musingsponderingsandrants

Parenting, profundities and humour

Tag: personal

Two Little Dicky Birds… — September 24, 2015

Two Little Dicky Birds…

/sarahsmale/Leave a comment
Here's looking at you kid...
Here’s looking at you kid..

I don’t want to descend into hyperbole but mornings here are utter and complete chaos. I am sure we are not alone in this. And I am also sure that many, many parenting blogs have covered the shouting, bribing, cajoling, temper tantrums and last minute panics in comprehensive detail. So I don’t need to go over it here.

When the kids have finally left for school with a friend or when I return from doing that same school run (we alternate weekly to save both our sanities) peace has descended.

I use the first half hour or so to drag the house back into some semblance of order. Washing up from breakfast, hanging up wet laundry, putting dry clothes away.

And then as many times a week as is possible I make my second brew of the day (there is no way I would survive the preceding carnage without my first caffeinated cuppa, in a big ‘morning’ mug) and sit at my computer to clear some admin. Of which there is a seemingly unending and ever increasing amount of.

This often takes me longer than it should. And the reason is the view.

We live on a large housing estate built in stages from the 1930s to the 1970s. As such I have no way of seeing rolling hills, snow capped mountains or fields of wheat. I do however have a view of my bird feeders.

My morning admin routine seems to coincide nicely with my birds’ first pass of the day.

I once went to Kenya and spent an amazing holiday on safari. It is truly one of the best vacations I have ever been on. One night was spent at Treetops (where the Queen found out she was monarch all those years ago) and my husband and I sat in a viewing gallery at floor height watching the comings and goings at the large watering hole, which is why the venue is there. The animals came in shifts. Starting with the smaller herbivores all the way up to rhinos and then moving on in the twilight to the carnivores. The animals apparently do this every day. Keep an order.

My birds are the same. They are creatures of habit. About this time every day I get my tits. The children think this is highly amusing… I am beyond their sniggering now. Large numbers of great, blue and coal tits descend and eat their way through vast quantities of sunflower hearts. Today, highly excitingly, there was a Black Cap hidden amongst them…I mistook it at first for a coal tit…but it wasn’t. My identification book is always to hand.

Lunch time is another ‘pass’. I hear the tell tale squeaking of my favourite bird before I see them. And my little flock of about seven long tailed tits arrive and cover the fat ball feeder. The other visitors look lumpen in comparison to their tiny, darting frames.

Shortly after this time I often get carrion birds (jackdaws, crows, rooks and magpies) who also like the fat balls. Once they have Hoovered up the remains left on the floor by the LTT frenzy they have to do a leaping sort of dance to reach the feeder as they are too large to hang.

The wood pigeons are less reliable. The kids have named them Barbara and Bob- Barbara sits forlornly atop the highest feeder looking puzzled, whilst Bob has developed a method of hanging by his feet off the handle at the top of the feeder and flapping his wings to keep his beak in the vicinity of the opening below- I am not convinced the calories he gleans are sufficient to cover those expended on such an acrobatic display.

In the afternoon my resident robin is often to be seen flitting in and out from the bushes to nick seed. He mostly comes when no one else is there. I also see green and chaff- finches and sparrows. I have yet to attract back the goldfinches which were so prevalent at my old house. But I am hopeful.

And then again at tea time the flocks of tits return for their evening meal. My children are sick of my shouting ‘LTT alert’ when they are eating their sausage and mash. I have a great view of the feeder from my seat at the table. One would almost think I had planned it that way.

And that is my birding day. Regular and reassuring. Calming. And a delight.

IMG_5088

No Pain No Gain — September 20, 2015

No Pain No Gain

/sarahsmale/Leave a comment

exercise

On Thursday I went to an exercise class.

My good friend had hunted high and low for a class we could attend together. It isn’t easy. All evenings are basically a no go. We can’t go too near school pick up or on Saturdays.

We don’t really want to commit to a gym and then never make it to any classes. The gym itself holds no appeal. We are not tread-millers or weight lifters.

After searching diligently she finally found a class on a Thursday morning called Sculpt Mix.

To my mind that sounded promising. The word Sculpt held great connotations. Mix sounded as if it wouldn’t get dull.

So last week we turned up on a bright autumnal morning. Once I had got over the shock of being told we were going to do the class outside- in full view of the wet suited men using the water skiing lake, and amongst the duck and rabbit poo- the actual class was OK. It was quite fun. Once I stopped trying to compete with the pregnant lady who was out squatting me despite her large bump. In fact I made quite a play of my lack of any form of exercise over the last six months.

The instructor, very annoyingly svelte despite having two kids much younger than mine, did warn us that we would ache. And she wasn’t wrong. My quads were on fire until at least Sunday evening.

Of course this week rolled around and, in the manner of childbirth and house moving, I had conveniently forgotten the pain.

This week I began aching during circuit 4.

I didn’t think it was going to be as bad as last week so I decided to spend quite a bit of Friday gardening. And it wasn’t ‘pottering around with a small fork and deadheading’ type gardening it was ‘digging away at the largest, deepest rooted weeds ever seen’ gardening. The sort that spending exactly zero time since May out there engenders.

And today I literally cannot move. Changing level is agony. I am thinking twice, possible three times, before bending over. This makes laundry quite hard. And going for a wee. And don’t get me started on stair climbing. I had to crawl up here earlier.

Nurofen is not helping at all.

Somewhere inside me a few muscles are more sculpted than before. They are not visible yet. I am probably at least 5 pounds and a year of classes away from that.

I have signed up for two more sessions. And then half term hits and I will have two weeks off.

Goodness knows how it will go when I return. At least the pregnant lady will have had to leave. To actually give birth. She will probably be back a couple of weeks later.

I don’t think exercise is good for me. Not really.

You Have Memories to Look Back on Today…. — September 13, 2015

You Have Memories to Look Back on Today….

/sarahsmale/6 Comments

image

I quite like Facebook. I used to use it for shorter versions of these blog entries. I post less nowadays as a result of musingsponderingsandrants but I still get pleasure from hearing other’s news.

It is also my main platform for sharing this Blog and so I could not really do without it. Well I could but then no one would read anything I wrote except for my handful of loyal followers (thanks to you lovely lot), and those stumbling upon me accidentally.

I have a lot of family and friends who I see too infrequently and I feel closer to them than I would if FB didn’t exist.

I have found handymen and wasp nest killers and cooker repairers from heart felt pleas on its walls.

Others I know successfully sell second hand items through it.

And actually the most lovely thing about it is the snap shot it gives one of one’s life. Nearly daily, because I was such an avid poster, I get a notification that I have ‘Memories to look back on’. In fact I am such a prolific poster that when I tried recently to order one of those ‘My Social Books’ for my time on the site I could not get it under the 500 page limit.

I always look back on those memories. I don’t usually share them because who else is interested. But I gain immense pleasure from them.

Today I was reminded that last year Middlest and Eldest were both away overnight (I have no idea where!) and husband and I took Youngest for her first Chinese restaurant meal. And had a ball.

Two years ago my friendly dashboard spider gave me a fright.

There were pictures of Eldest in Year 4 dressed as a Celtic warrior. It backed up my recent musings that he was by far the most grown up of all my children at that stage in school. Youngest has now just started Year 4 and has no where near the same knowing look in her eye.

Four years ago I had finished knitting Jesus.

And five years ago I was bemoaning how hard it was to cook a curry whilst doing reading with Eldest, avoiding Middlest’s toy cars whizzing by, dressing a dollie for Youngest and avoiding a balloon pig occasionally floating over the hob.

I can remember that moment very clearly- although I have no idea why we had a balloon pig- beacuse I had been reminded of it. I would probably never have thought about it again with out that timely reminder from good old FB.

And so I am glad I was a prolific poster. I am glad I wrestled my inner demons, who worried I was boring everyone to death, and just wrote anyway. I am glad I wrote about the every day, the mundane, the humorous, the annoying and the heartfelt.

For now I have this record of my day to day life since 2009. A most welcome, almost daily, little package of memories which make me go ‘Oh yes I remember that’. It is an on line version of a diary but with pictures.

And it makes me think that I still need to post some little snippets, despite the longer record of current life contained in these blogs. For else I will lose that lovely package of history.

FB has its detractors but for me it has definitely got this right. Thanks.

Hair… — September 8, 2015

Hair…

/sarahsmale/Leave a comment

grey hair

Today I spent twenty quid on hair products.

Most of you may know that I am not a particularly ‘girly’ person. And so may be a little surprised.

Having thought about it you may not know that I am not very ‘girly’ but if you have ever seen me walking to school, or football training or round the local supermarket with wet hair you will have gleaned that I am not the sort to spend long on my coiffure.

And those that know me not at all will just have to take my word for it. My hairdryer was plugged in when I came up to bed and I was momentarily confused until I remembered Middlest had washed his hair earlier and used it to fashion his quiff…..I never use it. Except to dry off sports kit which is required urgently.

My only extravagance, beauty wise, is a cut and blow dry about six weekly. With my lovely hairdresser whom I have been seeing this regularly for almost exactly 13 years.

She knows me. Well. She has over the years developed a hairstyle for me which merely requires me to get up and pull a brush through. She kindly says that I need such a style because I am so busy with my three kids, all of whose hair she also cuts, rather than because I am a slob. And care nothing for my ‘presentation’. Or she may know I am a slob but is too tactful to say anything.

My hairdresser is the Queen of Tact.

So today when she tentatively raised the issue of the possibility of colour bathing my hair to avoid people remembering me with too much grey I had to listen.

Up until this visit she has been saying that I was still able to get away with it. Not today. Maybe the long summer holidays have accelerated the process.

I floated the idea of just letting it go grey but she believes me too young for this. I love her for that. I don’t care that the colour bathing will probably do her bank balance no harm and just want to believe….

But apparently before I can have the aforementioned colour bath, which sounds lovely, like a relaxing spa treatment, but without the tacky music, I need to stop using my current shampoo. Which is evidently the devil in detergent form. If cheap.

And so I spent that crisp twenty.

Tactful and canny. So she is.

Good Luck… — September 2, 2015

Good Luck…

/sarahsmale/Leave a comment

image

It is 6.30am and today Eldest starts Senior school.

He only has three hours of it. The school runs a familiarisation ‘day’ for all its new Year 7s. So I imagine him doing a scavenger hunt through the corridors. Or some such.

He is going to a friend’s afterwards for lunch and I will pick him up at tea time.

He has driven me mad for over seven weeks with his constant whistling and sibling tormenting.

But today I will miss him.

I hope he enjoys his morning. I know he will enjoy his afternoon chatting with his mates and spending too much time on computers.

I will be thinking of him a lot. He will not think of us.

And that is how it should be.

Raising these small people to hopefully become independent and confident adults is hard bloody work.

And also a tad heart breaking.

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

I can see clearly now….

/sarahsmale/Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

And anyway I feel naked without my specs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Tortoise and the Hare — August 2, 2015

The Tortoise and the Hare

/sarahsmale/Leave a comment

Tortoise and hare

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Footnote The remnants of those quads ache today….

Aroma moan… — July 26, 2015

Aroma moan…

/sarahsmale/1 Comment

deodorant

Brace yourself….more intimate revelations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grrr…..I hate arm flapping…

Mummy Two Cups — July 23, 2015

Mummy Two Cups

/sarahsmale/Leave a comment

image

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hence my holiday nickname ‘Mummy Two Cups’.

Sea Legs — July 21, 2015

Sea Legs

/sarahsmale/1 Comment

image

Youngest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

image    image

image