
Because they know me or out of curiosity
It was done in just five hours and thirty-six
No cheating I promise and no tricks
Each step, each yard, each mile
I will remember all and smile
Now to the best bit of the day
To Caroline what can I say?
A bath was drawn, champagne was served
It was far more than I deserved
And so to family
And so to friends
I’ll thank you now as I thanked you then
I’ll thank you all again and again and again.

The Wonderful World of Disney…

It has come to my notice that my boys are brand aware. I know, it is not something I should boast about nor is the fact that at a recent Birthday Party when the entertainer was doing guess the TV show tunes my eldest knew the lot within a heartbeat of each starting.
As The Boy got faster and faster at guessing, the party got quieter and quieter and all the other parents started to look around for the bad Mom in their midst. I admit I tried to disown him and pretend he wasn’t mine but when your eldest is doing so well and winning for once in his short life the battle between your chagrin at the fact that now the secret of your parenting technique is well and truly out and your pride and natural competitiveness in the fact that your son is winning, is short.
With everyone now glaring at me and condemning me for my obvious lack of parental control I held up my hand and admitted that yes my modus operandi on the Mummy front was to plonk him in front of the telly at every given opportunity. I will never forget the picture of my beaming son as he clutched his green balloon poodle – his prize for being the best. As for the looks I got from the other parents – I just put that down to envy. Not everyone’s child can be as gifted on the musical front as mine. Lionel Blair eat your heart out he’ll name that tune in one!
Now Bog Boy, my youngest, has also shown a marked proclivity to be able to do a similar trick, in that he is able to name the myriad of film and TV production companies based on the fleeting images at the beginning of the programmes and films he watches and with a disconcerting adroitness either sits down and gets comfy or dismisses the entire programme based on his experience of the production company in question.
So it was with great trepidation that I slid in a new DVD on a wet Sunday morning that had been sent for our family’s delectation as members of Think Parents.
I should not have worried for as soon as the credits came up and the familiar overuture started both boys cried out in unison: “Disney!”
For the next hour and a bit they were entranced by Adam Sandler as the story telling hero of Bedtime Stories while both parents blearily tried to keep up with the tale sipping strong coffee to ward off the effects of the night before and trying not to snort with laughter at the more adult digs and even the more puerile ones involving snot monsters.
And it got me thinking should I be concerned about my boys and the fact that they seem to watch way too much TV etc? Surely its not normal for them to be able to rattle off TV show tunes and production companies with such apparent ease I mean they are only six and three!
Then I thought about my own upbringing. I remembered all too clearly the excitement of watching The Wonderful World of Disney and of how I would be transfixed by the fairytale castle in the opening credits and shouting at my parents to come quick as it was starting. In those days it wasn’t cartoons or films on the show but natural history about the animals: the Grizzly bears and their cubs. I would be lost for the hour the show ran and even today some 35 years later whenever I hear the music a sort of warm comfy feeling washes over me.
And yes on Sunday morning we all of us tried to guess the movie from the clips at the beginning of the DVD. I’d like to say I won but I think I was pipped to the post by the Boys. And do I worry about it? Do I feel I have to apologise? To be honest not really. I like to think that when my boys watch TV/DVDs etc they are discerning and go for quality not quantity – it’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it!

The day before tomorrow...

Tomorrow I run 26.2 miles in the Flora London Marathon in aid of Epilepsy Action and I am scared. I am scared that I won't find the start. It all seems so horribly complicated and I am bound to be late. I am meant to meet up with some fellow Epilepsy Action runners by the Trucks at 9am but have a funny feeling there will be an awful lot of trucks and an awful lot of people. Hopefully in my gorgeous Epilepsy Action running vest, which is ever so slightly too tight for me and therefore strains over what I used to think as my not too full bosoms, I shouldn't be too hard to spot. I am also wearing The Boy's bright red baseball cap which sports the Red Dragon of Wales on it. I am sure I will look quite delightful. That is when I am not dashing off to the loo every five minutes.
Talking of loos I was given some instructions as to how to go to the loo when I registered. As a girl I have been advised to do this standing up using a Pee-Mate. The instructions are slightly awkward as they presume of course that all us girls will be wearing running pants/shorts etc with a zipper. I am sure we will all adapt but the idea that this will make it easier and the queues less long I fear will come to nothing. I also worry that I may land up running with a damp patch - joy!
I have done everything I can now to be fit enough and prepared so the rest they say is in the lap of the Gods - I do so hope they feel beneveloent!
Wish me luck!

Could do better…

Can anything be crazier than giving an eight page report on a child who has yet to attain his sixth birthday? I mean what can you say? There aren’t that many subjects he’s taking and the majority of those are all taught by the same teacher.
However, I can tell you that those in charge seem to think there is plenty to say - the problem is I don’t understand any of it. I mean for heaven sakes what is a diagraph? And would you recognise it on a dark night?
I have a feeling that the reading of school reports is an Ancient and Dark Art for surely the writing of them seems to more akin to the readings taken by the haruspex in Ancient Rome – and just as messy.
I picture the teachers faced with a plethora of blank pages upon which they must chart the progress or lack thereof of a six year old’s mathematical development. I too might resort to the auspices for inspiration or at least something so chronically complicated in written form that scares the parent into submission or if not that, then utter confusion.
I mean I was thrilled to learn that the whole class covered addition with and without the use of concrete materials and that they continued to look at addition and subtraction operations – though why they needed to go to a building site to learn to add-up and take-away is still quite beyond me.
Suffice to say after several hours trying to decipher the meaning behind the extremely long sounding and technical words, I am far too frightened of showing my ignorance to my son’s form teacher to complain – a factor I am sure the school is relying upon.
It seems to me that the School regards reports as a necessary evil - a bit like the parents.
However, there is a growing attitude, I fear in these uncertain times, that in addition to baffling parents with teacherspeak it is better to keep the parents happy and quiet by bunging in as much Uriah Heep-like praise as would fill a Dickensian Novel. Basically a dumbing down of school reports with lots of fluffy praise, which in fact means nothing at all once you’ve worked out what it is they were trying to say in the first place.
There is a bit in me that misses that old school mentality of calling a spade a spade and doing it in plain English I mean if my son had the final report that a friend of mine’s had on leaving a highly regarded public school in the north – I would rest easy in the knowledge that he was surely on the road to greatness.
'X is to be congratulated on having navigated his entire school career totally unencumbered by academic achievement'
However, I suspect, that in this day and age it was lawyers at dawn!