Recently I was given the chance to be brave. In my life there are not many opportunities to live that cliche oft spouted on inspirational posters and face book walls and old episodes of The Apprentice:- Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. My life is fairly humdrum involving many, many tasks none of which are particularly difficult or scary. Hard work for sure but not seat of the pants type stuff.
In the dim past when I was working most of my days were full of stuff that scared the living daylights out of me, presenting to clients, picking up the phone and cold calling, meteing out difficult decisions, lending millions of pounds and hoping it would be repaid and the like. But since leaving and having kids those sorts of activities have kind of gone away.
Yes I have had to be brave at certain times. Because life was shitty and the ill health of myself or others needed to be borne and soldiered on through. But that is a different sort of brave. That sort of brave is a braveness of necessity, I am thinking here of optional bravery. When one puts oneself out there. But didn’t have to.
In fact this blog is the scariest thing I have done in sometime. Writing personally for the hopeful enjoyment of an unknown readership. But it is not an immediate type of scary. It is a ‘help only 3 people have read it today’ type of scary. And anyway in the scheme of things does that actually matter? Especially when one is up against Strictly Come Dancing The Final….
This sort of ‘optional bravery’ is all the more pertinent to me because my kids are often very brave in that sort of way. And often I am not all that understanding of what they are going through. In fact I may actually put them in situations they would rather avoid because of the bravery involved. I think I am helping them build their characters and so I encourage them to enter festivals and music competitions and reading competitions and sports competitions and….
And so often my boys are performing with their instruments such as at last week’s Christmas concert, or my Youngest is taking to the pitch as the only girl on the field, or one is playing piano in assembly, or singing a solo as Joseph age 9 (that was Eldest still one of my proudest moments as a mum), or playing an amazing violin solo at a small concert (Middlest age 10, OK Joseph is only joint proudest moment…). Etc. Last week Eldest gave a speech in the end of term Assembly in front of the whole of Years 7, 8 and 9. To be fair I hadn’t ‘made’ him do that, his form teacher had, but still it was a big ask for a 12 year old. And every year they are all in the church Nativity Service on Christmas Eve when the whole village turns out to watch. They take music exams which I remember from my childhood made me feel physically sick.
And yes just before their performances I too get nervous, experiencing that butterfly in the stomach feeling on their behalf hoping they don’t muck up and make themselves feel bad. For although the cliche goes that it is doing it anyway that is important succeeding is also quite a biggy. Even if succeeding is just getting through it.
And so when my choir mistress asked me to sing a solo at our concert yesterday my immediate reaction was ‘Not on your nelly!’. But she asked me to think about it. So I did. Other than the fact that I was very flattered that she had asked me and therefore had faith in my ability to do it at least some justice, I decided I needed to ‘live’ that advice I often give my kids, that a little bit of bravery can deliver all sorts of rewards in terms of self esteem at a job well done.
I didn’t tell anyone beforehand. Mostly because my children have extreme versions of my ‘sympathy’ nerves and would have worried about me. Middlest was very nervous watching Eldest do that speech in Assembly last week. I didn’t want to put him through that too early in proceedings.
So they only knew when they turned up to watch.
And yes just before my slot my bowels went to liquid and my thighs got that awful achy, dead sort of feeling (which incidentally I also get when I drink alcohol which is why I don’t) which meant I felt like I might fall over, my stomach was doing somersaults and it was hard to catch my breath (not great for singing). But I got my note, breathed in deeply and went for it.
Afterwards everyone was very kind. One lady asked me if the kids on the front row were mine. When I told her that they were she replied that she had guessed as much because they had looked so proud.
And so I guess that is why I did it. To prove that bravery of that sort is for everyone. Even if they are 46. And I hope next time they need to deal with their bowels and thighs and stomachs and breath they might remember their mum singing alone in front of 250 people and decide it is worth the risk.
So today is the last day of my children’s summer holiday. We always like to do something special. To mark the occasion and keep their minds from fretting about the return to school.
Yesterday we brain stormed ideas but none of the days out they suggested were going to work for various reasons. Closures, height restrictions, weather etc.
In the end I had a brain wave and decided to take them to a place I haven’t been to in 22 years. Leicester. It is easy to get to on the train from where we live. My Family and Friends railcard makes it affordable to do that. I have an A-Z Street Map for the city dated c 1992. And it boasts a new Richard III museum since they discovered, excavated and reinterred his bones in the city recently.
I am a bit of a history nut. I love a castle or a stately home.
It is odd really because I dropped history when I picked my O level options mainly as the curriculum centred around modern European history and that wasn’t really my bag at the time. I find it fascinating now but as a 14 year old it didn’t float my boat. So I did Geography and spent a large part of the subsequent 4 years (as I did A level in it as well) knee deep in rivers and grappling with concentric town development and Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.
But as an adult I have got more and more hooked on history. Until now I was mainly obsessed with the Tudors. To the point where I would shout at inaccurate film plots – there was a recent one about Anne Boleyn that particularly annoyed me.
But more recently I have started to get more involved with what came before- namely the War of the Roses. And as such a visit to the Richard III museum was right up my alley.
Eldest is also a history nut so I had no problem persuading him. He has been studying 1066 and all that this year and has got as far as the first crusade. But he will engage with any history really. He pours, probably unhealthily, over World War books. We have been to Bletchley Park and he loved it.
The other two aren’t so keen. Although Middlest is keen to point out (repeatedly) that he got 100% in his Roman test in Year 4. Two whole years ago. I offered fresh Pokémon for the catching thereof and they were keener.
So off we went. During the train journey Eldest wanted a synopsis of Richard III and how he fitted in. Hum. The train journey was 40 minutes. I wasn’t sure I had time to do it justice. Especially as he likes to go over things ad infinitum until they are fixed in his head.
So I had a go.
There was this king Henry V who was quite popular. Why? Because he conquered lots of France. Always a good move in a monarch. (I reminded him here of us watching a re-enactment of Agincourt but he struggled to remember it- until I mentioned the long bows and a swearing gesture, then it came to mind…). No I can’t remember who his father was. It doesn’t really matter here. He was Lancastrian though- their symbol was a red rose. Anyway he died (young I think). No I don’t know of what. So his son Henry VI became king. To start with he was a baby so Richard Duke of York (he was a Yorkist whose symbol was the white rose) was Lord Protector. It means basically in charge. No that wasn’t the Richard whose bones we are going to see. It was his father. Henry wasn’t popular. Not sure why. Think it was some mental health issues and an inability to retain all those bits of France. No I don’t know what sort of mental health issues. I think he lost it when he lost it in France so to speak. They were probably the sort of mental health issues we would nowadays understand but not in the Middle Ages. Anyway there was this guy called Richard Neville who basically wanted to get rid of Henry. No not that Richard or that Richard another Richard. The Earl of Warwick. Why did he want to get rid of Henry? Because of all those reasons I just mentioned and because he wanted power for himself. You have to understand that all though kings were powerful they relied on their nobles to raise taxes and armies for them. So they had massive power too. Thank King John for that. So anyway this Richard (lets call him the Kingmaker, why? cos folks did) schemed to put Richard (the dad not the one whose bones we are going to see) on the throne. He did have a claim. Inconveniently for the Kingmaker Richard was killed in battle. So he turned attention to his son Edward. So, if you follow, that makes Edward Richard’s brother (the one whose bones we are going to see). Richard was still a boy at this time. Anyhoo Edward became Edward IV. Then he pissed everyone off by marrying the wrong girl- Elizabeth Woodville (who folks claimed was a witch) and then making all her family very important. So eventually Richard (Kingmaker) decided to put Henry VI back on the throne as a sort of puppet. Henry had been kept to the fore thanks to his amazing wife- Margaret of Anjou who had actually led troops for her husband…girl power. Well yes I did think that interesting actually. Meanwhile Edward had had lots of children. Another Elizabeth and crucially two sons Richard (yes another Richard) and Edward. Henry lasted 6 months. Why? Over reaching egotisical acts by Warwick. He got killed, silly billy. Edward was back. With an heir, Edward and a spare Richard. All seemed rosy. He made Richard (his brother not his son, no not either of the other two either they are already dead) Warden of the North. Richard (bone man) married Anne Neville (ironically the daughter of Richard (the Kingmaker one) and widow of Edward (not the brother, the son of Henry VI) and lived in the north. The other brother George had been married to Anne’s sister Isabel. Nothing like keeping it in the family. But he had backed several rebellions against his brother (Edward IV keep up) so had been executed for treason. By drowning in a vat of wine. Apparently at his own request. This is a bit of an aside but I fancied some guff about someone called something other than Richard. Or Edward. Or Henry. So brother one was out of the frame. Brother two was safely ensconced and kept busy in the north keeping the Scots at bay. Warwick was dead. Henry VI and his son were dead. He had a possible 2 male heirs. All looked rosy. Then Edward stupidly died. Bad move. His sons were 12 and 9. Too young to rule. Elizabeth Woodville (that’s the mum witchy person) wanted to control them. So did Richard (yes our Richard) so Richard intercepted Edward (and Richard) on their way to London with their mum and put them in the Tower of London. They never came out. Richard then made himself king. Not a great move. He alienated nearly everyone. The remaining Lancastrians (clinging on by their fingertips to a very spurious claimant (something to do with John of Gaunt and mistresses) Henry Tudor- yes I know you have heard of him keep listening, son, keep listening) and the Yorkists who believed Edward (the son of Edward) was rightful king which he was really but he had ‘inconveniently’ disappeared. Then Richard’s son Edward (don’t confuse him with Edward’s son Richard or indeed Edward’s son Edward both of whom are also dead but under more ‘mysterious’ circumstances) died. So he had no heir either. Ouch. Then he stupidly asked Britanny to give up Henry Tudor and Henry got wind and escaped into France. The French couldn’t wait to help upset the applecart and gave Henry (yes Tudor not the VI, he is dead) loads of dosh and mercenaries. Henry landed in Wales (where he had spent some time, had family and support) and marched into England. He met Richard (bone man) at Bosworth. Henry had less troops but those pesky Stanleys decided at the last minute to support Henry (once they could see he was winning- they liked to hedge their bets) and Richard made a fateful charge at Henry’s retinue and got himself killed. The last English monarch to be killed in battle. And then he got buried under a car park in Leicester. Henry became Henry VII (no that doesn’t mean he was Henry VI’s son (his son was called Edward and was married to Anne, daughter of Richard, before she married Richard, Edwards brother, son of Richard) just that he was the seventh king called Henry), married Elizabeth (the daughter not the widow of Edward IV) and created the Tudors and a new red and white rose. Ahhh. Then Richard (yes our Richard) was demonised by Shakespeare who we have to remember was writing for Elizabeth (not either of ours another one) who was queen at the time and the daughter of Henry, granddaughter of Henry and sister of Edward….no Richards though….
Got it?
Half way round the museum we gave up on the history. Just too many Richards. But we really enjoyed all the stuff about how they found his bones, proved they were his and decided what blow from what weapon killed him. Awesome. The replica plate mail was also cool. As was his new tomb (above). I am pleased Leicester won the York/ Leicester who should have the bones battle. They deserve it.
Ironically my children have uncles called, yes you guessed it Richard and Edward….weird huh?
This isn’t Eldest- he banned me from using his picture and I guess I have to respect that…don’t I?
Sorry for the radio silence. School holidays an’ all you know?
So here is a thing about Eldest. Well here are several things.
He is 12. A fact I find more startling than all the others. Somehow, somewhere, sometime he has morphed from my little baby to, well, nearly a teenager, and that brings me to…
His feet are bigger than mine.
He is taller than me. Already.
Well actually to be pedantic he is taller than me when we stand up. But shorter than me when we sit down. To preserve my own sense of pride I would therefore prefer to remain forever seated in his presence, this, however, is not really all that practical.
We are made differently. I have always been what my mother describes as long waisted. My top half (which clearly isn’t a half, again being pedantic) is longer than my bottom half. In other words I have stumpy legs. Luckily all the men I have been with haven’t been leg men. Although come to think of it they wouldn’t have been would they? Trousers are always too long. Tops conversely are often too short and ride up in a way that was probably faintly attractive (she muses hopefully) when I was young but is probably now erring towards faintly disturbing.
Eldest on the other hand is all leg. He has amazing legs. He dressed in drag for a murder mystery role play event at Scouts a few months back and wore wedge heels and I was actually jealous. Of his legs.
So when we sit my long body wins the day but when standing his legs that go on forever hold the sway.
And they do not appear to be slowing down any. At the beginning of this year he had three pairs of jeans that fitted. He is now down to one as the others have risen dangerously above ankle height, giving him a distinctly French appearance.
It doesn’t much matter in the summer when he lives in slobby shorts, length less critical as anywhere from above knee to mid thigh will suffice. But Autumn is approaching. The nights are drawing in. Soon school will be starting with the onset of mufti days. And so more jeans are required.
Today Youngest and daddy are at Cub camp together enjoying such delights as pizza making and inflatable obstacle courses (from what I can gather not simultaneously but you never know) and so Eldest, Middlest and I decided to go clothes shopping.
To be honest I wasn’t looking forward to it. For many reasons. Firstly Eldest has a pathological fear of me asking shop assistants for help. In fact if a shop assistant comes near him he will just leave. Which is slightly problematic. I blame his father who also has a pathological fear of impinging in any way on another human being he is not related or married to. Despite the fact it is their job. It is an extreme version of that ‘men will not stop to ask for directions’ thing. It is a little…annoying.
He also takes ages to get dressed and undressed and is paranoid someone will see him naked (well in underpants and a t shirt which is considerably more than he wears swimming a fact which appears to make no difference to him) through the closed changing room door. And so loathes trying things on.
He is long legged. As I may have mentioned. They are at least 31 inches long but he is also very, very slim. The sort of pre teenage look that some lads get. His waist is 26 inches. Max. Most men would dream of a figure like his. Unfortunately clothes shops do not.
He is too big for children’s clothes. And too small for men’s clothes. Last time we went looking, which was scarily only a few months ago (I am going to have to stop feeding him), I even ventured into those dark, intimidating looking clothes shops in the hope they would come up trumps for my adolescent. But despite appearances they too did not cater for his size.
Next do jeans up to age 16 but only on line. That’s helpful. Not. Once you get above their size ‘age 12’ you can no longer try stuff on in their stores without ordering it first. Really. Why is that? Stupid stupid stupid. I could have brought a three year old Eldest in any day to try on clothes. Getting my 12 year old to do it is more difficult. And he has less time. And less inclination. And is more fussy. And is less biddable. (Yes any mums of toddlers out there reading this, toddler years are hard but here’s a note to the wise it don’t get any easier, they just get taller and less amenable (yes less) and stay up later so you cannot sigh with relief over a glass of wine/ cup of tea until it is nearly your own bed time). So it would actually be more useful if they didn’t stock hundreds of baby grows with cute slogans on them such as ‘Worlds Best Dribbler’ which all babies regardless of size fit into and used those precious racks for size ‘age 15’ jeans. Order your baby grows on line people. I beg you.
And then even his current Next jeans which still vaguely fit are not a great fit. The length is fine. But the waist is miles too big. My kids all have this issue. Because they are what I consider normal. And by that I mean not fat. Which is apparently the new normal. In order to get a trouser length to fit them I have to pull on those adjustable waist straps until the buttons are straining. And until there is about half a meter of denim bunched up uncomfortably about the child’s waist. Not a great look.
Historically BHS has also come up with the goods clothes wise. But since Philip Green drove it into the ground (allegedly) my one fail safe store is now closed. And incidentally we also really loved their cafe which had flock wallpaper and cheap yet tasty meals. Sad.
So anyway after a long lie in (which was more harmonious than usual as the boys could have a TV each) during which I metaphorically girded my loins we ventured to our local shopping emporium. Heart in mouth. First we tried H&M. Someone had mentioned that they did teenage clothes. And they do do up to a size 14. So we tried on a few pairs of jeans that didn’t immediately make Eldest want to vomit. They were all too short and too big round the waist.
We then stopped off in Schuh as he also needed some more trainers for home use. During our mammoth school shoe/ trainer/ boot/ Astros expedition of a few weeks earlier I had run out of the will to live in Sports Direct and told Eldest he was just going to have to wear his (size 10 extremely expensive Nike) Astros for home use as well as hockey. So we could leave with some of my sanity still in tact. This was a mistake. He has worn them for rugby pre season training a couple of times (the ground being too parched for studs) and so they already smell like, well, a teenager’s sport shoes. Not good.
He had his eyes on some Vans. Which are apparently a type of shoe which someone my age would never have heard of. He was right. I hadn’t. Anyway the assistant in Schuh seemed initially helpful and fetched both a black and white pair of size 8s, the 9s on display making his feet look like flippers. The eagle eyed amongst you will have noted the discrepancy between the size of these shoes and those very expensive Nike Astros. Size 10. I would like to say the difference is all sock choice. But it isn’t. Some brands come up small. Some don’t. For the love of god could we not all just standardise?
We tried on the black pair. I felt around his feet, my summer holiday job in John Lewis c 1989 fitting kids shoes kicking in on some sub conscious level, for the quality of fit. The right shoe seemed snug. But then his right foot is a half size bigger than his left. The assistant confirmed that the 8 1/2 would be a better fit and allow some growing room. If only they came in half sizes. Which they don’t. But the nine, as we already knew, was too big. He had his heart set on them. And was offering to pay over half the cost. So I relented. We paid. And left.
Just outside the shop that sub conscious shoe fitter’s training kicked in again and I stopped to double check the sizes of both shoes. Which was mandatory for any trained shoe fitter before allowing a customer to leave the store. Sure enough the right shoe was actually a size 7. It all made sense now. We returned and swapped the shoe. The assistant didn’t bat an eyelid or apologise. Almost as if this happened all the time. Which taking into account their lax fitting technique it probably does.
Shoes purchased there was no putting it off any longer. We had to go into some more clothes shops. A few more men’s shops failed to come up trumps. As expected.
I then persuaded Eldest to try the Levi store. Surely of all their myriad, confusing style and size combos one would fit sonny long legs. The boys maintain that I only like Levi’s because of that ad with the man stripping down to his under crackers next to a washing machine, and I cannot deny that that advert did leave a lasting impression on my younger impressionable brain, but it isn’t the only reason. (Nick Kamen if I remember correctly which I probably do…photographically…)
As soon as we entered the store an assistant asked if he could help. With one arm restraining Eldest from bolting I used the other to point out his longer than life legs and slim waist and basically said ‘I need jeans for that’.
He was a great help. We ended up with two pairs of ‘extreme skinny’ jeans size 28/32 in black and stonewashed denim. I have to resist the urge to shudder gently at the stone wash which has far too many 80s connotations for me. But apparently they are back. The price was eye watering. But I was happy to pay it to avoid anymore traipsing.
The whole process had only taken an hour and a half. Remarkably. We rewarded ourselves with stuffed crust pizza. And decided it was a good idea he had gone for the 28s rather than the 27s. To allow for such excess.
I have three kids. Those of you who know me know this. Those that have bothered to read my ‘About’ pages will also know. As will regular readers. So for those of you who are new (where have you been?) I have three children. Two boys and a girl.
I had them close together. Deliberately. For a few reasons. One, I started late and needed to get on with it; two, I wanted them to get on; and three, I was very close in age to my own oldest brother and it worked well for us. There are three and a bit years between Eldest and Youngest. Middlest is, well, in the middle of that somewhere…
Overall it has been a good decision. My children are a ‘unit’. Wherever we go they are together. Ready made playmates. They are tight. It has always been the way and even now they are 12, 10 and 9 it still holds true, although Eldest is pulling away a little and tends to stay with us more whilst the other two maraude off.
But then his younger siblings also entice him into things he might otherwise feel too cool for. For instance recently at a local fair they persuaded him on a bouncy castle slide that his 12 year old self may have considered beneath his advanced years. Of course he had a ball.
They have a lot in common. A love of all sorts of sport. Playing and watching. Competitiveness. Music. The same school. Being outdoorsy. A liking for terrible Disney Channel shows. Shared history. In jokes. A love of inventing madcap games (recently they spent four hours in the paddling pool playing water polo, in six inches of water)…
Even now, when friends are very important at school, they still spend all their weekends and holidays together. They don’t seek out friends particularly. Although they could knock on doors. They just ‘are’. Together.
Don’t get me wrong we don’t live in utopia. They fight, squabble, hurt each other deliberately and by accident. An awful lot. But fundamentally they do get on.
I really want this to continue. Although I know it will get harder as adolescence creeps in.
For instance tonight after a day spent in the pool on holiday and an hour of family football (which nearly killed me, I am sure I will find some energy to write about that at some point) Youngest’s hair was a chloriney, sweaty, tangled mess of knotted bum length strands.
She and Middlest got in a warm bath together. I hung around ready to assist with the hair washing. I wasn’t required. I merely spectated surreptitiously from behind the door as Middlest lovingly gave his sister a hair wash. Carefully applying and rinsing off shampoo and then conditioner. Advised by Youngest on how much and where to apply it. Tipping her head around in the shower to get all the suds out. Asking if the temperature was OK. I heard him remark that it was just like they ‘used to do after football’. Before we moved house and she got her own shower room. He had missed it. So had she.
I guess at some point a brother and sister will stop this sort of behaviour. For modesty. Naturally. This might be the last year on holidays that they do such a thing. It nearly made me weep to think of it.
I am sure something else will take its place instead. I hope it does.
For what great lessons they learn from each other. How to treat the opposite sex. How to be a decent member of their own gender. How to fall out and make up. How far to push. How to negotiate. How to fail. How to say sorry. And how to be unconditionally loved.
So I have a ‘potty’ mouth. I am a terrible swearer. I curse a lot. Particularly in the car.
Of course I tried to moderate this behaviour when the kids were little and I think I did an OK job. The odd ‘bloody hell’ may have slipped out but generally I was better behaved, language wise.
Recently I have given up. I am not sure what is driving this. I may be peri-menopausal. Who knows? I am certainly getting older and in the manner of older people I have completely lost the ability to be patient. Especially with people driving cars. Or bikes. Or lorries. Or motorcycles. Or maybe it is just that the amount of driving I do has increased exponentially over recent years. And a lot of that driving is done under a certain degree of time pressure.
For instance today I dropped Youngest off at the second day of her week long football course at 9. Because it was the second day we were not able to register them ten minutes early. And so I was first out of the blocks when I was finally allowed to sign her in. Quick peck on the head and it was a race to the car to avoid the car park Jenga that would then ensue. I felt a bit like Anneka Rice in that helicopter game show but without the terrible eighties jump suit.
And the reason I was so rushed was that I needed to have both boys to their orchestra course by 9.30. The orchestra course is a minimum of 23 minutes away from our house. Which is about 6 minutes nearer to the orchestra course venue than the football course venue. I know it can be done in 23 minutes from my house because I managed to get them there at 9.29 am on the first day after having to turn round part way because Eldest remembered he had left his cello bow at home…I may have cursed then too…. On that occasion we re-left home at 9.06…
‘Cello bow gate’ happened on a Sunday. Today was Tuesday and therefore traffic was likely to be more of an issue.
I hate being late. My children also hate being late. Both boys were getting more and more anxious in the back seat. This consisted of them asking me every 30 seconds how much longer the journey was going to take and discussing between them who was going to brave Mrs Bentley, the course administrator and woodwind tutor, and what excuse they were going to give for their tardiness. I suggested they just tell the truth. That mummy had too many kids. They weren’t keen. Then they both needed the loo. Their bowels react badly to stress. All this wasn’t helping. Much.
During this carnage I may have called a lorry driver, who pulled out behind me into the fast lane on a very short bit of dual carriageway (the length of which I have got very very familiar with over the last three days as I race from drop off to drop off) to overtake an even slower lorry in front of me, when I was clearly indicating to pull out first, a tosser.
That was a new one on the boys. I had to ‘explain’ it. Whilst overtaking. I suggested they didn’t use the word in front of Mrs Bentley, who may inadvertently swallow her oboe reed. Or indeed in front of any adult. Even me.
Of course that is double standards. But, hey, they weren’t the ones going bumper to bumper with the juggernaut.
So today we hear that the UK Purchasing Managers Index is down to its lowest level in seven years. So no-one is buying stuff. In the aftermath of Brexit. Am I surprised. Nah. The Chancellor is planning ‘something’ in his Autumn Budget statement. When he reviews fiscal policy.
The fiscal policy in our house has also come under scrutiny today. This is how the land lies.
I don’t give my kids pocket money. It is something we have never got round to ‘negotiating’. We provide them with all their needs. And in my opinion their wants are more than catered for. They have a lot of stuff. Too much stuff really. So to my mind they do not need pocket money to spend on sweets or whichever collecting cards are currently in favour. We have many sorts of these cards on bookshelves. Pokemon, YoGhiOh, Match Attacks etc. The get used for a few weeks in the playground and then they lie discarded on surfaces around my house. Causing a dusting hazard.
And anyway every birthday and Christmas they are usually in receipt of a fair amount of cash or vouchers. Party invitees slip tenners in envelopes. Family are generous. Sometimes vouchers can be problematic but I will redeem them for stores they won’t use at face value. As long as it is a a store I would be buying stuff at in any event.
Youngest has just had her birthday. And is therefore in possession of a lot of cash. She spent some of it on shoes which were over my ‘ceiling price for a piece of footwear for an eight year old’ but still has quite a lot left.
Edlest had his birthday in January. An unfortunate incident with his phone (please see The Cost of Everything, The Value of Nothing if you need a recap) saw his cash stash all but wiped out.
Middlest’s birthday is in a little over a month. He was down to his last fiver.
On our shoe shopping spree a couple of days ago we nipped into a well known toy store for a browse. I had found some old vouchers and the kids wanted to spend them on water guns. Unfortunately the vouchers had gone out of date. So Eldest spent the last of his cash on a water pistol and Middlest spent his last fiver and wrote me an IOU for the remaining £10. It is taped to the fridge.
I considered allowing an IOU reasonable taking into account the short time frame until his birthday money comes in. Eldest asked for the same treatment. Err no I am not waiting until Christmas. Think again matey. He is not a good bet, lending wise. No collateral. My kids really need to learn that I used to bounce cheques and turn down car loans for a living…
Yesterday a series of events which I will not bore you with but which involved Pokémon Go, whining, and multiple warnings, culminated in me threatening to remove Eldest’s phone for a week. He claimed not to have understood the ultimatum. The other two heard it loud and clear though. He ended up phoneless. I don’t go back on my threats. Ever. It. is. Very. Bad. Parenting. To. Go. Back. On. One’s. Threats. If one goes back on one’s threats they then think they have won. I am the alpha here goddamit. It is a position I am keen to maintain at all costs.
He is so bored he has resorted to helping his sister with her colouring in and now fancies one of those adult colouring in books for himself. When I say adult I mean intricate not the other thing. Three pounds was the cheapest he could find. I asked him if he had three pounds with which to buy the book. No. No book then, sonny Jim.
I explained that I was happy for them to earn cash by doing chores. The going rate here is £2 per bathroom clean. It is a job I hate, they do it quite well, at least better than it not being done at all.
The boys hatched a plan to clean all three bathrooms and thereby glean £6. Youngest wasn’t having any of that and pulled rank to be allowed to clean her own en suite. I agreed even though she has no need of the £2. They set to.
The whole process was loud. Middlest donned his old school art apron to tackle their toilet. It is a full body PVC affair. With sleeves. When I asked if it was strictly necessary he reminded me that daddy uses that toilet. Fair enough then.
It took them about an hour. They did an ok job.
I doled out pound coins.
But not to Middlest. I merely reduced his IOU to £6. He wasn’t best pleased. And stormed off.
But fair’s fair. Three more bathrooms and we will be even.
It’s a harsh life lesson. But one I think it important to learn.
So it is finally hot here. Seriously uncharacteristically hot. More than 30 degrees.
We (and by ‘we’ I mean the British) have been moaning on for weeks about our lack of summer. Discussing precipitation and lack of UV.
Someone was listening and so now, almost out of nowhere, we are basking in Mediterranean style sunshine. And of course now we still aren’t happy. We never are. Most people’s kids are still in school. People are having to commute still. Soon the railways will shut as the tracks have become too hot. The shops had given up on summer ever materialising and put all their summer clothes on sale and so now we have to trawl the stuffed, disorganised racks to find some linen trousers that aren’t size 20. And so we are now moaning that it is too hot.
Most schools break up on Friday. And everyone is assuming the rain and mid teen temperatures will then return. It is quite likely.
I am fortunate. Mine are already off school. Yesterday we spent six hours shopping for footwear. Yes six hours. In the heat. That is a whole other blog though.
So I had planned a lazy day for today. Some friends are popping round about four for tea. I had to nip to town for a birthday gift. But otherwise I thought filling the paddling pool was as ambitious as it was going to get.
I achieved the gift purchasing within an hour before it got too hot. I also made the most of the Debenhams swimwear and lingerie sale. Must try all that on later. I don’t try on swimwear and lingerie in the store. There is something unnerving about stripping down to one’s altogether in semi public. And in any event the lighting in those changing rooms is soooo unflattering. At least that is my excuse. I find I look my best in dim lighting.
I got home and hung out some laundry to take advantage of the oven baked temperatures. Then I went into the shed to retrieve the paddling pool.
Part of me thought that if I set it up early enough then the sun would heat the water over the course of the day and allow me to merely use the outside tap to fill it. This is probably nonsense. But I did not really fancy hauling buckets of hot water from the kitchen tap into the garden. In the heat. Have I mentioned the heat?
I located the paddling pool under a dust sheet at the back of the shed. We purchased this paddling pool about two years ago. It is large. Not as large as those that come with filters and require a licence from your water company to fill, but large.
I decided on a large one when Eldest slid down the slide into our old ‘Spiderman’ paddling pool (diameter circa 1.2m) and promptly slid straight out the other side. They could all stand up in it but had to take turns to sit. The new pool was quite expensive. Certainly more than I remembered paying for the Spiderman set up which also came with a free beach ball AND rubber ring- both of which were still going strong. But I remember being extremely impressed when this new pool came with a heavy duty patching kit…well, I thought, years of service will negate the cost.
So anyway as I said I located the pool. Unfortunately our ‘friendly’ mouse family that reside in the shed had also located it and torn it into shreds. I like to think that we have a family of ‘friendly’ mice, all pink ears and twitching whiskers, because the alternative is too awful for words. The nest I found was small and so I do believe it is mice. Hopefully endangered harvest mice or something equally cute. And please do not get back to me with statistics which say things like ‘you are only ever 200m from a rat’….and such like. It won’t help.
So the paddling pool was a no go. I calculated that each ‘use’ had cost about £17…but at least it had kept some friendly rodents in nesting material. Moreover I had promised the friends a paddling pool. And my offspring. So a ‘hunting out new paddling pool’ trip was on the cards. The old paddling pool was not only shredded but also smelt a tad…..fruity. Putting it politely. A ‘tip’ trip was also on the cards.
I have needed to go to the tip for a while. The garage is full of cardboard. And used jars. And a few used bottles. And old clothes that no one else wants. And of course after my footwear escapades of the previous day my house was full of old shoes.
So I emptied a fair proportion of my garage into my boot. Along with the fruity, shredded paddling pool.
Off we went. I promised the kids they could post glassware into the bottle bank as a sort of bribe. They still like doing this. Odd people. We got to the tip. It was hot. Have I mentioned that? It was only after depositing cardboard, supervising glass posting, getting rid of that paddling pool and manhandling large sacks of old clothing into a bank two feet taller than me that I realised all those old shoes were still on my kitchen floor. Damn it.
Anyway there is a large superstore near the tip which to my mind was bound to have a paddling pool. It did. But it was only 1.2m in diameter. Never mind we bought baguettes for lunch. And went off to the DIY store opposite. Some paddling pools were on offer. Again only 1.2m. Yet more shops that had been taken off guard by our sudden and unexpected summer.
By this point the heat and exertion had made me very, very hungry. As I filled up with petrol at the superstore forecourt I was in a quandary. Whether to go to the toy store on my ‘way’ home. Or go home, eat and return later.
In the end we went to the toy store on the way home, ignoring our rumbling stomachs and, according to Youngest, parched mouths. Youngest had remembered seeing the exact same paddling pool, without holes and mice wee, at this toy store when we were in there yesterday purchasing water guns as a slight detour from shoe shopping hell.
She was right. There was one pool left. Once we got someone to serve us we left for home.
We really enjoyed our baguettes. During them Youngest checked to make sure I would be adding hot water to the pool when erecting it. Damn it. Again.
I am now hiding with a cup of tea before braving setting up the pool. I need to find the electric pump. There is no way I can manually blow the thing up. Not in this heat. And then set the hose running. And I guess ferry the odd bucket of hot water out there.
I am going to get them to sign affidavits in blood swearing that they will stay in the pool for longer than ten minutes and go back in tomorrow even if there is cut grass and the odd dead fly floating in it.
I don’t think it likely though…
Footnote: Handy Hint Service-During the filling of a paddling pool it is always wise to see if the paddling pool has a plug, and then check if that plug is in…my lawn is nicely watered anyway…
So on our ‘Things We Must Do in the Long Summer Holiday’ list the kids had written ‘Go to Bounce’.
In case you are not familiar with this particular activity Bounce is a shed in a city near us which is home to 100 plus trampolines. Eldest and Middlest have each been to a party there. It was a ‘thing’ about a year ago. In the manner of children’s parties the herd has now moved on. Mainly to the outside Waterpark on a nearby lake. Even looking at children in wet suits in that lake makes me shiver. And worry about algae and stuff. We did a similar thing in Greece last summer. In the Med. Air temperature 38 degrees. Sea temperature 28 degrees. Currently here the air temp is about 18 and I am pretty sure the lake has made double figures but probably only just. It looked more fun in Greece. But hey each to their own.
I am digressing. I apologise.
Youngest has had a bee in her bonnet about Bounce since I had to decline two birthday parties on her behalf that were being held at this palace of bouncy wonderment. To hear her talk you would think this shed was some sort of utopia. With added dodgeball.
So I agreed to let them come. We were going to do it yesterday but then we went on a bike ride down the new bypass (on the cycle route in case readers of Cycle Rage are wondering) and had lunch in our supermarket of choice. That sounds like I am being coy. I am not really. Our supermarket of choice is Sainsburys. What can I say? I like their meat. And the fact that they let me park there on Fridays so I can collect the kids without queuing up for half an hour to leave the school carpark. I owe them. Plus all my ‘favourites’ are saved on their web site. And I am blowed if I am going to go through the rigmarole of starting all over somewhere else. I can almost do my on line grocery shopping in my sleep.
By golly I am digressing again. So after our jaunt on bikes we decided to save Bounce for another, less exciting day. Today is that day.
I booked an hour’s slot on line. And paid an extortionate amount for the privilege. Then I had to buy two pairs of ‘Bounce’ socks. Eldest had brought his home from his party. The parents of the child that Middlest attended the party of are obviously more savvy. They probably kept all the £2.49 pairs of socks and got a reasonable used price on e bay. I was expecting quite a lot from these socks. I generally only pay £2.50 for a five pack of sports socks….
We arrived. Only the independent schools are off this week. So we had thought it might be quite quiet. We hadn’t reckoned on school parties. The double decker in the car park was a little unnerving. I approached the reception desk. Luckily I had printed off all my waiver forms and registration forms and booking forms. These basically consist of reams of paper in which you agree that if you die it is all your own fault, you muppet. And that you won’t get the extortionate entrance fee back in that event.
The lady then asked me if I was staying. I hadn’t booked myself onto the trampolines. I don’t do trampolines. The reason I don’t will be self evident to anyone who has borne three kids. My children haven’t borne three kids so I had to do a little ‘delicate’ explaining. How to tell your kids they have shot your pelvic floor and you are therefore unable to partake of a fun activity with them without making them feel guilty for it? I think I navigated that quite well. The adverts around the place suggesting that Bounce is a ‘family activity’ are clearly designed by marketing executives who have not had children. Or are male.
So I told the lady I would be staying as youngest is 8 and surely therefore too young to be left unattended? She agreed, she was too young to be left. And then she charged me £2.99 for the privilege of supervising my own offspring. My god. Money for old rope. Luckily this entitled me to spend £2.99 in the café.
We acquired the socks. I was a little ‘disappointed’. I am not sure why normal socks would not have worked. I suppose they lack the ‘grips’ on the bottom. And are not bright orange. All my kids possess Christmas slipper socks though. I think they should have been allowed. However unseasonal they are.
We watched the Safety Briefing. In synopsis. If you die it is all your own fault. You muppet.
They donned the amazing socks. I decided to not bother with a locker. Which would take my pound and not return it. So I carted all the jumpers and shoes and socks (of a non grippy, non orange nature) with me.
We entered bouncy utopia. It quickly became apparent that I would not be able to spectate from the café. As it is below the level of the trampolines. This seemed a little unfair as I had paid £2.99 for the privilege of spectating. I had expected a viewing gallery at least. Oh well. I spent my ‘voucher’ on tea and a piece of Rocky Road. The offspring went off to bounce.
I tried to use the ‘free’ WiFi. Which necessitated that I ‘check in’ on Facebook. These people have an eye for the buck that’s all I can say. I deleted the post once I was safely logged in. Sod you Bounce and your ‘free’ WiFi providing you with ‘free’ advertising. I am not sure why this bothers me so much. But it does. I never check in on Facebook. Ever. I felt dirty.
The place was packed. There seemed to be an entire sixth form in hogging the Slam Dunk area. And another younger school party in the dodge ball arena. And queuing up outside.
Luckily the teenagers’ time was soon up, and the other party left half an hour later. Once I had finished my tea (no food or drink allowed in the bounce arena) and decided to risk leaving my bags in the café I climbed the steps to take a few videos of my springy, flippy children. Just to pretend I was bothered about their antics. In these situations (risk of death, which would be all your own fault, you muppet) I find it is best to just not watch and instead write blog entries.
All too soon their hour was up. Although they would never have coped with two. They were a sweaty mess. As shown above.
I am hoping they will all sleep well tonight. That might provide some ‘compensation’.
So today I was assembling a netball post in the kitchen. This opening probably needs some explanation. Soon Youngest is turning 9. In keeping with our plans to banish the children to the garden for the whole summer holidays her main present is a netball post.
Thus far Operation Banish has not been a huge success as it has fallen foul of our shocking British summer.
However mine break up from school tomorrow for eight and a half weeks. Yep read it and weep. Eight and a half weeks. And so the weather had better pick up to allow Operation Banish to move to full, well, operation and provide me with the time to brush my teeth and occasionally do something other than coax children off electronics. And when I say ‘coax’ I really mean ‘shout at futilely and repetitively’. If the weather doesn’t cooperate I will provide copious amounts of old small hand towels for trampoline wiping. And they can learn to play table tennis in the rain. Extreme table tennis.
So anyway as this is my last full day alone for the said eight and a half weeks it occurred to me that I ought to assemble the netball post. So as not to end up doing it at 9pm on the evening before her birthday. Which wouldn’t be ideal. Especially as I am singing in a concert on that particular evening.
I started assembly on the kitchen floor. There had been some low starred Amazon reviews based on missing pieces and badly aligned holes. Along with one lady who had found the instructions ‘incomprehensible’.
Of course I had taken these reviews with a pinch of salt as the vast majority had been favourable. Read enough reviews on line and you are bound to find someone grumbling about something. We have been to some lovely all inclusive resorts abroad almost universally praised on Trip Advisor. But there will always be some ‘one star’ reviewer complaining that there wasn’t enough choice at the breakfast buffet which when you first attend blows your mind with its vastness. Especially when compared to the two slices of toast and half a grapefruit that is your usual fare.
Anyway I digress. These reviews were another reason I decided to erect the netball post ahead of time. Just in case Nut C was missing. Or my holes failed to line up.
I initially thought the net was missing. Quite an issue really. For a netball post. But, no, on closer inspection it was concealed in the nut and bolt bag. It took a bit of untangling from the washers but all parts were present and correct. I was good to go.
Those ‘incomprehensible’ instructions were not the worst I have seen. They contained words which is an improvement on some flat pack I have attempted in the past. The pictures were a little ambiguous but you know a bit of common sense goes a long way.
I struggled with understanding the wheel, axle, bottom post, struts configuration. Until I realised that I had the struts on the wrong sides. Luckily I had yet to retrieve the socket set from the garage so my nuts were still loose. I always leave my nuts loose until I am sure they are all in the right place. Before turning the screw so to speak. I learnt this the hard way a long time ago with a bookshelf and an Allen key.
It was after sorting this little issue that I realised building the post in the kitchen was a bad idea. I stood up to answer the phone and hit my head on the corner of the worktop which I had managed to work my way under during my exertions. It took quite a crack. The granite seemed unaffected, my forehead less so. I failed to get to the phone as stars danced before my eyes. Quite a lot more than one too.
I then tried to get the remaining four post sections in the right order. And learnt that netball posts are quite a lot higher than ceilings. I think the downlighter has survived. I relocated to the patio. Which put me in full view of the roofers next door. Always a worry to have real craftsmen able to observe ones amateur attempts.
I also understood why the health and safety part of the instructions asked me to take care if using a ladder during assembly. I had no desire to use a monkey wrench and socket set up a ladder. I also had a quick look at the net attachment which seemed to require a degree in origami. Again not something that should be attempted up a ladder. I usually stick ridgidly to the instructions but this time decided to do things out of order. So my last nut tightening was going to be doable from ground level.
That misaligned hole issue mentioned by other purchasers raised its head on the second to third post section attachment. A hammer took care of it. Which was a relief as some of the other reviewers had mentioned drills. Gulp. I have a drill. But it scares my family when I use it. And it is a hammer drill (bought to combat the solid brick walls in our previous abode which resisted curtain poles quite doggedly) which is probably not a precision enough instrument to deal with re drilling a hole in a cylindrical post without the aid of a vice. Which I don’t have. Thank god for the hammer. Luckily I had double checked I had the right bolt in first because it ain’t never coming out again. Ever.
So I managed to get it all together and set to with my socket set and adjustable spanner. I love the ratchet sound that that tool emits. It makes me feel all ‘handy’.
The last step was to fill the base with sand and water. Luckily when we moved house last year our extremely efficient removal men had packed the half used bag of kiln dried sand left by our block paving layers in 2006. In case we ever wanted to brush more kiln dried sand into our driveway. They recommended we do this every year after a jet wash. We had used precisely none of it. I wasn’t going to move it. I was going to leave it for our purchasers one of whom lays floors for a living and might have been more inclined to re sand his drive way.
But no it came in the van. After 10 years it is no longer kiln dried. More ‘beach after the tide has just gone out’ sand. With slugs and worms. I tried to remove most of those before entombing them in a plastic netball post base. It didn’t really pour. I scooped it in through the small hole. Slowly.
This step took longer than I thought.
All that remained was to wheel it around the side of the house, move some logs and ‘hide’ it between the two chimney stacks. It isn’t really that well hidden but then my kids are very unobservant so I am hopeful all will be well.
All I need to do now is find the ball pump for the ‘flat packed’ netball I also bought on line. I don’t know why I thought it would come inflated. It didn’t.
Birthday present wrapping used to be a whole lot easier.
It is nearly the end of term. All my children have done end of year assessments. We have concerts and sports days left. Cricket matches and charities afternoons. Swimming galas and house rounders. The last few weeks are busy.
As such I was hoping for a let off homework wise.
Unfortunately this is homework ‘silly season’.
In the last few weeks of term Eldest has been doing ‘mini projects’. One in science, one in RE and one in Geography. I am sure the teachers love them. I imagine them on Facebook or taking down classroom displays whilst their charges get on with ‘independent’ work.
To be fair Eldest managed his Geography project quite well alone and I had little involvement. Except to correct some fundamental errors in his map reading of our local area.
The science project has involved me driving him to a mates’s house so they could recreate the solar system out of polystyrene and represent the phases of the moon with Oreo cookies. I think the mate’s dad did get involved. Eldest mentioned a man cave. And the resulting model does imply that said dad has a lot of hardware type stuff ‘lying around’. Good job they did it there. We don’t have a man cave. Or lots of bits of stuff hanging around. Thanks mate’s dad…. All Eldest needs to do now is get said stuff to school tomorrow along with his cello and games kit. Luckily my friend is driving…
The threatened RE project has yet to materialise. Eldest did mention making a model of Exeter cathedral, which we recently visited. I put my fingers in my ears and sang ‘la la la la la’. Repeatedly. And am hoping it has all just ‘gone away’. If not we will stick a bit of coloured cellophane on a shoe box and call it quits…. It could be worse it could be making the Taj Mahal out of matchsticks…
In music they are filling in the last few lessons by learning to play a contemporary song in small groups. Eldest is his group’s pianist. I and the rest of my family are slowly going mad being subjected to the opening bars of ‘Seven Years’ over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. He does not seem to be able to get beyond those opening bars. I have been roped in to help. Which seems to consist mainly of me shouting ‘B flat major chord’ at him a lot, whilst washing up. I used to like the song. Now? Not so much. ‘Once I was 46 years old, Eldest said to me, got to learn the song, now I hate it all so much’. Or something like that…
Middlest’s maths teacher decided that setting ‘making chocolate brownies’ for homework was a ‘good idea’. Some sort of guff about ratios. How spurious? They are ‘due in’ on Wednesday. Of course Middlest has also been selected for cricket matches on both Monday and Tuesday evenings and also has other commitments on those nights. So guess what we were doing at 7pm today?
I am sure the maths teacher loves ‘marking’ this homework. And feels he is being cool and hip. What he is really being is a right royal pain in the arse. I like to cook with my kids. But I would like to choose the time. And the recipe. If it is all the same to you Mr Maths teacher.
And for the avoidance of doubt I don’t want to make chocolate brownies at 7pm on a Sunday evening.
musingsponderingsandrants 
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