Going Postal

It was hard to choose a prompt for this week's writing workshop from Josie at Sleep is for the Weak. (The voices in my head often comment on the things that people wrongly assume about me...) But I have gone for number one: tell about a time when you refused to compromise.

I refuse to compromise over poor service, particular when shopping, banking, or dealing with utilities.

I have just spent six weeks switching bank accounts for the sake of a £22 charge. It was an awful lot of bother to go to, switching all the payments in, direct debits and standing orders, but I absolutely knew that I was in the right. And I was absolutely determined not to let 'them' win. Why should they? It just made me so angry. I have closed the two bank accounts of my children which were held there too, opening simple building society savings accounts for them instead. So I feel quietly smug about it now. That will teach them to try and take £22 from me. And I have taken great delight in writing a letter to the bank in question explaining all my reasoning. Again, a ridiculous amount of bother to go to, but it made me feel much better.

I am quite a letter writer. It only takes a few minutes and always seems much more satisfying, as well as often being more productive, than a request or complaint by email or in person.

As well as the bank thing, I am waiting to hear from my local supermarket. I was overcharged for the third time in a row: you know, when something is on special offer so you pick it up for that reason and then when you get to the counter it doesn't register on the till? In the olden days, BC, I would have noticed it immediately and been able to rectify any descrepancy on the spot, but these days I am always busy at the counter trying to persuade Gertie that she doesn't need the packet of crisps/biscuits/sweets that she has managed to pick up from somewhere, whilst simultaneously trying to soothe Gilby as for some reason he always seems to need a feed the moment I start trying to select groceries. So I am somewhat distracted and just hand over my card to pay with barely an acknowledgement of the total, only realising the error when I get home.

And I know it sounds a little petty, but it is an awful lot quicker to bash out a short letter than to load up the car again with children to return to the store.

And it makes a trip to the post-box quite entertaining; there is always an interesting reply waiting for me.

Rose Tinted Glasses Perfectly Perched

After three days back at work I am already guilty of wistfully viewing the last six months of maternity leave through rose tinted spectacles.

The mornings now need to be organised with military precision. In order for four of us to get out of the house with something resembling sanity, everything needs to be completely prepared the evening before.

All nursery bags ready packed, lunches made, clothes laid out, work clothes pre-selected for the grown-ups. (Particularly Mummy, as the stuff that she used to wear to work no longer fits quite properly, so a high degree of creativity is required to generate a working wardrobe...) And the cars need to be properly arranged in the driveway so that I can make the first getaway, leaving Daddy to do the nursery run.

Even so, the first few days have been slightly fraught and I have made it to work with only seconds to spare.

And when I get home there are a mountain of domestic things to do before I can even begin to relax. Stuff that used to take me all day now needs to be crammed into a couple of hours; less if there is to be any chance of some fleeting relaxation during the evening . I know that this will all calm down and that we are only a few days in so not yet fully into the swing of things. I know that life will regain a more sustainable rhythm - but right now it is all quite hectic. So I look back lovingly to last week and the week before, and the week before that when:

The house was always clean (I picture it with freshly cut flowers in most of the rooms); I was completely on top of the laundry and ironing; I managed to bake bread and even mince pies; I cooked nice meals regularly; I read books, played imaginative games and did various puzzles with Gertie all day long; there was time to do my blog; I read plenty of improving novels.

But anyone who has been reading this blog for longer than a week will know that there is not an ounce of truth in this. In fact, there were plenty of days where simply managing to get dressed by mid-morning was cause for extensive celebration. My iron and I do not have the best working relationship, and any day where there was baby sick on only one side of my head was considered a good hair day.


This is written in response to Writing Workshop 10 by Josie at Sleep is For the Weak.

Old Enough and Large Enough to Know Better

January is a time when thoughts inevitably turn to getting fit, being healthier and losing weight - and clearly, when the new year 'detox' fails, the solution is gym membership.

If you have not succumbed already, then a word of caution. Last September I signed up as a member of my local golf club. This has nothing to do with a passion for golf (it is a silly game that I am rubbish at) and everything to do with a multi-million pound refurbishment of the gym, swimming pool and spa and very reasonable off-peak membership - £36 a month to include all classes and as many visits as you can make. They also have a wonderful creche.

So obviously I am regularly swanning around in lycra, receiving admiring glances at my svelte and trim post-pregnancy figure. Well, no. Because of course with two small children and in spite of the 'wonderful creche' there is never any time to go. I have calculated that my average visit costs £18. This goes up dramatically if I am forced to use the creche (not included in the membership and payable by the hour). A bargain!

And this is not the first time I have been suckered in to unrealistic gym memberships; in waving goodbye to my monthly direct debit I might as well throw a bundle of tenners into the passing wind every four weeks. I am old enough and 'large' enough to know better!

This is my 50th post - how did that happen? And written in response to this week's writing workshop posted by Josie at Sleep is for the Weak: What I am unable to learn no matter how hard I try.

With Twenty Years More Life Experience

Dear 16 Year Old Me,

I have twenty years more life experience than you do right now, so listen. Actually your older self is just about the only person you would listen to. Being shy and uncertain is ok, and normal, but I'm afraid to say won't go away any time soon, so deal with it.

I could reel off a long list of 'don'ts' here. The incidents, whilst on your gap year in New Zealand and Indonesia, spring to mind. I guess that they are the sort of things that make you who you really are and if you didn't do them a chunk of you might be missing. But do you really need to have bleached blonde hair?

Living in a bus is not one of your finest moments, either, but I suppose it is only a mild and short-lived rebellion and it does give your husband something to tease you about later. All those big anti-establishment ideals that you are about to develop will eventually be replaced by proper, important stuff, so don't take yourself too seriously.

Yes, I did say 'husband'. I know that you think you never want to be married, but you will, and you will be very happy. Your wedding day truly will be the most fantastic day of your life and you DO want a big white wedding. I know, I know, you can't believe that right now, but trust me. I'm not going to tell you who He is, but he will walk into your life when you are least expecting it, he is nothing like you imagine, and he will change everything dramatically. It's amazing.

Don't sit around and wait for anything to happen. You've got to do it all by yourself.

But money is a biggy. You're going to get yourself into an awful lot of debt which will take a long, long time to clear. Buy now pay later should not be a life maxim. Just try and be a bit more frugal.

By the way, Physics, Maths and Economics are the wrong choice of A-level subjects. English Literature is the only one of your choices that you're going to do well in anyway, and you will NEVER use the others. I know that you're trying to please your father, but go with your instincts and take the things you love and are good at, like History and Graphic Design.

Begin writing sooner. You know already that it is secretly what you really want to do. You're not going to accidentally become a writer, it won't happen by itself: you need to work at it and there is no need to wait until your thirties.

But this is the really important bit: It all just gets better and better. There are some big ups and downs in your twenties, but as each year passes you become more content. You'll dread your thirtieth birthday, but there is no need, because in fact it's after that that things start to get really good.

Enjoy every second. Lots of love,

P.S. Childbirth hurts much more than even your mother tells you, but it will be ok!

This is in response to Josie's Writing Workshop at Sleep is for the Weak.

Blue Shoes

I am delighted to be responding to Josie's Writing Workshop prompts this week at Sleep is For the Weak, because here is someone inviting me to talk about shoes: A dangerous topic, since, like most women, I have a long and complex relationship with my footwear. The challenge is to identify shoes which somehow reflect your personality. I wonder how a pair of shoes that you choose to wear could not reveal something of you in someway...

These objets d'art are my current favourites.

Bright blue and always commented upon.

Saved for special occasions like Gilby's baptism and some summer weddings. But only with the dress that you can just about see in the picture that has the same electric blue tones.

So what exactly do they say about me? Poised, sophisticated, impossibly glamorous, a little bit showy but not afraid to make a statement, perhaps? I wish.

In fact what they say is 'bought really cheaply at TK Maxx, pretending to be something they're not, and the straps at the back need to be continually hoisted up when no one is looking.'

Just about sums it all up really.

I thank you.

Any Old Iron

The Ironing Monologue:

What sort of time d'you call this? Any sane person would have done this the night before, you know, when the kids were asleep. It's called 'prior planning'. Shirt for Daddy and dress for Gertie. It would be so much easier if you weren't trying to make breakfast at the same time. That way marmite might not appear on one or both items. Oh - you're not putting me away just yet. There must be more to come.

A short while later.

Do stop smiling so smugly; they're only shirts. You've managed a grand total of four - that's not even a week's worth. And anyway, everyone but you knows that you should start with the collar and then the yoke. Do you even know what a yoke is? Some starch would be nice. I suppose the nozzle's still blocked and you've neglected to do anything about it. Still, you seem to have your own 'unique' technique, don't you? Draping a sleeve in the cat-litter: all part of the process.

And don't pretend you know what you're doing with that dial. Don't you think it's about time you added some water? Some of us are a little bit thirsty here, particularly with the way you use the 'steam' setting so unpredictably.

Tut. Tut. Was that a little swear word I heard? Don't you know why I've left that nasty black mark on the front? It's because you don't clean me. There. Serves you right.

What's that coming out now? Your jeans. That must mean that you haven't given them enough time to dry. Again. No other reason I would see them, is there? It's not really my job, is it? The waistband will still be damp after and you'll only regret it later when you have a red itchy mark around that roll that passes for a tummy. Don't you have anything else to wear?

Blimey: tea cloths too. That's a rarity. Your mother must be coming over. That explains the pathetic attempt to impersonate a domestic goddess.

You're fooling no-one, especially not her.

This is my second attempt at the writing workshop, courtesy of Josie at Sleep is for the Weak. I have opted to imagine that a familiar household object is self-aware and conscious, and have written a short monologue from the point of view of my iron. We don't have the best relationship: I have only been blogging for just over a month, but ironing has already come up on several occasions during that short space of time so it seemed appropriate!

No birthday cake

I am very grateful to Josie at Sleep is for the Weak for providing the inspiration for this post on loss. This is my first attempt at the Writing Workshop, so here goes:


Can you feel loss for someone you have never known?

November 3rd was her birthday, so an observer from the windmill late in the afternoon would have seen in outline against the lonely horizon this: a woman struggling in the wind and rain with a trug of planted flowers over her left arm and a bouquet of flowers in that same hand; a heavier load weighing down the other. In fact, a car seat, containing a 15 week old baby boy. Behind, a tired little girl, running every few steps to keep apace.

The watcher would have witnessed the strange convoy heading along the flagstone path past the church and then turning right onto the grass and across a line of graves.

What that spectator could not guess is that none of the party have ever met the woman at whose grave they now lay flowers.

For that woman is my mother-in-law, who died 5 years before I met her son, and 11 years before we married. A woman who never got to know of even the possibility of the existence of her two, beautiful grandchildren.

Rosemary - for remembrance - is in the bouquet. An irony, since none of us remember. And the flowers are all pink, for this small thing I know about her: she loved pink.

And Gertie, who has not even begun to formulate a concept of mortality, and knows that we are leaving flowers because it is a birthday, asks,
"Why doesn't Grandma Janey have birthday cake, mummy?"

And I can't explain, but feel an inexplicable loss. For this woman that I never knew, whose son I know so intimately: a mother who never got to see her own children grown and married and happy. And I look at her grandchildren and hope that I will be granted this grace.