musingsponderingsandrants

Parenting, profundities and humour

Month: June 2016

Cycle Rage — June 29, 2016

Cycle Rage

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It is time for a rant…. I haven’t had one for a while. Not a proper, judgey, one sided rant. So brace yourselves.

A couple of months ago a new road opened near us. That is it up there. The road had been a long time in the coming. When we moved here in 2002 it was in the planning stages. Various issues to do with, I think, funding and compulsory purchase orders had got in the way.

Anyhow after a protracted building phase, involving both existing roundabouts at either end being compromised for eons, it was officially opened in April.

Personal friends may remember the photos of my husband and offspring running its length and myself walking it prior to it being opened to traffic.

Once I had got over the disappointment of it being single lane only and the fact that on its circa two mile stretch there are four roundabouts (do we have Milton Keynes envy? No just many houses to build to cope with the outpouring from London) the thing I was most impressed with was the wide and smooth cycle and pedestrian way running along side it.

To start with his road revolutionised our school run. Until temporary traffic lights appeared on one of the only other two routes to allow for the entrance to yet another housing estate to be built. I use the word ‘temporary’ here very loosely. The traffic control is there for about three months. Sigh.

Still the road has helped. Off peak I can now do the school run in 7 minutes. I know, I have timed it. Partly because I fell asleep in front of an episode of Prison Break after a particularly heavy day of cleaning and was almost late to pick up.

I didn’t drive down it at night for a few weeks but when I did, wow, was I impressed. That cycle way, which at times is on a higher level than the road, is lit up with blue LED lights. It looks like a runway. In extremis I am sure light aircraft could land on it.

This got me thinking that there is now only one small piece of our route from home to school that doesn’t involve a cycle way. It is a particularly tricky part of the route involving a major junction and a Roman bridge which is too narrow to comfortably take two cars side by side. But still mostly nice, safe, even cycle route.

I have plans. To dump the school run. Obviously not on cello days. And probably violin days. Which basically means only Mondays and Wednesdays, but still in time it might alleviate my driving schedule. Assuming I can get my head round the Roman bridge.

There are going to be a lot of houses built by the side of this new bypass. I think around 1500. And so I am pleased with the council’s foresight in providing a route out of their estates that can be achieved safely on foot or cycle.

They have even installed an underpass at the roundabout nearest to my village so that not one cyclist needs to negotiate its perils. At the other roundabout it links well to existing cycleways with islands.

Sorry it is taking me quite a long time to get to my rant. So far this isn’t very ranty. Here we go then.

I drive down this bypass a bare minimum of twice a day. More often than not it is six times. And already I have lost count of the number of cyclists cycling on the road rather than the cycleway. In both directions.

I completely fail to understand this. The road has a fifty mile per hour speed limit. Even on the down hill sections no cyclist without the aid of steroids is going to hit that speed. That means I have to overtake. On a single lane road. Or sit doing 20 mph, gently seething.

This morning there was a middle aged man in Sky branded Lycra gear cycling in the same direction as me down the road. Completely ignoring the deserted, purpose built cycle way immediately to his right. Which has about 50 signs proclaiming it as such along its length.

Moreover as lorries hurtled past him he was relying on a woolly beanie hat to protect his head in the not unlikely-and certainly more likely with him on the actual road- event of him being knocked off his bike.

I just don’t get it. I have asked my husband, who himself is a middle aged Lycra clad cyclist every Sunday, why. He has tried to explain that serious cyclists don’t like using cycle paths. Because they are generally uneven and possibly go up and down for drop kerbs for people’s drives and contain cyclists who are going too slowly, to their Lycra clad minds, getting in their way.

I feel so sorry for them. Having to negotiate the odd cyclist who has the temerity to go slower than them. Not. They think this gives them the right to make all the cars using the purpose built powered vehicle road, for which we pay tax, negotiate a slow cyclist.

And even if I accept the fact that all that up and downing over dropped kerbs is too hard on their poor bottoms THIS IS NOT THE CASE ON OUR NEW CYCLE WAY. It is so smooth teams of roller skaters use it for practice. There are no drop kerbs. No pot holes. Practically no other users.

I got quite ranty in the car. Once we approached the roundabout queue at the end of the road I was trying to get in the left hand lane. Cars were queued. I squeezed to the left side of those queueing to go right. I was stuck there for a bit. Queueing.

Non helmeted Lycra man caught me up. And then got arsey because I was in his way. There was some gesticulating. I only just stifled the urge to open my window and point out the proximity of the cycle way. Which incidentally had no queue. And would have led him safely in the direction he wished to go (right) without him having to negotiate the roundabout at all.

Prat. I hope he gets nipple chafing.

 

Living in a Bubble? — June 26, 2016

Living in a Bubble?

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So just a day after I wrote my last post Should We Stay or Should We Go the almost unthinkable happened.

The Great Britsh public voted to go.

My husband told me the news at 5am on Friday morning. To begin with I clung onto those last thirty odd areas yet to declare hoping against hope that the result would change. Of course that didn’t happen. It was like watching a car crash. In slow motion.

It is now Sunday. And I am still in shock. The expected turmoil happened on Friday. And now we are in the eye of the storm, awaiting fresh turmoil tomorrow.

I don’t know what to think. I know I feel worried and angry and ashamed. Both personally and for the wider situation.

I had to turn the television off on Friday. As party leaders fell. And sterling crashed and burned my brain couldn’t really take anymore. I made cup cakes.

I sometimes think I am guilty of living in a middle class bubble. I often deliberately avoid the news. I think it is a form of self preservation. When I ponder on such enormities as global warming my mind starts to shut down. The fear I feel about what the future holds for my children and grandchildren is too much to contemplate. And yes I recycle and turn off the lights and turn down the thermostat. But I don’t march or sign petitions or campaign.

I just cannot. To admit it is to make it real. And I am coming to the conclusion I am a bit of a coward…

And so I will never be an activist. Even though I do feel passionately about things. I will do my little bit locally helping govern our school, sitting on the neighbourhood planning team, writing minutes for the Scout group, volunteering at jumble sales, baking cakes. But I won’t be marching in the capital. Setting the political world on fire. Making a real difference. I am not proud of it. But it is reality.

But then I hope to bring up three children with the sorts of values I think are important. Instill in them tolerance and altruism and the ability to try to see both sides of an argument. And maybe that will be my lasting legacy.

I read more stuff today on the EU situation. The racist incidences which seem to have been unleashed. Stories of people losing jobs or being asked to relocate. The implosion of our political parties. Graduates having job offers withdrawn. The Far Right bandwagon rolling with increased momentum. The possible splintering of Great Britain. The lies being exposed. Maybe it is hyperbole. And maybe not. In any event that fear was back. With avengence.

And again I had to stop reading.

Today we were all tired from a lovely evening out with friends. And so in the end we all watched Independence Day on the TV. Oh the irony. I found myself thinking that it could be worse. We could be being invaded by aliens.

Proper aliens. From outer space. I’d be happier if our world had been turned upside down because of that.

 

Should We Stay or Should We Go? — June 23, 2016

Should We Stay or Should We Go?

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I just got back from voting in the EU referendum. A soggy walk to my village hall. A quick chat with the volunteers. The clearest ballot paper I have ever seen. The knowledge that, finally, my vote will count as much as the next man’s.

I gave up trying to cut my way through the bullshit spouted by both sides several weeks ago.

In the end I decided to go with my gut…here is what my gut said:-

  • Retreating to our small island and pulling up the drawbridge feels petty. Long sieges are never a good thing. And we don’t even have enough food, or fuel.
  •  Helping the poorest countries on our continent has to be the right way forward. Driving countries into the ground financially didn’t really pan out that well in the 1930s. Inequality breeds extremism.
  • I am proud to live in a country that is attractive to young, hard working Eastern Europeans. That says a lot about what we have got right here in the UK.
  • Large parts of our economy would not cope without these people; Care Homes, the NHS, farming to name a few.
  • A lot of the issues I care about improving; climate change, the environment, extremism, equality need countries to co-operate. These things are bigger than us. In every way.
  • I like the fact that the UK has always been a bit of a thorn in the EU’s side. Being a pain and not totally going along with the majority. It speaks volumes that they haven’t kicked us out yet. I feel like the UK is a bit of a brake. What would happen if we take the brake off. Or worse remove it entirely.
  • If we don’t agree with the EU we can currently do something about it. Leave that table and all bets are off. And it is naive to assume that what the EU decides will not affect us on the other side of that drawbridge.
  • My 12 year old is passionate about remaining. And it is his future I am voting on.
  • Extracting ourselves from the EU will be bloody hard work. Many eyes will get taken off many balls whilst they sort it out. It is the same way I feel about schools acadamising. Lots of effort and time and money for little benefit and meanwhile those sorting it are not getting on with what they should be doing- teaching our kids. I want my politicians and civil servants getting on with making the UK a better place not dealing with getting us out.
  • And then no-one knows what ‘Out’ looks like. Those campaigning for it have wildly different views on that. Interesting… and talking of which
  • I trust not one person on the Leave side. Maybe that guy who makes vacuum cleaners is a bit credible. But no one else is. Not all the ‘Remainers’ are that credible. But some are at least.
  • The Sun and Daily Mail say we should Leave…
  • If the Leavers win my husband will spend his weekend and beyond on calls and in meetings as part of his employer’s Crisis Team. Because that is how it is viewed there. A Crisis with a capital C.

So there we have it. I voted Remain. Unscientific. But I trust my gut.

What does yours say?

Predicting the Future — June 19, 2016

Predicting the Future

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So here in the UK there is, currently, a burning European issue. It is taking over the airwaves. Dominating conversations. Turning schools and workplaces upside down. Upsetting television schedules. Dividing households.

I am, of course, talking about the Euro 2016 football championships. The irony of the running of the tournament concurrent with our other burning European issue is not lost on me.

I am not a big watcher of football. OK let me rephrase. I watch a lot of live, muddy & cold amateur soccer courtesy of my offspring. But I am not a watcher of professional soccer.

I do partake of Match of the Day. I like its format. The condensing of the whole 90 minutes plus (how England rued and then revelled in that ‘plus’ in their last two games) of matches into small bite sized parcels containing all the good bits, punctuated by healthy doses of Gary Linneker and his side kicks. And who doesn’t think he is aging spectacularly well? It is that truly awesome hair. He looks better now then in Euro 96, despite his unhealthy obsession with deep fried potato products. So, yes, I like MoTD.

But generally during major football tournaments I am not involved. I like it best when the World Cup is taking place in a timezone which means that all the matches are on television in the middle of the night.

This time however I am hooked. And here is the reason.

Youngest’s football club is running a Euro 2016 predictor competition. The coaches sent out a fiendishly complicated spreadsheet for us to complete. It consisted of predicting not only the result of each match but also the score. 5 points for a correct score, 3 points for a correct result.

I ignored that e mail for several weeks until the impassioned pleas for participation to raise valuable funds for our tour next year to Butlins, Minehead became overwhelming.  (The whole Butlins, Minehead tour thing is there in my head. In the cupboard marked ‘Things I will not think About Until They Become Unavoidable’… Watch out for the blog sometime next April…I am sure at some point in his career Vardy went on tour to Butlins, Minehead. That is why I like him so much…)

So anyway we had a go. The kids were interested for about the first five matches. Then they went on the trampoline and shouted random numbers in through the open door in response to my random shouting of team names.

Clearly as non watchers of professional football we had no idea about the relative merits of the various teams. Except that we know some of the most famous stars, but even then we aren’t always sure which of the East European sides some of them play for. It got to the point where I was plucking results out based on such maxims as ‘We haven’t had a draw for a while’ and ‘Who knew Iceland even had a football team’. Etc.

So we sent off the spreadsheet. I wasn’t hopeful. We didn’t have the hosts and possible favourites even progressing from the group stages.

We did win the Best Team Name competition though. That was Eldest. The Cheese Ball Chomping Unicorns have clearly struck a chord.

We applied a wall chart to the, well, wall. We devised a method of filling it in to show the actual scores and the outcome versus our prediction. We were set.

The competition got under way. We got the opening match right. Pure fluke. Then came the Albania v Switzerland match, again correct. I got mildly excited and came in from the garden to watch the end of Wales v Slovakia. When Wales got that second goal I got even more excited, correct again. 15 out of 15. Ok so maybe we weren’t that bad at this predictor stuff.

The kids got exasperated at me wanting Wales to win. ‘That won’t help England’ they chorused. Then I explained that if we won we would take home half the pot, around  £250, and that new CR7s or other ridiculously expensive Nike football boots might be on offer. They started shouting at the screen too.

We settled down to watch England v Russia. I was quite happy with our one nil prediction. Yes England are playing better football than in, well, forever. But England are good at disappointing. I was sat there in a state of unbelievable excitement once the England goal went in. During the four minutes of injury time I was shouting at the screen-‘Just keep it out for 4 minutes’. Twenty out of twenty beckoned.

And then England did that thing they do so well. Snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. Well a draw but it may as well have been defeat, predictor wise. And no, Ian Wright, I don’t take comfort from the good football they demonstrated. Five points thrown away in the 92nd minute. And worse a lot of my fellow predictor players were even more pessimistic than me England wise and had correctly predicted the draw. How grossly unpatriotic.

Since then things have gone a little down hill. From top of the leader board to seventh at the last reckoning. Let’s face it Hungary v Austria? -no idea. And who knew about Iceland? I am not sure they knew themselves.

Still it was good whilst it lasted. And our early promise has probably improved my side line credibility, amateur football watching wise. That is if anyone has worked out who The Cheese Ball Chomping Unicorns are….

House Poetry anyone? — June 17, 2016

House Poetry anyone?

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So Eldest is in his first year at Senior School. That is First Form in old money and Year 7 in today’s new-fangled counting system.

The school has a very active House System. There are 6 houses named after Old Boys of the school. Eldest was very happy to be placed in Bell. Not because of the accomplishments of its namesake, of which Eldest can tell me very little, but because their house colour is purple. His favourite. And so his tie has a purple stripe. And if he makes Head of House in Year 12 he will get a blazer with purple trim. This is now his aim. Purely for fashion reasons.

All his form are in Bell. He was elected Year 7 House Captain and gets a , yes you guessed it, purple lapel badge.

There are numerous House Events. The usual sport, music, drama, debating. But also some more unusual ones. So far this year he has been House Ten Pin Bowling, House Water Sporting and other such fun activities. He gets to mix with the older years and generally have a ball.

Bell have been ahead all year. According to Eldest this is very unusual. They have not won for five years at least. I like to think their Year 7s are particularly strong. But I may be biased. At the end of every term the leading house has its house colours suspended from the flag pole. Photos have been acquired.

So over all we are fans of the House system. And then Eldest came home with an instruction to write an entry for House Poetry. He wasn’t best pleased. The poem had to start with one of three Shakespearean lines. And had to be between 12 and 30 lines long. He stormed and riled against it. It hung over us all through half term. And then on the last day he dashed off the poem below. I think it is quite good for a 12 year old. Again biased.

I had written one for him to ‘pretend’ with in a worst case scenario. But his is better to my mind.

So there you are. Sometimes it is good to be forced to do things that one finds difficult. You might just surprise yourself.

By Eldest

When I consider everything that grows

I think of the smallest of creatures to the largest

I think of the loudest to the quietest

The predator to the prey

The oldest to the young

 

The different places with life

Africa to Antarctica

The varieties of animals

The difference in types

Prehistoric to the modern day

 

When I think of life

I think of myself

How I have grown up

Mentally and physically

All the memories I have embraced.

 

 

Piggy in the Middle — June 12, 2016

Piggy in the Middle

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middle child

You often hear about ‘Middle Child Syndrome’. Well maybe you don’t but I have read a bit about it. As I have a middle child. He is very precious to me, as much as the other two, but Middle Child Syndrome suggests he won’t feel that unless I make a special effort. He will feel invisible. More prone to depression. Have nothing special to call his own.

I have a tendency to believe all such ‘syndromes’ are, frankly, bollocks. We make out of life what we can. But still I occasionally ponder it. As I am now.

And here is why. This weekend I have been able to spend a bit of time alone with Middlest. This hardly ever happens. When he was born I already had Eldest, a demanding toddler at the time. He hasn’t really got much less demanding over the years. He is a deep thinker prone to over-analysing and over stressing. He sucks up attention. And that is not at all his fault. It is partly because he does everything first and so such events as starting Senior School seem a big deal to me as a parent doing something new as well as a big deal to him. When the other two do it I am blasé. And expect them to be so too.

By the time Middlest was himself a toddler Youngest had come along and turned our lives upside down. She is my only daughter and so my relationship with her is different. She gravitates towards me and always has. I can remember a period when she was about two when she would not let anyone else do anything for her except me. Flattering but exhausting. She had me all to herself for two years once Eldest and Middlest had started school. And those two years were amazing. We both had a lovely time.

And then there are three of them and two of us. Naturally Middlest is often in a pair if we split them up. That is because he is great mates with both Eldest and Youngest. They have hobbies in common. Middlest has never been left ‘home alone’ whilst the other two go away camping for instance. He is always one of those doing the camping with one or other of the other two. If you catch my drift.

When Middlest was little he had numerous outpatient clinics for various minor medical issues; eyes, diet, asthma. We loved those afternoons with appointments. I would pick him up from school and we would go off alone and sit in a waiting room together chatting away. He still fondly remembers making a dodecahedron out of plastic hexagons that slotted together whilst waiting in the Moorfield’s eye clinic waiting room. That must be five years ago.

Being able to have time alone with him this weekend is happening mostly because Youngest is at Cub camp and we are down to two children. We can divide and conquer.

So yesterday we walked to his football tournament alone whilst Eldest and husband went running. The walk lasted about ten minutes. They were a good ten minutes though. Of all my children Middlest is the easiest to have a conversation with. I am  not saying I do not enjoy time alone with the other two but Middlest has this way about him. He is intelligent, perceptive and gently amusing. He listens well and makes thoughtful observations. He is eloquent. He is still young enough at 10, nearly 11, to care about what I say.

So in those few short minutes we discussed the EU Referendum and some of his friends’ frankly bizarre opinions on the same.  We came to some conclusions. Namely you shouldn’t believe everything you read and hear. Unless I tell him something, obviously.

Today husband went cycling with his mates as is his wont on a Sunday morning. Eldest had some language revision to do so I took Middlest to town to collect his new glasses and buy a birthday present for his Grandma.

It was lovely. Truly lovely. We chewed the cud. About all sorts. Marijuana. Balconies. School. Scouts. Girls. The EU again. And our lack of time together.

I would love to spend more time with him alone. With all of them actually. Life gets in the way. It is hectic and full on. I must try harder.

Just as we pulled back into the driveway Middlest asserted that in our average week of chaos the only time he gets me to himself is on the drive from home to piano lesson and later back. That drive lasts about three minutes.

As he put it “It’s not a very long time, mummy, but I really enjoy it!'”

Me too, son, me too.

 

Round and Round — June 10, 2016

Round and Round

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(For the avoidance of doubt this entry is not a homage to Spandau Ballet. Although I do love Spandau. So if that is what you are after jog on.)

So I may have mentioned before that my daughter is sporty. That is a massive understatement to be honest. She loves football and hockey and netball and running. She is quite good at swimming and apparently cricket. But currently we are in the rounders season at school.

Rounders is not her favourite. She is a good catch and has a huge throw. She can also run like the wind and so fields deep. But her batting is a bit hit and miss, often miss. I sympathise. At school I was not great at batting. And I couldn’t catch or throw either. Or run.

This year I managed to miss the annual ritual humiliation that is the Cub Scout Family Rounders Evening. I can’t remember why. Some fortuitous Governing Body meeting or ferrying task.

And so I didn’t have to go through those few seconds standing in front of a bowler wondering how not to make a fool of myself. Watching as hairy men slog the ball 100 meters into the bushes. And trying to field on the right of the batter to avoid having to make a crucial throw or, shudder, catch. Result.

Of course nothing is ever that simple. Just as I was basking in this narrow escape an e mail came through from school advertising Women in Sport Week. The Sports’ Department had decided to host a number of events for mums to attend. And one of those was a Year 4 Mums and Daughters Rounder’s match.

Of course there was no way Youngest was going to let me get out of this one. The temptation to humiliate her mother was too strong. A fortuitous emergency Governing Body meeting failed to materialise. And so today I rolled up at school to face the bowler. The fact that the bowler was only 3 feet tall should have made me feel better. It didn’t.

In anticipation of this event Youngest and I had been up the field with our rubberised baseball bat and a tennis ball to have a practice. We were both quite good at it, slogging them into the undergrowth. She reminded me that a rounder’s bat is much smaller and a rounder’s ball much harder and again smaller. Cheers love.

On holiday in Devon I roped everyone in to a match on the beach. With the aforementioned baseball bat and tennis ball. It went quite well until husband managed to hit a strolling man in the nadgers with a well placed slog. He was carrying a bucket of water at the time (the strolling man not my husband, although it might have been a good idea to handicap him in such a way before letting him loose with a bat) which cascaded all down his front. Woops.

So we had got a bit of practice in. I still wasn’t confident. That wasn’t helped by Youngest repeating repeatedly that her team were going to ‘thrash’ us. Competitive much?

Have you ever been ten pin bowling? I know this seems a bit off piste but bear with, bear with. I used to go quite a lot as a student. And here is the thing. Some games I could get strike after strike after strike. And some games I struggled to get above fifty pins. Often such games would be in the same session consecutively. And I have no idea why.

Well clearly rounders is like that for me too. Today after an entire life of never hitting a rounders ball I managed to score two and a half rounders off 3 balls. Astounding. I did run Youngest out whilst achieving the half. Woops. But it was a genuine mistake.

The mums were beaten 6 to 5 but for a bunch of ladies who haven’t played for twenty to thirty years (some of them are disgustingly young) we did OK. In the mixed teams Youngest and I also lost out again but only by the one rounder.

So credit due I think. Of course the only thing Youngest focussed on was me running her out. Not on my 2 and a half rounders. Which nearly killed me. The pitch is bigger than it looks.

I tried to explain to the offspring that in the scheme of things this feels like a major achievement to me. And perhaps with a bit of practise I might have been better as a child. Although it was probably just a ‘ten pin bowling’ moment.

Let’s hope the fixture doesn’t get repeated next year. People will expect things. Which is gently worrying.

And I already ache.