musingsponderingsandrants

Parenting, profundities and humour

Category: Personal

Sea Legs — July 21, 2015

Sea Legs

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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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Youngest… — July 16, 2015

Youngest…

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Tomorrow my little girl is 8.

I have actually got no idea where the last 8 years have gone.

It seems like yesterday that she was a tiny, crumpled baby, still to unfurl, nestled snugly, sometimes much to snugly for a hot July, on my chest asleep and content.

I remember before she was born telling myself to enjoy those early days. I knew she was to be my last baby. I knew it would be the last time I would hold a newborn and inhale that just born smell which lasts several days.

I didn’t enjoy my first days with eldest. I was in shock. Completely overwhelmed by the whole experience. I was fumbling around not sure what to do and which way to turn. I read too many books. I got too hung up on doing it all right. I was self conscious and exhausted. I was lonely and unsure how to forge my own path. I got there in the end. But it was a tough road for several months.

When middlest was born the whole birth and early days experience was so different and so much easier that I went the other way and did far too much too soon. I took him to meet friends the day he was born. I ran around after eldest trying to keep everything ‘normal’. Almost inevitably about a week in I ended up in hospital with post partum fever on IV antibiotics and so my early days with him were somewhat marred.  And then he also became quite badly and scarily ill a few weeks later and we had yet another really tough time.

So with youngest I was determined to enjoy those days. Relax. Allow people to help. Do what we felt was best not what the books said. Put her down to sleep on her front if she preferred it. Stay in PJs all day.

And it worked. Those early days with her are some of the happiest of my life. Although in hindsight it all went too quickly I can actually remember some of it going deliciously slowly. Hours listening to music in my newly finished conservatory just holding her and allowing her to sleep on me. Against all ‘that advice’.

She was a joy, not always easy- until we tried that sleeping on her front thing we got hardly any sleep ourselves for five days!- but a joy none the less.

And that is how it has remained. Happy Birthday darling youngest.

End of Term — July 10, 2015

End of Term

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Today is my children’s last day of term….well I say day it is actually half a day as I need to go back to collect them at 12 noon.

I always have mixed feelings at this time of year.

On the one hand I am immensely looking forward to having them all to myself for a few weeks. I am looking forward to not getting up at 6am. I will not miss the homework. I am excited about my temporary, semi retirement from taxi driving. We will have adventures with friends and family. I will be able to cook meals that take longer than 15 minutes. We are all excited about a family holiday all together somewhere warm and relaxing.

Yes we will still do music practise, I will try to finally help my daughter to learn to tell the time reliably. We will do the occasional times table. But we will also watch far too much TV, play on computers, doss in the garden, do messy craft (I have a yearning to finish off that Belle loom band character which still languishes half done on a loom since youngest and I started it in the last summer holidays) and read books.

We will fall out. I will miss having time to think and write this blog. There will be altercations and contretemps. Siblings will be physically abused, there will be crying and tantrums. My house will descend into even more chaos than usual (husband gird your loins)…

But I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Because on the flip side to the end of term is the fact that another year has slipped away. Almost unnoticed. My children are another year older. Edging inexorably towards adulthood. So these times are precious.

The summer offers a brief moment when the world slows down slightly. A time to really reconnect.

And for that I am eternally grateful.

Reunited, and it feels so good…. — July 7, 2015

Reunited, and it feels so good….

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lost phone

So today I lost my mobile phone. Well actually I lost it yesterday but I did not realise until today. This would never have happened if I had been wearing jeans but hey that’s the downside of linen trousers. They may be cooler but they don’t have the requisite back pocket for phone insertion.

I got back from the school run this morning and it occurred to me that I hadn’t checked my phone in a while. And then I couldn’t find it. So I rang it and listened to the deathly silence. Then my brain clunked round and I remembered that it was low on battery. Oh and on silent. Because I was at a concert yesterday evening. Oh and I recall now it was low on battery as I had been filming my son singing. And then I remembered I had put it on the hymn book shelf in front of my pew. Next to my son’s water bottle. And then I recalled thinking to myself  ‘I mustn’t forget that phone, really it is a silly place to store it, it is quite hidden there, between the kneelers’….

And then I retraced my movements at the end of the concert and realised I had left it exactly in that silly place. Nestled, low on battery and alone, on it’s vibrate mode.

And then I felt sick. Literally.

Panic set in. I am not really wedded to my phone. I do not usually use it for email or Facebook. In fact I only really set myself up properly on it when I had those problems with my land line and Internet when I was moving house. I had recently downloaded all the photos so the only lost footage was of that concert.

But, and it’s a big but, I have no record of all my stored phone numbers. When I dropped my last phone and smashed it I learnt a valuable SIM versus phone memory lesson and now all my contacts are on both handset and SIM. That doesn’t help when you lose both. Getting all those numbers back would take ages. And ages. Let alone the possibility that someone may have needed me this morning. Like my kids’ school. Or a friend with a coffee emergency.

So I decided to breathe into a paper bag to calm down and think about how to retrieve it.

The phone was locked in a church. In a small rural village a few miles away. I searched the web and found the names of two church wardens along with contact numbers. The first wasn’t in but the second answered and was just off to the church. After I had described my seating position as accurately as possible she promised to have a good look. And also did I own the bag of music left behind? Er, no, admittedly my ‘not forgetting things’ credentials are slightly dented here but I am not that bad…

She would call me back either way but not until lunchtime when she returned from her various church ‘wardeny’ duties.

I called hubby to alert him. In case he needed me, texted and then got no response, and got worried or angry, actually probably the latter. He didn’t answer his phone. But he called back later to see if I was OK and I explained the situation. He thought I should contact my mobile provider in case someone had purloined the phone and was running up a bill calling sex lines in Nigeria… I thought it unlikely….the phone being locked in a rural church in Middle England. So I decided to take the risk and wait for my lovely lady to call me back.

I spent the rest of the morning feeling slightly bereft. As if someone had cut off my left arm. I went to a meeting, started slightly at the sign asking me to switch my mobile to silent, rub it in why don’t you?, and lept every time the land line rang. Simon from an Energy Conservation group got short shrift. Shorter than usual…

Eventually just as I had decided to turn on the tennis, update my friends on Facebook and eat salad the phone did ring and my church warden was on the line. She had the phone! A miracle had occurred. Akin to loaves and fishes in my mind.

She wondered if she could send the phone into my son’s school the next day with the lady from the congregation who had organised the concert. I had a flash of how this might go. The worried look on eldest’s face as he gained possession of a mobile device strictly prohibited in school except for those on buses. Of which he is not one. And so I enquired  if I could drive over to collect my device. The friendly church lady was ‘turning on a sixpence’, a phrase I have only heard in relation to small cars, so I promised to jump in my car and head straight over. She described her house’s location. She said I could ring on route if I got stuck…hmmm not really.

Anyhow I found the house. She didn’t immediately hear my knocking but my increasing desperation finally roused her. And, after some basic security checks as she wanted to be careful, I was reunited with my phone.

And what a moment it was. Relief. Happiness. Overwhelming gratefulness to the lovely church lady. A feeling of completeness.

Disappointingly there were only three missed texts. One from my husband replying to my message, one from Sky with my latest bill, and one from my ironing lady. So maybe I am not indispensable then…

But, how exciting, there were two missed calls. No one ever actually calls….quick check the log…my children may be in need… Oh….that’s right… those missed calls will be me trying to find the phone earlier….

Still doing that….

So my phone and I drove happily home. And I changed into jeans and inserted it into my back pocket.

All was right with the world.

Disclaimer….the picture above is not of my arse…. shame…

Manners Maketh the Man — July 5, 2015

Manners Maketh the Man

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manners-maketh-the-man-2

I drive my children to school. Luckily I share the morning trip with a friend and so I only do the early run one week out of two but I pick up every night, often twice.

The school is on a busy road and I have to turn right out of the driveway to continue my journey home. Lots of people approach the driveway from the left and have to turn in across the flow of traffic.

As we are British a sort of etiquette has developed. If you are approaching from the right and need to turn in left to the driveway you hold up the traffic behind you. Anyone approaching from the left then also holds up their flow of traffic. One car is allowed to turn right out of the driveway, then the car approaching from the left turns in across the flow and finally that person who is coming in by turning left does their manoeuvre. Please keep up.

This does mean the car turning in left has to wait. But in a few minutes- after they have disgorged their offspring, someone else’s offspring, a cello and two violins, four games bags and 4 school bags (that’s probably just me though- is it wrong that I feel a frisson of pride as we execute this?- and only on a Monday)- they will be that car trying to turn out right onto a busy road in rush hour. It is a kind of school run Karma… you give, you receive.

The system works. Mostly. And the reason it sometimes doesn’t work is that some people (one might call them selfish) do not adhere to the rules. And this drives me utterly batty.

Either these other people are new to the school (although that is highly unlikely except in September when an element of leeway is given), stupid (quite possibly, I worked out the turning in/ turning out etiquette within about two days of beginning this school run) or ill mannered.

And if there is one thing I cannot abide is it is bad manners. I am a fairly tolerant person in many ways. I accept that all people are not the same and come with their own unique characters. They will view the world differently to me (I married a Tory supporter for goodness sake) and approach things in a way possibly alien to me. But I believe that one thing should be common to all of us. The ability to be polite.

It begins with the p’s and q’s. My children had this drummed into them from as early as they could speak, and then as quickly as possible progressed from merely adding a please onto a demand to asking in a full sentence beginning ‘Please may I…’. And importantly I speak to my children in the same way. Asking politely and thanking routinely. The first time. I do escalate to demanding once I am ignored a couple of times.

So that is important but it is also a whole host of other things.

Being on time, not pushing into queues, enquiring after people’s welfare, replying when spoken to, smiling at people who are helping us, cashiers, shoe fitters, ticket collectors, sending apologies for any absence, holding doors, allowing other people to go ahead of you (but clearly not in a queue unless, say, I have an entire week’s shopping and they are buying a toothbrush), replying to party invitations within the designated timeframe, dealing with paperwork in a timely fashion. I could find many more I am sure.

Often I get comments in my offsprings’ reports or at parents’ evenings that they are well mannered and polite. It is not something I need to hear. I find it deeply depressing that this makes them unusual enough for it to be commented on.

I don’t know about you but interacting with a polite, well mannered individual, whatever their age, gives me a warm glow. Whilst the opposite leaves me spitting feathers.

Pride Cometh.. — July 2, 2015

Pride Cometh..

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As the more astute of you may have realised by now I am a SAHM… that is parenting forum speak for Stay At Home Mum. It hardly encompasses my role but, hey, that’s a post for another day.

In the days BC (before children) I had a job. Actually it was a career of over a decade in duration. I earned more than my husband. It was really quite high powered and despite constantly feeling like an imposter I was surprisingly good at it. Annually I would fill in those endless, tedious forms about my achievements over the last year and sit in front of a manager- whose only real interest was in my sales results- and receive feedback. And hopefully a bonus and possibly a pay rise. Occasionally over that 12 year period I was promoted which meant a definite pay increase and more people to sit in front of every year and provide feedback to.

And usually if the manager could see past my slight ‘oddness’ – variously described as scruffiness, dislike of networking, lack of killer instinct- I got positive feedback, maybe a few development areas too, but generally a lot of good stuff.

And also I had grateful clients, colleagues who needed me to help them out, managers whose butts I saved.

And I miss it. I miss sitting down a few times a year and being told I was good at something. By someone other than my mother. I miss the cards from clients.  I miss the gratefulness of colleagues.

Now my days are ruled in large part by small people and a house. They are not that good at feedback. Really. So for instance I take it as a positive if the food I provide is eaten by everyone without comment. That is a win. Comments are usually only negative. The abode of course doesn’t speak. It cannot thank me for being dusted. The wall cannot provide gratitude for being painted.

And so the job is long on tedium and drudgery and short on thanks.

Therefore when my off spring achieve something amazing I feel not only the usual mother’s pride but also a slight sense of validation. I know this is wrong. In my heart I know that I am in no way responsible for the wonderful things they achieve. That they are their own people who work hard at something or are just (lucky them) naturally good at something else. But I feel it anyway.

This blog has helped. People like reading it, or so they say! I certainly feel less of a need to post about my children on Face book as a result. (Which incidentally is such a hot topic of debate- I personally love hearing about my friend’s children’s achievements because otherwise how would I know?-but I know opinion is divided).

So there you have it a mostly silent readership is providing that little bit of validation. I will still feel pride at all my kids achieve, who wouldn’t, but maybe I will see those achievements for what they are and not as a reflection of how well I am ‘performing’. And I will just be able to enjoy the moment.

Let’s Not Skirt Around the Issue — June 30, 2015

Let’s Not Skirt Around the Issue

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ra ra

Today I am wearing a skirt. Those that know me in real life will no doubt be gasping in amazement. I don’t really do skirts. The last time I wore one unreluctantly it looked like that and it was 1983.

I am only ‘doing’ one today as I have just returned from a cervical smear test. I did ask myself if this was something I wanted to air in public (careful with the spelling there Sarah) but as the old smear test is just one of the many ignominies us women have to face why not just share that reality?

The invitations (yep that is how they word them- it stops short of black tie- as if that somehow makes it better) come round alarmingly fast and you sit there with a mounting sense of dread believing the NHS may have made an error in recalling you so quickly. But then you realise that actually, yes, last time you suffered this procedure one of your children wasn’t yet at school and they were sat asking awkward questions from behind the curtain. So although it feels like yesterday when you last chatted about the weather whilst someone slid a metal implement somewhere metal implements have no business being it really was three plus years ago. And so I have decided to just let it all hang out. Again.

Skirts are good for cervical smears. It avoids having to strip off your entire bottom half and with some delicate drapeage one can still believe one is retaining a certain air of delicacy. It’s all an illusion obviously but psychologically it helps.

I realise now that maybe this entry should come with some sort of warning. To be honest this whole piece is probably going to be too much for some of my readers. Mostly the male ones I imagine, especially those who are not yet fathers or those who stayed firmly at the head end during the delivery of their offspring.

You see the cervical smear is a total stroll in the park compared to the total lack of dignity that accompanies childbirth. Until you have had your feet in stirrups with some random doctor trying to repair your reproductive area you can’t say you have reached the bottom, dignity wise. To be honest after the twenty hours it took me to extrude eldest I would have let anyone have a go with that repair just so I could get some sleep…ahh sleep..well of course that didn’t happen. What? a student wants to come in?- hey! I am high on gas and air- bring in a whole class, just get me sorted!

Anyway before I lose loyal readers in droves back to the point (if I ever had one). My reasons for not wearing skirts then.

My main reason is legs. I do have legs. Two of them. Which I believe is the usual complement. I have found that my legs look best in trousers. Specifically jeans. Boot cut. Jeans are my wardrobe mainstay. I will venture into leggings and boots in winter and linen trousers when temperatures hit 25 plus. But usually I am in the old denim.

And so my legs are, how shall I put this, slightly neglected. It flits across my mind occasionally, usually when I see some yummy mummy wafting around in a frothy summer number, that I could don one of my two skirts. And then I remember the deforestation that that would entail. And I reach for the denim.

I do envy women who ‘sort’ themselves out every day. I just can’t fit it in. To be honest I sometimes don’t fit in teeth brushing until gone 11am. And before you suggest I get up earlier we are up at 6 daily it’s just my actual job (the kids) seems to get in the way. And don’t get me started on moisturizing. Really?

And then recently my house has been full of men. All the time. This week one was ensconced in my bedroom for two days from 8-6 and whilst I admired his dedication to building my new wardrobes it was quite off putting ablution wise.

Then as well as legs feet are an issue. Mine are utilitarian. Not pretty. One ex described them as flippers. Cheers. I am not one for nail varnish. A friend and I went to a spa in January and I still have a small bit of that polish on my big toe nails. It’s quite interesting to know how quickly one’s toe nails grow. I can’t find the varnish remover that I have had since 1986 (and that is not a joke btw) maybe it has all evaporated. So my feet and sandals are not really that good a combo.

And then in my line of work jeans are just more practical. I spend my days cooking, cleaning (husband will be spitting out his tea at this point), doing laundry, clearing up kid detritus, ferrying, hauling large musical instruments around etc and heels (with my legs flats and skirts would just be ugh) and floaty numbers don’t cut it. I had curry down my front and had managed to suck my frothy number up my Hoover attachment before 10a.m. this morning.

And then there are a whole host of other issues. The glare of my pallid legs putting motorists off their manoeuvres, the way the kids look when they see me in anything other than jeans (‘You just don’t look like you mummy’), where do I put my mobile phone, wind issues, co-ordination- denim goes with anything skirts need thought, my thread veins, my varicose veins, all my veins really, the ironing. I could go on.

To be honest it is possibly a matter of priorities. I was never one for prioritising my ‘beauty’ routine. And now my main priorities in life are sleep and this blog. So there you have it. Trousers all the way.

This is the Winter of our Discontent… — June 14, 2015

This is the Winter of our Discontent…

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winter

As all parents of Primary school aged children will know it is the earth’s tilt (approximately 23.5 degrees) that gives those of us who live a good distance from the equator our seasons. This is the second year on the trot that one of my offspring has drawn that well known diagram showing why the north and south experience their annual cycles.

And I love living in a country with seasons. Every time I go away on holiday anywhere near the tropics I am always surprised on the first evening when the dark descends, suddenly, like someone has turned out the lights bang on 6 p.m. I associate heat and sun with long drawn out evenings. With childhood memories of not being able to sleep because my inadequate curtains let in so much light. So I wouldn’t want to swap those long summer evenings for a regular 12 hours of light, day in, day out. How boring, how monotonous. If warm.

Similarly I wouldn’t want to go the other extreme that some of our Scandinavian cousins have to experience, full time dark and possibly even weirder full time light. The Vikings had it right moving over here- much more civilised.

No, as with a lot of things this country of ours has got this just about spot on, with, for me, one exception.

I struggle to pick a season I like the most. I adore spring, so full of promise and zingy colours, when the light starts to return, cheering my soul. Summer is heady and long. I forget to put the kids to bed as hours slip by bathed in glorious sunlight. And autumn has its own special melancholy, mists and colour and blackberries, the first frost but also the possibility of unexpected heat.

But one thing I can be categorical about is that I hate winter. I don’t do cold. I don’t do dark and to be honest once the distraction/ headache of Christmas has passed winter just feels like a huge mountain to climb. Through the foothills of January, the scree slopes of February and the seemingly endless knife edge ridge of March.

Everything is harder work in winter. My eldest was born in January. That month when day ends at around 4pm and doesn’t start again until gone 7am. That is an awful lot of feeds in the dark. A lot of time to fill when the out of doors is out of bounds. Even when the light was around getting out into it involved so much effort, wrestling with snow suits and pushchair rain covers, that often I could not be bothered. Middlest and youngest were summer babies and life seemed so much easier. We could pop out by merely unfolding the buggy, slipping on sandals and just, well, leaving.

And even now they are older it is still harder work. Collecting them all at their various times from various activities and delivering them later on to other activities takes so much longer when on each occasion I have to don gloves and hat, defrost the car and gird my loins for another dark drive.

But it is not only the lack of light. I hate the cold. I have always struggled with it. A combination of low blood pressure and lack of insulation. I start wearing my thermal vest in October and it does not come off until April is out. I am the one in layer after layer of clothing, under a slanket on my sofa and taking a hot water bottle to bed in an attempt to have warm feet by the time I drop off.

In my third year at Uni we lived in a house with no central heating. My boyfriend at the time and I would regularly wake up to frost on the insides of the windows. Our only source of heat was a gas fire in the living room. I used to wear nearly all the clothes I possessed to keep warm and sit as close to that fire as possible. One time I was wearing so much and sat so close that it was only a friend alerting me to a nasty burning smell that made me realise the arm of my outermost garment was on fire.

And I find it much harder emotionally in those dark, cold months. It is harder to battle inner demons. Harder to feel optimistic. Harder to accomplish tasks requiring perseverance and energy. It is not a co-incidence that I started writing this blog (a long held ambition) at the beginning of spring.

And so I find winter a chore. I spend four plus months of the year battling the dark and cold and expending a great deal of emotional energy in the process.

Then, every year, normally at some point during the Easter school holidays, I wake up one morning and realise I have emerged from it unscathed. More or less. The light has returned, the sun is up and I am free mentally and physically to take life up whole heartedly again.

I know I play like a girl, try to keep up… — June 11, 2015

I know I play like a girl, try to keep up…

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playlikeagirl_1

I recently bought youngest (7) this T shirt, although in purple, her favourite colour.

And the reason is that my daughter is a soccer player. She adores the game and has played in a team from year one. Since she started a new school in September we have also found out that she enjoys hockey, netball, rounders and long distance running. But given a choice football is what she wants to play.

Whilst I am at a complete loss about where this sportiness comes from, I myself being one of those children who was picked last for every single team sport, every single time, I am immensely proud of her.

I really wanted a daughter. I am not going to lie and say that I was not secretly quite pleased on that last 20 week scan to be told it was 95% likely that a girl was what I was having. I am not really sure why I was so keen on it. There are many superficial reasons, like wanting to be mother of the bride, knowing that daughters tend to turn to their mothers when they become mothers themselves rather than their mother-in-laws, fancying browsing a new section of the baby clothes aisle after two sons.

But I guess the main reason is that I thought over the years I would be able to empathise more with a daughter.

Had that third child been a boy I would have been fine, I love my boys, and another would have been absolutely brilliant. But the fact she was a girl felt like the icing on the cake. It’s controversial to say it but that is how I felt.

And not only I am pleased to have a daughter, I am pleased to have the daughter she is. I am pleased for many reasons but mostly because she is fiesty, strong willed and intensely independent. She is not someone who takes any nonsense and she holds her own in almost any company. She does not see her gender as a barrier to anything. If she is the only girl on the football pitch she shrugs her shoulders, pulls on her shin pads and studs and sets to work.

And that is how it should be. I hope it continues and she can carry that inner confidence long into her future. Because it’s hard, as a female, to do that. I will certainly try to help her with it.

So I am proud of my daughter the football player. Because it epitomises what I want for her in her future. Feelings of confidence, worth & value and a knowledge that she can do anything she wants to regardless of her gender.

Open Sesame — May 29, 2015

Open Sesame

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password

I have recently moved house…I know, I know, I have mentioned it before.

We are now in our new abode  and aside from risking life and limb every day shuffling around rooms piled higher with boxes than any self respecting health and safety officer would agree was safe and loosing sleep through lack of curtainage things are getting more settled.

So today I decided to start tackling the ‘change of address’ process.

Originally I was going to do this in a reactive way having paid more than a small fortune to the Post Office to redirect my mail. It’s at times like these that I regret not using my married name as the process has cost me twice as much due to the fact that good old Royal Mail charge per surname as well as per address. Money for old rope… And don’t get me started on the burning hoops of fire I had to jump through in order to set this highly extortionate process in motion. I wouldn’t mind so much but we have literally moved around the corner. And I am on first name terms with my postman…and actually my buyers…but, hey, I am British and therefore hate to put anyone out.

Then I got to thinking about it and decided a reactive process might just draw out the inevitable pain too long. So I changed to proactive mode. And started logging on to various web sites.

I am going to let you in to a little secret. My memory is not that great. It might be my age or just they way I am made but I forget things. I may have told you this before, apologies.

When the Internet banking/ shopping/ membership management/ forum revolution started in earnest it quickly became apparent to me that I was not going to be able to retain all the information required by these sites to gain access to their wonders.

I can remember my bank card PIN, and make sure all my cards have the same number so it is fool proof…In fact if anyone cracks my bank PIN they will also be able to steal my bike from it’s combination bicycle lock, access the numerous mindless games downloaded by my kids onto my I pad and deactivate the house burglar alarm, that we never use. And good luck with Crossy Road…which as far as I can see is Frogger with different animals (capybara anyone?).

Those of you with a security bent are no doubt horrified by this laxness but as the PIN is truly random (given to me with my first ever card by some Bank or other, probably Lloyds, Sheffield University branch) and does not relate in anyway to birthdays or some such nonsense it is relatively safe. Except my kids now know it…and I have to prevent them shouting it out in unfortunate places, for instance when they are withdrawing money for me from an ATM… In my defence I need to teach them how to survive in the modern world, and anyway they still have wonder that money appears for free from the wall…

It soon became apparent that this simple (yet actually quite difficult to break) code was not going to suffice for these new fangled internet sites.

It started with banking. Along with a lot of people, I imagine, I search diligently every new tax year for a relatively decent interest paying ISA account in which to stick some funds, should we have any spare. Of course the ones I already have are never the best ones going forward and as I am too lazy to move the old money out of the old ISAs (to be honest it just seems soooo complicated) I have built up quite a collection of banks and building societies and airlines….

Of course the best rates are always on line. And anyway the on line financial institutiton doesn’t know I am not my husband. So I can manage all his money too. He trusts me. Evil cackle…

That doubles the number of accounts. And the number of passwords. And the number of user names. And the number of ‘memorable questions’. And the number of card readers. And the number of random number grids.

Over the years the Financial Institutions have upped their security game, some key stroke capture avoidance or something.  In fact my most secure account (I think it may have around £200 in) has a randomly generated User Number, needs my date of birth, a card and card reader and a PIN which is unchangeable and not the same as my ‘normal’ PIN. The letters that arrived, separately, containing all this information asked me to memorize the numbers and store the card away from the reader. I laughed, heartily, and stuffed all the correspondence in the padded card reader envelope in my drawer. I didn’t write down my DOB as I can manage that (and my husband’s) but any one who is savvy enough could find it on Facebook and steal my money if they raided my man drawer. Frankly if they can navigate the security system they would have earned that £200.

You can imagine the process I needed to go through to change my address with these people. Which they never use, as it is an a on line account with paperless statements. I think they have now changed it. I got a normal email telling me there was a secure e mail waiting for me on their secure system, and I have yet to find the energy to re log in.

At yet another institution I was asked to change my password for a more secure version. Apparently my original password did not have the right combination of upper case letters, lower case letters, numbers and random punctuation, nor was it long enough. I defy anyone to remember such a password.

And then there are the memorable questions. My main bank uses these to identify me on the phone. Every …single….time…I ring up I am offered another form to fill in with my answers to these ‘memorable questions’  as some of the answers are clearly not that easy to remember. If you are me…  First house….god knows what I answered to that. I have lived in 18 houses over my life time. I never get it right…

But it’s not just banks. It is all the shops, memberships of charitable organisations, the cinema, Facebook and other essential social media sites, my supermarket, this blog host, my BT (ARGHHHH) account, paperless utility bills, the TV licence and on and on and on…

I have a file full of post it notes on which I jot, as I join any new web sites, the user name and password.

So I am a security risk. If I ever get burgled my life will be quite literally open for all to see. My only saving grace is that I never store my bank card details on any web site. You see I have no problem remembering numbers (in four digit parts) its just all those pesky words…and difficult questions.