musingsponderingsandrants

Parenting, profundities and humour

Author: sarahsmale

Hmm... about me...well three kids, a husband (not acquired in that order)... and a love of punctuation...
Dancing Shoes — August 15, 2015

Dancing Shoes

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Here is a thing I love to do. Dance.

Today I was at a family wedding. It was small and intimate and tremendous fun.

Some people might think a disco for thirty a little strange. I don’t.

I had the best time in a long time and so did everyone else.

The couple in question are gorgeous, very much in love and totally genuine. The whole day was relaxed and heartfelt.

And then to cap it all off we had a fabulous disco. Everyone got their requests played. My husband, kids and I danced more or less solidly for three hours, burning off a lot of our wedding supper and reliving a lot of great times through music.

It reminded me of one of the reasons I married my other half- that he will dance with me even if we are the only two on the dance floor.

The DJ called me a lovely lady.

Grandma and grandad danced.

My only gripe? It makes me feel tremendously old when Tainted Love doesn’t fill the floor. It would with a group of my peers. I am probably ten years too old. But hey hubby and I danced to it. Alone.

And yes my feet ache but do you know what? Today has reaffirmed my belief in love, life and dance.

Congratulations to the happy couple! Wishing you a long and wonderful life together.

I can see clearly now…. — August 13, 2015

I can see clearly now….

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About a year ago I had to finally admit defeat and go to the opticians. For months I had noticed that reading small things was becoming increasingly difficult.  I decided it probably wasn’t usual to ask one’s children to read out instructions for one or to have to move ever closer to the window to scrutinise those small print terms and conditions surely everyone reads in depth.

So I went to my friendly ophthalmist who decided that, yes indeed, my long sight was deteriorating.

I found this deeply unfair. I have been short sighted since the age of 7. I spent my childhood in disgusting NHS frames being picked on. And then my teenage and early adulthood years in Dierdre Barlow’s. My astigmatism was such that large frames worked best to avoid that ‘bottom of a bottle’ look. Finally, about age 25, I either met a more enlightened optician or there were some advances in manufacture and I finally went into a more fashionable look. But either way I was forced into paying around £300 a pop every year or so just for the ‘privilege’ of being able to see.

I had been put off ever trying contact lenses by my partner at Uni who did try them. And then seemed to spend hours trying to get them in and even more trying to get them out. Putting his fingers in his eyes. Cleaning, soaking, rinsing etc. This was the days before daily disposables or monthly wearables or whatever the bejeebers are around now.

And anyway I feel naked without my specs.

Being a glasses wearer has other disadvantages too. The main ones being any water based activities. I quite like swimming. But I always have to keep in close proximity of anyone I have gone along with, once lost it is almost impossible to find them. I have embarrassed myself heartily on several occasions swimming up to complete strangers in similar coloured trunks and making conversation. I always scope out a new pool with glasses on, clocking the deep end, working out which way to swim, noting flume ride restrictions etc, before going back to my locker and placing my glasses safely away inside.

There is not really much point snorkelling or scuba diving either. In the Maldives I enjoyed swimming  in the sea. It was like being amongst an indistinct rainbow. Apparently we saw rays. I will take my husband’s word for that. And yes I could buy prescription googles or dive mask but it really isn’t worth the cost for my infrequent sub-acquatic adventures.

It is like that with sunglasses too. I could never afford them in my youth. I bought those plastic clip ons. But they were so hideous that I generally didn’t bother. It is only about three years since I have had sunglasses made to my prescription and it does make driving in summer much easier.

Middlest wears glasses now. He has since age 5. He had an undiagnosed astigmatism which meant his brain ‘turned off’ his left eye. We got it working again with patches and glasses and now he is fine. And all his siblings and mates now want glasses as children’s frames nowadays are so cool. It is a bit like Clarke’s shoes. To wear them in the 1970s was a teasing death sentence (although I thank my mother now for my straight, unbunioned feet) whereas now they are fine to wear- even trendy.

So anyway in a naive way I thought my deteriorating long sight would partially correct my horrendous short sight. And apparently it does work like that for a bit. But then you just have both. As the (extremely young) optician put it ‘It’s not going to get any better’. Thanks.

So I had to go through the difficult process of selecting new vari-focals. That is the other tricky thing about wearing specs. Choosing specs. Whilst not being able to see your self in a mirror. Without putting your nose up against the glass.

Anyway I got some which look vaguely passable. And I could read again.

It took a while to get used to them. I walked round with a ‘swimmy’ feeling for several days.

Then we went on holiday and I wore my sunglasses. Which had not been changed- now I am in vari-focals that price tag has jumped again. And every time I switched from one to the other I got that swimmy feeling again. At least I wasn’t doing anything more taxing than lounging and reading.

And recently I have noticed that tendency to move towards a light source when reading returning. I may need to go back. Oh joy.

The Great Sofa Delivery Scam — August 11, 2015

The Great Sofa Delivery Scam

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sofa

We have been waiting for our new sofa for weeks…. It feels like decades…maybe eons.

Our new lounge is not currently in use as we have no seating in it.

Soon Middlest is having a sleepover party for his birthday. In order to escape 5 ten year olds- who will no doubt commandeer the TV for Wii playing and DVDs- we would really like our new sofa. So we can retire to our parlour…like large spiders.

Imagine my delight, then, when last week I got a phone call from the shop we ordered from advising that the sofa was in their warehouse and asking me to call to arrange delivery. Well actually they wanted my husband to call to arrange delivery as for some strange reason when we ordered in the shop his name went on the documentation. Some lingering sexist misogyny on the part of the sales person, no doubt.

Anyway they had my phone number and my e mail address because clearly it was I who was going to have to wait in for one of the 7 hour time slots on offer- being as husband works outside the home. So the lady had called my phone number.

I was away at the time but called her back as I had another delivery due from the same store and wanted to try to amalgamate them. Of course this was not possible. The van was already full. So I arranged a different day whilst trying to recall the contents of my diary – which is in calendar form on my kitchen wall and so not accessible from my hotel room in Bristol.

Of course I got back home and realised the date I had booked was not going to work.

So I called back today to move the date.

I spoke to a nice lady. But she was insistent that my husband needed to ring as his name was on the order. Quite often in these situations I give up. And wait five days for my husband to have enough time to call. And then hope he gets the day right.  By which point the delivery date I wanted has filled up with speedier customers.

But today I wasn’t going to stand for it. I have reached the end of my ‘pointless security measures’ tether.

I asked her why she needed to speak to my husband as I was present at the ordering of the sofa. She just re-iterated that as his name was on the order she could only speak to him.

I asked her if the van men would refuse to deliver the sofa to me if my husband was not actually present because he was unable to wait in for the required 7 hours. No they would deliver to me, even though I was ‘not on the order’.

I asked her what possible risk she could possibly be taking in changing a delivery date on a sofa. She wasn’t sure. I assured her that had we wanted to change the delivery address then I would have asked my husband to call (or a man who sounded like, well a man, as she has no idea what my husband sounds like) to confirm as clearly I could see an actual risk in this.

She went away. To presumably take advice from someone higher up.

Whilst waiting I tried to imagine the risks myself. I guess she might be subject to an irate phone call from my husband who was mightily upset that his wife had unilaterally decided to wait in for a sofa for 7 hours on a different date convenient to her.

Or maybe they have experienced pure malice from wives who have deliberately changed delivery dates to scupper World Cup football parties/ Eurovision parties and the like.

Or maybe there really are gangs of badduns out there who steal sofa order details from innocent members of the public, call up pretending to be their wives. And change the date. For kicks? Maybe I am being harsh. Let me think again. I guess a real criminal mastermind could stake out the house, find a seven hour time slot when no householders are ever present, change the delivery time to that slot, pretend to have locked themselves out and persuade the delivery men to put the sofa in a white van. And make off with it. I am sure there are better ways to make a criminal name for yourself.

But really I failed to see any actual concrete risk.

When she came back (you may have gathered it took a while) she too had failed to find a risk, certainly not one worth the bother of turning down Ms Stroppy Cow Customer. She asked me to confirm what the order was for and when I could provide this information in detail (as I WAS THERE WHEN WE ORDERDED) she agreed to change the date.

Sense prevailed.

But I had to get arsey. Which really isn’t me. Well not in person. That’s what this blog is for…

Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, fun fun, fun, fun, fun….. — August 9, 2015

Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, fun fun, fun, fun, fun…..

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IMG_4859

Today my husband and I built a trampoline. A trampoline was one of the ‘conditions’ my off spring made before they would agree to move house. Clearly we didn’t actually need their permission but it is good parenting (I think I read somewhere once) to make them feel that their opinions are actually valid. And anyway we were stuck for birthday ideas for Middlest and Youngest and so buying the bouncy apparatus killed several birds with one stone, without taking up any more of our indoor storage space, which whilst increased following our house move is still at a premium.

Anyhow I digress.

Husband had researched trampolines on line- exhaustively- as is his wont. We had estimated that the 12 foot version would be large enough to hold our three offspring but still fit in a ‘corner’ of the garden. We hadn’t actually measured the garden you understand- that would be much too sensible. We had plumped for 12 foot on a gut feel and sincerely hoped we weren’t going to experience a ‘Christmas tree’ moment. We have all done that. Looked at a fir or a spruce in the forecourt of a petrol station and decided it would ‘fit in that corner of the lounge’ before getting home and having to attack its base with a hack saw and remove the three piece suite.

Anyhow I digress again.

Somewhere along the line husband told me the trampoline was oval. Which is a bit different. And gave me a small frisson. I wish he had disabused me of this idea before we began assembly. It would have made everything make a bit more sense. It is actually circular. Oh well.

Normally my husband and I don’t do that well building things together. In fact doing anything practical together is a little challenging. He is not ‘handy’. But he is taller than me and stronger than me. So in some ways useful.

What happens is this. I am able to understand the intellectual parts of the job quite quickly but often am physically incapable of carrying them out which leaves me trying to impart this knowledge to husband. With my limited ability to grasp the right word at the right time. It is probably as frustrating for him as it is for me. I usually  end up holding bits, which are often heavy, whilst trying to get him to understand that next part of the procedure. And I get impatient. Why can’t you just get it right man? What can you not understand about ‘Put that bit there, no that bit there, yes that bit, in the black thing, no the black thing has to be the other way round, rotate it damn it, no not that way the other way, left, no sorry I mean right, yes yes yes finally, now get the smaller thingy, nut, no sorry screw and put that in the hole, no you need to line the other hole up first, did you use a washer, no not the spring ones, the other ones, take it out and get a washer, here, here, here I have one here….Oh no now I have dropped the really heavy thing on my foot and dropped all the washer thingys….’ Etc. Every year we go camping. Every year we nearly get divorced pitching the tent.

When the trampoline boxes arrived (worryingly all three were long and rectangular and in no way oval (or even circular), that is when I think it hit me that assembly was going to be an ‘enterprise’) I toyed with trying to start the process on my own. I opened all three boxes before finding the instructions which stated that the trampoline would take 2 adults two hours to build. I was one adult with one hour before I had to leave to be somewhere else. I very nearly gave in and began the process egged on by my exceedingly excited and impatient children but thankfully discretion won out. I guess that is what makes me a grown up. The kids had to wait.

So today was our first window of opportunity when we did indeed have 2 adults and two hours. Despite my having impressed upon the kids the fact that the instructions stated it would take those 2 adults 2 hours to build all three thought it would be ready ‘after breakfast’. That didn’t allow for daddy mowing the lawn first- a sensible precaution really. Or for us having to go out to buy food and drink for an impromptu BBQ party which husband had managed to arrange almost by accident during my absence for the previous three days with the kids on a mini break. O-Kay…

So lawn mowed we began our assault. I had pre-read the instructions. Which was a ‘good thing’. In the manner of flat pack today the instructions are multi lingual. Which means they contain no words…at all… you are reliant on your ability to follow diagrams. Luckily for me these ones ‘seemed’ fairly self explanatory and I had mentally noted the pitfalls helpfully laid out with little warning signs in the booklet.

All went quite well to start with. We managed to get the frame assembled (here it would have been useful to know its actual shape but still we coped) and attach all 72 springs. In the right order. Here husband’s brute strength and my counting came into their own.

Ah and then we came to the legs. Four of them. With two attachments each. And here we hit a snag. Between us we could not get the legs on. Without previously attached legs falling off. Words would have been useful here such as….If the trampoline is not being built on a bowling green (and not a crown one at that) you are going to have issues with legs. Or…. try the legs in other configurations before giving up entirely. Or…. don’t try to build it upside down as it is impossible to turn back over without the aid of a crane. Etc

There was nothing for it. It was time for the cavalry. The offspring were roped in to help. They had started helping at the beginning of the process (muddling up the spring counting, losing bits, inappropriately wielding Stanley knives, generally annoying husband) but had wandered off in the manner of small people denied access to the really exciting tools after the first half hour or so. Middlest was now reading upstairs and occasionally leaning out of his window to shout down his enquiries about how much longer we were going to be- in that really ‘helpful’ way 9 year old boys have. But now we needed them to give themselves hernias by holding up the springy bit whilst we ran round like headless chickens trying to insert legs before one of their biceps gave out.

After about four goes we got there. Nobody was permitted to breathe or move whilst we ran round inserting screws, taking out screws and re-inserting them with washers and fetching the mole wrench to clench some bits that had been warped during our extended leg insertion process. Until it was in a sturdy enough place to risk leaving it while we went to the local supermarket to eat and gather burgers.

We got back and attacked the net part. I was tempted at one point- I  think it was when we had to undo a whole lot of work as we had done something in the wrong order (where was that hazard sign) and even my six foot (if you listen to him, really 5’11”) husband was unable to reach the ‘next phase’ – to let them bounce un-netted. That was good enough for me in the 1970’s. But then we had those BBQ guests’ off spring to worry about. Damn it.

So anyway some velcroing and hooking later, voila, a trampoline. And it only takes up about a quarter of the garden.  They went on it eagerly. During what remains of our holidays they will be spending at least an hour a day on it. At least.

And before anyone asks no I will not be bouncing myself. The assembly was a purely altruistic process on my part. I have had three children. If you need to know why I shall not be bouncing ask a mother. I am not going to elaborate here.

And those instructions need to be amended. It took 2 adults, 3 kids and a mole wrench at least three and a half hours to build. I feel a momentous sense of achievement. I think we should really unveil it at this BBQ or at least crack open some champagne in its honour, if not off its ladder.

However I am mentally and physically exhausted. And so I am having a cup of tea and writing this blog. While husband makes kebabs. Serves him right really.

The Tortoise and the Hare — August 2, 2015

The Tortoise and the Hare

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Tortoise and hare

I like Aesop. And his fables. I particularly like the tortoise and the hare. You know the one. They have a race. The hare is cocky and over confident. He decides to have a rest as he is soooo far ahead. And falls asleep. And so the sure and steady tortoise wins the race.

I am that tortoise. Unfortunately, although I do indeed often look like I have a shell (the packed rucksack I never leave the house without), that is where the resemblance ends. I never win the race.

I live with four hares. Three have the excuse of youth. And the other is still younger than me and considerably fitter. Because he spends hours working on it. And I do not.

Today three of my hares and I went on a long cycle ride. I was predictably at the back. Going too slowly. I have never been a great cyclist. It has never really suited me. I am not sure why. Short legs. Maybe. Lack of practise. Maybe.

My kids know where to wait for me. So I can shepherd them across roads. Something I am actually good at. I guess at some point they will be able to cross roads safely alone. In fact when big daddy hare is there I am totally superfluous, except for being the butt of all the jokes.

I was once fit. In fact BC I was really quite fit. Daddy hare and I did Body Combat and Circuit Training.

Then I had kids and my opportunities to exercise were somewhat limited. Scrap that. Totally limited. If I got time on my own the last thing I wanted to do was run to the gym. I wanted to sleep. Pee alone. And such like.

When they all finally went to school I did start some exercise DVDs and managed to keep up with them for about a year and developed some quads. And then the long school holidays hit again and I had to stop. Or risk the children having hysterics at the sight of me star jumping. And I never found the energy to restart.

I tried running, another thing all four of my hares are good at. I set off with new trainers and an irritating guy in my ear telling me when to run and when to walk. Every time I saw someone I knew my pace picked up a bit. By the time I got home I was spent. It took at least half an hour on the stairs with my head between my knees before I was able to risk moving without being sick.

I can swim. Maybe more a turtle than a tortoise? In fact I can currently still beat all my hares. But I prefer to do my swimming in a heated pool somewhere situated on the Med or the Aegean Sea. I have developed an allergy to municipal swimming pools. The cold shock of the water. The inability to see anything (my extreme myopia) causing me to possibly get in the ‘wrong lane’ or swim the ‘wrong way’. That deforestation I can’t be bothered with, especially in winter. The likelihood of being caught behind either two women who consider exercise to be chatting next to each other whilst doing a weak breaststroke and not getting their hair wet. Or a bloke creating a mini tsunami with his frantic yet ineffective front crawl. And the showers afterwards, dodging used plasters and other peoples hair. Shudder.

No I have to accept that I am basically unfit. Middlest is my most likely ally. He is the least sporty of all my hares. Once on an infamous trip cycling round a reservoir I spent the time before our first pit stop- which is really a stop for mummy to catch up by which point all the others have refuelled and hydrated and are champing at the bit to get off again before I have even got my breath back- a loooong way behind. It was hilly.

Middlest spent our next cycling session to lunch falling behind with me. We had a lovely chat. Well he chatted, I listened and tried not to sound too ‘panty’. On the flatter bits I commiserated with him about how tough the ride was and he agreed it was hard. Especially the bits on the sand. I felt comforted that I was providing Middlest with company in his hour of need.

We got to lunch. I had the sandwiches in that tortoise shell rucksack so the others had had to wait. After we had eaten I went to the loo and on the way back overhead Middlest asking for a new volunteer to ‘stay behind and keep mummy company’ as he wanted to ‘race on ahead again’. There were no takers. And I felt tremendously patronised. In a nice way.

So there you have it. I will always be bringing up the rear. Red in the face. Less than gently made fun of. But I will still go. Otherwise it would probably be Middlest in that spot. And he was once kind to Mummy Tortoise.

Footnote The remnants of those quads ache today….

Flights of Fancy — July 28, 2015

Flights of Fancy

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airplane

So our holiday is over. Well and truly. Although we are still in Greece, sitting in the airport waiting out a two hour and rising delay. Of course we had to be here two hours before the scheduled time to clear the security checks etc. which took about 5 minutes. And so we are here for at least 4 hours. Plenty of time to write a little rant.

Apparently we are flying back with a carrier called Titan Air. I have never heard of them. According to the British Airways hastily printed hand out at check in they are renowned for their quality of service. Hmmm we shall see. The hand out also suggested that if they hadn’t leased this Titan aircraft the whole flight would have been cancelled. So I guess the lesser of two evils. Although another night in my luxury hotel wouldn’t have been the end of the world. If they weren’t fully booked.

Infuriatingly the Easy Jet flight we eschewed for the better service of BA left on time. Although I still wouldn’t have wanted that sprint up the Tarmac…

Flying really is the most unreliable form of transport. I find it infuriating. There seems to be so much that can go wrong. This is by no way our worst delay. And by no way the worst incident I have heard of.

Last October when we flew to the States we were taxi-ing down the runway. I was gripping tightly to the armrests mentally preparing for the hell that is take off when we stopped. Apparently a warning light had come on. I guess it isn’t a good idea to ignore them, like I do with my car, before a 9 hour flight across the Atlantic. So of course it had to be investigated.

It took three hours for that light to be extinguished. A part had to be shuttled in from Vrigin’s parts store to be replaced. By which time my offspring had exhausted their film and video game capacity. The next nine hours of actual flying were tortuous rounds of rummy and toilet trips. Although that was preferable to having to stay behind for a day and miss my first breakfast with Donald Duck.

On the way back from Kos we got stuck on the runway. Again. With no electrics. This time they had a broken seat and a full plane. And were therefore one seat short. Increasingly desperate tannoy announcements asked for flight trained individuals who could sit in the spare cabin crew seat (presumably they would not have been expected to serve nuts or explain life vests) and finally for people willing to stay behind. I am not sure of the outcome but we eventually left. And the air conditioning started up again and saved us from the heat that had built up in the large tin can sitting on a runway in 40 degree heat.

I have more but would hate to bore you. I think my worst delay was 8 hours. At least this was in an airport. Nearly all my delays have been on the return leg (except for that Virgin Atlantic experience) of our holidays. It is safe to say that British airports are considerably more fun to spend time in than some overseas. The one I spent eight hours in was literally a hut. I think it was a Canary or a Balearic. I can’t remember. Luckily it was BC. Spending time being delayed alone or with one’s spouse is bearable, doing it with three fractious kids is a million times worse.

Anyway we are down to 2 hours to wait. I have written this entry over a 2 hour period which has also included loo trips, knock out whist and refreshment foraging outings.

I am now being pressed to play Strip Jack Naked, perhaps the most infuriating card game of all time, so I will end. Apparently the kids ‘have nothing to do’ Despite the free wifi. And kindles. And each other. I am evidently a necessary distraction. So off I go to fulfil my primary role.

Pray we all get home. Thanks.

Aroma moan… — July 26, 2015

Aroma moan…

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deodorant

Brace yourself….more intimate revelations.

I have been using the same deodorant since I was 14. So a little over 30 years. When I began using it it was the mid 80s and so Roll On was the order of the day. We were still in the height of the CFC crisis terrified of eroding any more of the ozone layer by spraying or changing our fridge. It seemed that overnight we all switched to roll on. And the crisis was averted… Ah the innocence.

Anyway. Once the aerosol companies caught on and eliminated those nasty CFCs I switched back to a spray. To avoid the need for arm flapping every morning. And have used it ever since.

And then last year I was unable to buy it from Sainsburys on line. I was down to my last can and getting slightly panicky so I went to Boots. They didn’t have it either. Neither did Superdrug.

And it slowly dawned on me that Sure had stopped making my ‘flavour’ in a spray. I scoured on line pharmacies and managed to find one with some stock and bought 10 cans. This has now run out.

And so I am faced with finding a new smell. And I resent it.

On this holiday I brought with me a new brand of spray. Eldest doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like how I smell. I don’t like it either. I don’t smell like ‘me’.

It is made all the worse because smell is such an evocative sense. Certain aromas can transport me back to a time and place in an instant.

Rain on hot pavements for instance. That aroma which usually only happens a few times a year in my neck of the woods takes me back to my child hood. Instantly.

My paternal grandma lived in a house with a lovely big garden. It wasn’t probably that big but to me it seemed enormous. Towards the back she had a row of large conifers which formed a sort of hedge behind which my brother and I used to hide and make dens. The smell of laylandii confiers takes me right back to those days, sitting on a rug out of sight of parents picking those little seed pod things off the trees.

Similarly on the wall around the side of our house when we lived in Formby in the north west we had an outlet, a silver box thing about a foot square set at about child’s head height, probably for the central heating which let off a sort of gas smell, not unpleasant but very distinctive. Another very evocative perfume whenever a catch a whiff of it nowadays.

There are countless others, my old school dinner hall, the insides of tents, line dried washing, freshly mown grass, the smell of Christmas which is actually the smell of my loft at my old house…

So I understand my eldest’s frustration with my deodorant issue. He has spent his entire life smelling me a particular way and part of that aroma is Sure Cool Blue spray deodorant, it is part of me. And now I don’t have it anymore.

There is still a roll on version. Which won’t be quite the same but may have to do.

Grrr…..I hate arm flapping…

Mummy Two Cups — July 23, 2015

Mummy Two Cups

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image

I have many loves in my life. I would never want to order them. But very high up on the list would be tea.

It is a standing joke in my family that I cannot function before my first cuppa of the day. And I have to say that first sip is one of my main pleasures in life.

I look forward to tea in probably the same way some people look forward to an alcoholic beverage.  If I ever see posts on Facebook announcing wine o’clock I immediately think of a cup of steaming tea.

It is probably down to my upbringing. Every meal in our house was accompanied by a pot of tea. A silver coloured tea pot sat on a wicker mat in the middle of the table along with a milk jug and cups and saucers for all. When numbers became elevated, say at Christmas or birthdays, we would break out the All Nations tea pot, a larger pottery vessel that used at least three tea bags.

My mother still has both. And uses the silver one every morning at breakfast, even on her own.

And there is no situation that cannot be improved by tea. Received bad news? Have a cuppa. Feeling a bit under the weather, I prescribe tea. Feeling too hot, or too cold? Char is the answer. Many foods only work with a cuppa; buttered toast, many sorts of biscuit, chocolate cake, fish and chips, I could go on.

I graduated from a cup and saucer at meal times to mugs at any time at university. I think my mother still views a mug brewed cup of char with an element of suspicion. But the economies of university house sharing did not extend to protracted tea rituals involving pots and saucers. The washing up, which was only done about weekly anyway, would have been too great. I drank tea in enormous quantities. Probably 10 plus mugs a day. It was the height of my tea drinking career.

I now prefer a mug brewed cuppa to any other. I have perfected my brew and receive many compliments on my tea from all sorts of people from friends to workmen. I can’t make coffee for toffee (I’m a poet and I didn’t know it). It is probably to do with scalding the coffee grounds or some such nonsense and as I don’t drink it it is hard for me to perfect my technique. I only stock own brand instant coffee, a premium version admittedly but nothing more adventurous. I don’t have fruit teas, or smelly teas (Earl Grey etc) as I find them frankly hideous. It’s builders all the way for me.

Therefore it is best chez moi to drink tea… Because I am a tea master. Years of practise. It goes something like this. Freshly boiled water, standard Yorkshire tea bags (I don’t hold with all this hard water tea bag guff, although hard water, whilst wrecking one’s kettle, does make much better tea) quick swish and squeeze, semi skimmed milk until the tea is a red colour (a spot more if my mother is the recipient). And, voila, perfection. I will use full fat milk at a push but skimmed makes the worst tea known to man. And anyway is an insult to cows.

My evening, just before bed, ritual is exactly the same but I switch to PG Tips decaf. My day is not over before that mug of tea. However late it is.

I take both sorts of tea bag on holiday wherever I go. Currently the sandwich bag marked ‘chicken thighs’ has the caffeinated tea bags in. Don’t ask.

Still tea abroad can be a hit and miss affair. Here for instance the ‘hot water’ at breakfast is merely luke warm. I need my tea boiling hot. I was always accused of having an asbestos mouth at uni and it hasn’t changed as I have got older.

Luckily there is a kettle in the room and we have managed to squeeze a pint of milk into the mini bar by removing a bottle of beer and a Twix bar. Even so the only mugs provided are those that fit in a Nesspresso machine and thus tiny. So I have to make two mugs every time I brew up. Just to make it worthwhile.

Hence my holiday nickname ‘Mummy Two Cups’.

Sea Legs — July 21, 2015

Sea Legs

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image

Youngest

Today I did something I have never done before in my 45 years.

I dived off the side of a boat into the Aegean Sea. In fact I need not be that specific. I have never dived off a boat into any sea or even ocean before.

You may be imagining a quite glamorous scene as you visualise me diving athletically yet gracefully into the pleasantly warm azure waters of the Aegean sea off the beautiful coast of mainland Greece. I would hate to disabuse you of that vision. But the reality was probably not as glamorous as your imaginings.

I did have on a quite flattering bikini it is true, but also my bright pink rash vast. I was also trying to keep an eye on three kids flinging themselves haphazardly off various railings. And avoid other people’s children doing the same, and the Russian in budgie smugglers. My husband still has sea water streaming out of his nose whenever he bends down around three hours and lunch later. And I ate my pita and chicken souvlaki in a state of stickiness from the sea salt. But still, it was quite a rush.

There is one main reason why I have never ‘dove’ off a boat. And that is that I hate boats. Specifically I hate sea faring boats. I have, in fact, enjoyed a number of boat based inland holidays on canals, lakes and broads. But I don’t do the sea. Because I get very sea sick. Indeed.

This cruise came complementary with our holiday package. I was prepared to persuade my offspring and spouse onto the other option, the romantic 30 minute sunset cruise which never leaves the bay, but the lure of the three hour trip which, we discovered, included an hour of swimming off the boat was too much of a temptation for them. So I reluctantly agreed. To the relief of any couples heading out at 8.30pm tonight a deux.

I had been told by the holiday rep that the Aegean was often very calm. I think her exact words were mill pond.

That isn’t exactly how it turned out. It was actually quite rough. So I sat on the deck for the first hour or so concentrating on the horizon in a bid not to vomit. I succeeded. Luckily.

I don’t have many successful boat experiences. Once on a ferry from Dover to Calais with a very old friend I was sick eleven times. Count them, eleven.

My mother is the same. We always sit on the deck. In silence. Concentrating. Regardless of the weather. We took the train to Holland when I was twelve. We sat on the deck of the ferry that this entailed in the pissing down rain. Or it might have been spray it was difficult to tell. I was still sick. Copiously.

We can be travel sick anywhere. In fact we were both sick on a boat trip from Sorrento to Capri. It was rough though honest. And I have found that once one person ‘goes’ the floodgates tend to open. There was quite a queue for the solitary loo.

Luckily my fellow passengers this morning were stalwarts. There was one little boy who started to feel dodgy right at the end. I contemplated parting with my air sickness bag which is permanently in my hand luggage rucksack. Thankfully I didn’t need to as just as he turned green we got near enough to shore for the swell to subside. I find that having an appropriate vessel to be sick into goes a long way to making sure I do not actually vomit.

Reminder to self to stock up on those bags on our flight back to the UK in a few days. I am down to my last one courtesy of some Milton Keynes roundabouts and a Disney World roller coaster overdose.

Travel sickness is horrible. I get it not only on boats but also in the back seats of cars and on pendolino trains.

Historically trains have been a safe haven for me, I spent my childhood on them and they have conveniently positioned lavatories in extremis. Based on this fact and my refusal to ever go on a ferry again we decided about three years ago to go to Biarritz on the train.  Suffice to say the SNCF pendolinos were not great for my sickness. And they were so full with the French going on holiday that those lavs involved a clamber over many bodies and haphazardly piled luggage… I got out my bag on numerous occasions. Eldest’s Croque Monsieur was a particular crunch point.

So anyway I braved the boat for my kids. I wasn’t sick. And the thrill of diving into that sea made it all worth while. And their faces when they surfaced each time too.

Fabulous. There are worse things to risk vomiting into a bag for.

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TV Dinners — July 19, 2015

TV Dinners

/sarahsmale/1 Comment

Here I am again…..still on holiday… I have a spare minute or two lounging on the balcony whilst husband gathers lunch…in a hunter kind of way….it makes him feel good….it may only be a very very very hot trip to the mini market a short stroll away but hey ho it if is good for his ego who am I to argue. Eldest has gone too. He needs to learn such manly pursuits sometime.

Middlest and youngest are watching dubious TV. The choice is limited it being Greece here. But they have stumbled across the Disney Channel which seems to play white middle class teenage comedies on a sort of loop. They find it totally hypnotic. It is preferable to the 24 hour doom and gloom on CNN. And anyway it gets them out of the sun for a bit.

I had an idea for this entry which I seem to have lost the thread of. Where was I?

Oh yes I remember. I came on to talk about electronics. Specifically children and electronic devices. But now I have told you that two of my three are currently sitting in front of one I feel a tad hypocritical. But then I have spent all morning in a pool with them playing ball, and races and diving for ‘sinking seal’. So I feel a little bit of me time is in order…this blog is me time by the way. And they are on holiday and allowed to choose to spend some time watching mindless TV, even if it is beset with horrific stereotypes and canned laughter of the worst order.

Scene setting done. One, I am not against electronics per se, two, my children have devices and watch TV, three, not sure but this sentence seemed to need a three….

What prompted this post was a phenomenon I have already observed at home but which has been brought into sharp relief here. And that is the use of electronic devices at dinner tables. What really brought it to a head today though was seeing this at breakfast. Yep breakfast.

Breakfast here is an all you can eat buffet. I have mentioned the queuing for bacon already. But the choices are really quite endless. My point in bringing this up is that it is not a passive affair. One has to get up, regularly in my family’s case, to refill your plate or glass. Luckily the walk from the table we inhabit to the groaning buffet is quite lengthy and goes a small way to compensate for the vast amount of calories on offer.

As such breakfast can be as long or short as you like. It is busy and noisy and in no way refined. As such I see absolutely no need for a child to be watching a film/ playing a game/ searching you tube on an electronic device propped up on the salt and pepper cellars. I find it distressing. Actually distressing.

I don’t really like seeing it at dinner either. Yesterday a group had set the adults up at one end of their table and the four children at the other each mining for something on a separate device.  My only hope is that they were at least ‘networked’ and able to meet up in the virtual world. I think you can do that in Minecraft.

I find this odd. There were four of them around the same age. Even if the adults did not want to interact at all with their offspring surely those offspring could have entertained themselves off line?

Or if the adults were worried that they were unable to sit ‘nicely’ at a table without the use of an electronic kosh they could have been left at home with a babysitter (10 euros an hour here I am told, quite reasonable at current exchange rates). Whose job would have been very easy as I don’t think I saw any of them speak the whole time we were there.

When we eat I like to talk to my kids. Even when they were little they joined in with the meal fully. Yes those meals were not extended three hour affairs and when we went out we made full use of those colouring books and pencils provided at many family friendly restaurants. But they joined in.

This morning at breakfast we ‘discussed’ plans for the day. We talked about possible future holidays. I regaled them, probably not for the first time, with stories of our past trips abroad. I embarrassed them by being overly demonstrative and animated. In short we interacted.

I was saddened to see a little girl sat in a highchair, dummy in in between ‘courses’ watching some kids TV show on her rubber protected I pad whilst mum and dad ate in silence, each on a phone. I guess it is somewhat equivalent to reading a newspaper. Those cliches of men retreating behind their broadsheet to avoid being drawn in. I don’t like books or papers at the table either.

And yes I don’t know the ins and outs of their families. Maybe they hate each other (odd to come on holiday to Greece though in that case). Maybe those children are extremely difficult.

But I see it so much that I cannot believe that to be the case all the time. I just think it is laziness. Or a lack of anything to say. Which is just sad.

Any how rant over. I must be off to save my children’s minds from the drivel they are sat in front of. And anyway I think I hear hubby and eldest returning with freshly hunted packets of processed meat and fried potato products. One must arrange one’s grateful and somewhat awed face. And take off one’s judgey pants…