Blog 54 s..."To Infinity..."

Blog 54 s..."To Infinity..." 

This week the ‘Cutie-pie’ has to write about a journey for part of his English homework. It had to be something other than just getting on a train to Blackpool. It had to be interesting with details of the people, the transport, the type of journey, any problems incurred by the journey etc. etc.

Homework is essential, I know, I set enough in my career as a teacher…but what really bothers me is the type of homework and just how significant it really is. He was totally at a loss as to how to approach this homework. Anyway, we all sat down to our evening meal on Sunday night and the homework was the main topic of conversation…luckily I wasn’t having wine so my memory was almost clear when the banter began…

In the year I was to turn 40 I had an insurance policy maturing…it was nothing major and wouldn’t have made much difference to the mortgage. So, in the January of that year I decided I would treat us to a holiday of a lifetime and we sat down with travel brochures to plan something exciting. As I was only getting the money in the November I foolishly thought we had to wait until then to book something but a chance telephone call that night with my youngest brother opened up a whole new world…we could book, pay a deposit and then pay in full nearer the departure date. Yeah! That cleared, we talked about where we would like to go and the conversation led us to the decision that there really was only one place…Disney World Florida… for Christmas...sorted!

My younger brother took his own advice and decided to come with us…when we talked with two very close friends they decided to come also…and of course we couldn’t leave ‘Bridezilla’ behind even though she didn’t live full time with us at that point. So we booked the holiday and a full 10 months of planning began.

Our choice of holiday company meant that we had to fly from Gatwick …as we were travelling with Virgin it was ideal to book the train journey down via Virgin train and have our seats booked…then also the transfer from Euston to Gatwick…and due to the timing of flying we booked in at the Gatwick Airport hotel…great: we would arrive the night before the flight, stop over, have a swim in the hotel pool, enjoy an evening meal and literally walk through from the hotel to the airport following breakfast the next day; holiday of a lifetime here we come!

I was at the time still teaching and the holiday was during the Christmas period so there was no problem; I would finish as normal on the last school day of the term and the ‘Hubby’ would collect me and we would go straight to the train station to meet our friends and my brother…the return journey in the January was on the Sunday afternoon and the Monday was a teacher-trainer day but the Headmaster wavered it and said I could return on the Tuesday…but sadly exit the Headmaster half-way through the year, enter new Headmistress equipped with new dates for the school calendar. I had to inform her that I would not be available the first week of the school holidays for a newly planned extra training day as I would be in Florida…not a problem was the reply…phew…er no, ‘ no problem at all you will be able to join the family on the Tuesday’. WHAT?

In tears I fled home that night, how can I fly to America on my own? How could the ‘Hubby’ cope with children, cases, transfers? We went into the travel agents: worse news possible…there was no flight available that Tuesday in the December, I could be on standby and possibly get out by the Christmas Eve… 5 days AFTER everyone else had arrived but there was no guarantee; everything was booked; I could try getting to Newcastle to join a plane…or the Midlands but there was nothing from Gatwick or Manchester.

OMG.  My dream holiday crashed before my eyes, this was all too much and I sat crying in front of the travel agent not knowing what we could do.

To cut a very long story short I appealed to the new Headmistress and eventually settled on an agreement that I would take a drop in pay for the day I was not available at the beginning of the Christmas holiday and the day at the beginning of the new school term. Back on track I set about organising clothes, cases, new lesson plans for the new school term, reports for the end of term, Christmas cards, presents for the grandparents who would not be seeing us over the Christmas period, clearing the fridge, cancelling papers and leaving spare house keys with neighbours…before we knew it we were ready and raring to go and see Mickey Mouse!!!

We all met up at the train station that Friday night tea-time; there had been some great organising due to the ‘Bridezilla’ needing picking up along with her passport containing a letter of permission to take her out of the country as her surname was different to ours; our friends needed to finish work and get to the station and then of course the younger brother who is always late but this time arrived on cue with the help of the older brother…

“My God, you look like Judy Garland,” was a comment from my dear friend’s husband when he saw my luggage; well I had gone overboard I must admit, with two large cases, two medium cases and a special hand luggage holdall…all in matching brown plaid not to mention the small rucksack with toys, sweets, change of clothes; travelling with a toddler is not easy!

We all stood on the platform like something out of a war time movie: an evacuation!

We were excited, I was nervous, the children were beside themselves with talk of Disney; Buzzlight-year in particular and the young ‘Bridezilla’ wanted to see Tigger. 

We waited.

We became cold, tired, hungry and confused; where was our train? Of course it was December, it was freezing and the trains were delayed…frozen points and all that malarkey…the station was full of people desperate to get home after work, full of students who had broken up for the Christmas break and in amongst them all we stood surrounded by a mountain of luggage. A train arrived but it wasn’t ours…we were advised to get it anyway as the next one to London would be seriously delayed and full…even though we had booked our seats. So we struggled, we grabbed what spaces we could and the others stood whilst I held a sleeping a toddler on one knee and my designer holdall on the other.

Phew! We were on our way…

Thing is though this train stopped at Watford Gap where we had to change trains…no no no!! I had organised the train journey so that there was no changing of trains and faffing about with children and luggage…off we were put and struggled across the platform to the awaiting train which was also full to busting…I know now why it’s called Watford Gap one look down at the gap between the train and the platform was enough to make me freeze…my God I could drop my toddler trying to stretch across that gap with luggage: hysteria began to show on my face and everyone grabbed extra bags and the ‘Hubby’ took the sleeping toddler and they all jumped on to the train…leaving me dithering on the edge…my friend’s husband has never travelled with me before and he was beginning to think he’d never travel with me again…outstretched hand and I was on the train…just as well as it began to take off!

Calm, we were able to eventually sit together and watch the luggage…I felt excited…we were on our way…yippee! What did I hear from the conductor? What did I hear the ‘Hubby’ agreeing to? Oh, there was no way that we were getting off at Victoria, using the underground, getting another tube to the airport connection…absolutely NOT. I had planned it all to the finest point which did not include anymore trains, underground or otherwise…there was no way we had to make our way across London at this time of the night…I wanted to speak to someone in authority…the conductor left pretty sharpish with the comment; “Do you think Richard Branson would put up with this? No I should think not…” ringing in his ears.

Everyone stared, tears rolling down my face assured them they were right…this travel plan was too much for me…I could no longer cope…I would never be able to get across London and on an underground tube with my beautiful luggage in tow and a sleeping toddler and a grumpy teenager…what was the plan now? Before they came up with a solution we were given wonderful news; the Virgin trains would pay for us to be collected at the gates and driven across London in taxis to the hotel at Gatwick…ah! Honour restored; Mr. Branston, as he was then, would not be getting a letter from me…smooth journey to the hotel…safe and in one piece. Thank you Sir!

Arriving at the hotel everyone was exhausted but amused to see all the Christmas party revellers…no time for a meal or a swim…just sleep to dream of a wonderful holiday…actually not much sleep for our friends as they had invited the younger brother to join them in their room on the couch…biggest mistake they ever made…we could hear his snoring from across the hallway!!!

Well, the ‘Cutie-pie’ refused offers of help with this journey’s story…so I began recounting the return trip whereby the ‘Intelligent-one’ had his brand new, never before seen in England, walking, talking Buzzlight-year in his rucksack; as we got to the top of the steps into the plane someone nudged the backpack and a voice called…”To Infinity…and Beyond..” to the amusement of most of the staff and passengers…no the ‘Cutie-pie’ didn’t want this tale either.

Me: “But why not? We can help you get it all down on paper…”

‘Cutie-pie’: “It’s no good…

‘Hubby’; “Why not son?”

‘Cutie-pie’: “…because I’m not in those stories…it’s got to be a journey I made…”

Dear Lord how is it we can get confused so early in to our middle age years…of course the toddler was the ‘Intelligent-one’ as the ‘Cutie-pie’ only came along later that year!

So we tried to tempt him to write about journeys to Skegness, [all of us plus fishing gear in the Kia] Teddington- Lock [yes I did go on the underground in the rush hour, complete with buggy and hat box] Morpeth [with granddad and nana, suits, hat boxes, lego, wedding presents…thankfully in a hired Picasso!] No, he didn’t want these stories either nor did he want the tale of the return journey from Disney when he was an 18 month old and we flew from Florida to Chicago on route to England…someone had told  the ‘Hubby’ it was cheaper that way…and the ‘Cutie-pie’ had a stomach bug which meant all contents of his bowels  were leaking in all directions and due to the 5 hour delay at Chicago I had run out of pull ups and there were none in the departure lounge shop so I had to buy swimming pants for toddlers [actually very good…] but was down to the last pair as we were boarding and on the signal for belts to be fastened and the Captain’s greeting I smelled something familiar and realised that the ‘Cutie-pie’ was leaking profusely. I rose quickly from my seat.

“Excuse me ma’m, you need to return to your seat…”

“But I just need the bathroom… [picked that saying up on holiday…much more polite…]

“I’m sorry ma’m but we are about to take off…the Captain…”

“I need to get this little one to the bathroom…as you can see he is shit up to the nines… “ [not quite as polite…] but effective; she recoiled at the sight of the poo running down his legs and my shirt and the smell…no further discussion and she offered wet ones and napkins which I used to help clean him up with…not quite like the napkins here at home!

As you can guess the ‘Cutie-pie’ was not going to use that journey story.

We have a million tales…well you do don’t you; trains are always delayed, flights are re-routed, weather affects us if it’s too cold or too hot…but he really wasn’t for writing about any of these until the ‘Intelligent-one’ said:

 “What about the smoothie-maker?” 

            Now there lies a tale…

Blog 54 t…coming soon…next Wednesday…

Copyright ©GML 2012.

Blog54 r...'The Hubby'...

Blog 54 r...'The Hubby'...

 This weekend we have been celebrating Father’s Day; this year I planned something completely different to the normal Sunday lunch with my father taking the limelight and the ‘Hubby’ quietly getting on with his day. This year I wanted to make him feel special…which of course he is… so I treated the ‘Hubby’ to a morning of no running around but a lazy breakfast time with the boys, followed by reading the Sunday papers…and a gentle snooze then a very quick visit to pop a bottle of wine off at my dad’s to keep him happy and then back home for an afternoon with the boys. Just recently there has been so much going on and things have been so hectic that I wanted to give us, as a family, some breathing space…so after lunch the ‘Hubby’ and the ‘Intelligent-one’ went on a mammoth bike ride whilst the ‘Cutie-pie’ and I worked on his homework and got his school bag packed for Monday. Then we had a leisurely stroll down to the local pub where by then the ‘Hubby’ and the ‘Intelligent-one’ were chilling with cool drinks and a light snack waiting for us…sheer bliss to sit in the sun and listen to the three males in my life talking ten to the dozen and laughing.

I sat back and watched the father of my sons…enjoying this quality time and realised just why I love him so much…

I first set eyes on my ‘Hubby’ when I was 14 and a half years of age…the half is very important as I was only supposed to be allowed to go to the local youth club once I had turned 15. But, that September in 1972 it was the Guild Celebrations in the town where I live and we had a house full of guests over from Ireland to share these celebrations. My friends had come round the night before and asked if I could go with them on the Saturday to the youth club…where there was a disco and cocoa-cola and boys!

My father refused and was furious thinking I had put them up to it…as if…but one of my Irish aunts persuaded him to let me go for two hours and the next day she took me shopping and bought me a fabulous mini-skirt; the likes of which had NEVER been given house room before!

So I donned my new skirt and a white angora jumper I ‘borrowed’ from my ‘big’ sister and my frizzy hair was plaited to keep it in place. I set off excitedly to enjoy the first ever disco of my life…as I walked in to the local school hall, the music was blasting out and tons of girls were sitting on the chairs against the wall and groups of boys were standing in the corners…my eyes alighted on a tall, dark-haired boy in two-tone purple parallels and yellow and sky blue striped Ben Sherman shirt and cherry red Doc-Martins [the style of the 70’s…yikes!] I was smitten.

I watched him most of the night…I had no idea how to dance…and on the way out he smiled and I melted. On the way home I was so excited but of course I wouldn’t be seeing him again until I was 15 which was a long way off; 12 weeks to be exact. I waited, I wrote about him in my diary, I day dreamed and then my friends who were allowed to go each week fed me information about him: his name, his friends’ names, what he was wearing…ahhh I began to pine for him and then WOW I was 15 and I was going to the disco!

Well of course he didn’t ever look at me, or smile, or talk and weeks flew by and each week I plucked up the courage to say hello and the week I was brave and ready…he didn’t turn up!

Fast forward…

when I was old enough to go into the town and have a few drinks with my friends we found a great pub and HE was in it…I didn’t stalk him but we often crossed paths [ahh the planning that went into that!] Eventually we got to the smiling stage and then of course he matured and started to go to different places and so he was relegated to doodles on my diary and school books and I collected bus tickets from whenever I was on the bus on my way home from school and he was cycling home from work and I would spot him a mile away!

Fast forward even more…

in my early 20’s I was home from Liverpool to enjoy the Easter holiday break and although I just wanted to sleep I gave in to my wonderful friends and went out with them…I do mean wonderful because if they hadn’t persisted I would not have gone dancing and would not have bumped into HIM !! If I’ve not said it before…thank you girls!

HE came across to talk…some lame excuse about ‘Don’t I know you…?’ of course I could hardly say ‘Yes I was the teenager who used to stalk you…’ so I just smiled and admitted that his best friend had gone out with my best friend years earlier and then we chatted and I fell in love…it took him a little longer but he got there in the end!

I couldn’t believe that he asked me out! [Irony of the situation is that years later HE admitted that he had mistaken me for someone else…but was glad that we got talking! So am I!] Our first real date should tell you something about how our courtship panned out…I was so excited as HE arranged to collect me the following Sunday afternoon for a trip out to the country. Carefully dressed in my hand knitted pink and white jumper, matching candy striped trousers and deep pink suede stilettoes…I know I must have looked like a ball of pink candy floss with my frizzy hair and huge pink hoop earrings…I tottered out to his car, my heart beating ten to the dozen… and off we went to the countryside.

OOOh how wonderful Sunday lunch in a cosy country pub where we could snuggle up and get to know one another…yeah right in my dreams.

HE parked up, collected some binoculars from the boot of his car and proceeded to walk me across fields to look at a rookery: grant it I also saw a fox for the first time, I heard a wood-pecker for the first time, I was shown tufted ducks for the first time and for the first time in a long time I really enjoyed myself: even when I got stuck in the mud, lost one of my prized shoes and ripped my trousers as we climbed over a fence…the highlight of the date? We sat in the car and HE produced a flask of the most wonderful milky coffee and a pile of cheese butties…it must have been love as I don’t drink milk!

We courted for years, seven in all before I managed to get him up the aisle…one Christmas he took me shopping and as we approached the jewellers my heart almost stopped…until he bought me a dress watch; another Christmas I was so excited when he took me late night Christmas shopping…to get me a TV. When I bought my own house, no we did not live together: he was living with his mum and my job would not have tolerated that sort of behaviour [that’s a whole different blog]…he bought me a carving knife, a set of plates and a kitchen clock for my Christmas present!

When HE finally did propose it wasn’t quite what I expected…my mother had died in the September and by the time of my birthday in the November I was at rock bottom with the most awful grief and the night before my birthday HE said: “I’ll take you in town tomorrow and buy you what you really want…” The thing is I thought; ‘Bloody hell what’s he getting me now, a fridge freezer?’

Worst of all after years of looking longingly at engagement rings I had stopped; having given it up as a lost cause, I had no idea what I liked and as we went shopping he said; “Right, I’m just nipping in W.H.Smith for my bird magazine, you nip in the jewellers and pick yourself a ring and I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”

10 minutes? 10 minutes to pick the ring I’ll wear forever? Actually I did it! I looked in the window and the heart shaped blue topaz and diamond ring called out to me…20 minutes in town and we were sitting in the local coffee shop…me dazzled by my diamonds and HE reading his bird magazine…magic!

Well that’s our love story …he is simply the best and I never tell him that…he sat with me when I cried myself to sleep after mum died…he brought the wedding forward when we knew my ‘big’ sister was not going to recover from her cancer; I so desperately wanted her as my chief witness…one time he came out in the dark and pouring rain to fix my car and didn’t shout when he discovered I’d driven 2 miles on a flat tyre and had just turned the music up to drown out a ‘weird sound’…he patiently explained that the red light in our new car meant I was out of petrol…before we got married he put in a shower in my little bathroom and he didn’t complain about sleeping in a bedroom surrounded by flowered wall paper and lace once we were married…he taught me how to fish and how to recognise different birds and he took me to see all the football matches of his favourite team and never whinged when he missed goals because I needed the toilet and was afraid to go alone…he didn’t get cross when on our wedding day all the guests set off for the reception leaving his mother and my father behind with no transport…so they shared our beautiful cream coloured Rolls-Royce and dad sat in the front with the chauffeur and the ‘mother-in-law’ sat in between us and the pair of them drank our champagne…

When I miscarried our first baby he knelt on the floor by our bed and held my hand all night…when I lost our second baby he cried with me and tucked me up in my duvet and watched a million girlie films and ate junk food with me and told me it would be okay…when the ‘Intelligent-one’ was born he told me he loved me and I could name him my choice of names because I had given him a son…he bought the baby a football supporter’s bib which did last longer than the flowers I really wanted…when the ‘Cutie-pie’ was born he bought me a beautiful ring…to make up for all the flowers he didn’t buy me!

He bathed the new born baby boys because I was frightened of dropping them…he loved snuggling them up as an excuse to watch the football on Saturday afternoons; you must never disturb a sleeping baby on his father's lap…he taught them how to tie hooks and bait on fishing rods…how to ride bikes without stabilisers…and how to build barbecues using old fences [although we have an aunt in Ireland who is the champion of that activity…!]He has taught our boys how to cook a proper Sunday breakfast…he has tried to teach me but my bacon never turns out the same and I forget how to scramble eggs and time the sausages…I love it when he cooks on a Saturday night and he pours me a glass of wine and says; “Sit there and look pretty!” much to the amusement of our boys!

The boy's favourite past-time on a sunny day is to go ‘crabbing’ with their dad; in a boating lake at the seaside they spend hours dangling a piece of bacon on the end of a piece of string and then hauling large crabs out and into a bucket, counting who’s got the most before returning them unharmed…we have video footage of him running away from a large 'nipper' which was pretty fierce as it dangled from his string and then dropped onto his sandals instead of the bucket!

In short he has been the best father for our boys and he is working on being a good role model as they approach manhood; even though he had no father figure of his own as his dad died when the ‘Hubby’ was only 3 years old.

When the ‘Bridezilla’ was little and used to stay with us he took her out with her dolly in the pram even though he looked ridiculous…he played snowballs in the early hours of the morning when she had woken us up to see the snow…he persuaded me to buy her a new coat when she cried because she no longer wanted to wear the bright yellow and pink ‘Daisy-Duck’ coat  when she was 10 years of age [I know I’m a bit slow in the fashion department and have spent years asking her to forgive me!] when we were talking about a trip of a lifetime to Disney he insisted that ‘Bridezilla’ came too.

When she rang one night and said she was flying to Spain to work in a bar he paid for her flight and told her that her flight home was covered anytime…when she came back from Spain and rang to say she wanted to move in lock, stock and barrel he was delighted and proceeded to build wardrobes to fit all her shoe collection…he always gives her advice [even when she doesn’t want it!] and he is over the moon that she has asked him to be the ‘father of the bride’ on her special day…

There are a thousand things the ‘Hubby’ doesn’t do but there are a million things he does do: we call these his foibles: one of them is his ability to make us laugh…like for example:-

-due to financial hardship he had to sell his beloved larger car and make do with my cheaper runabout…you know it, the Kia…well he is a large man in height and width and the sight of their dad driving this little car caused the boys to refer to him as: ‘The Hulk in a mini…’

-he was driving along the main road and commented on how beautiful the lady on the pavement was; her hair swinging in the sunshine: except it turned out to be a man with very long hair…

-he was stuck in traffic and asked us all how on earth did that van get on the roof of the Asda…except that was the air conditioning equipment…

-he was most concerned that a swan was sitting at the side of the road…but it turned out to be a large, white, plastic carrier bag caught in some bushes…

[he has had his eyes tested!]

-he was in a telephone conversation with the aunt in Ireland when he asked; “Do you have weather over there?”…which has become a family saying…

-finally the most recent belly chuckle he gave the boys was when we were leaving a restaurant and he looked up at the car park:

“What’s that ******* doing in the boot of my car? I’m going to **** him…” as he set off to protect the car the ‘Cutie-pie’s’ voice could be heard echoing: “Run fat boy run!”

We fell about laughing as he approached the car, out of breath to realise that the man was in his own boot…just the same colour of car parked next to us…

For me one of the funniest, although painful, things he has ever said and done was a few weeks after the birth of the ‘Intelligent-one’; one evening he decided to romance me and standing at the foot of the bed he proclaimed that he was going to give me the best orgasm of my life and before I could get off the bed he jumped and landed full on top of me and we both heard the ‘snap’ of one of my ribs and we both felt a sudden shudder…not of ecstasy…  but of the bed collapsing…mmm romantic eh?!

Ah well, do you know what?
As a father and an uncle he is just perfect…
...as a ‘Hubby’ he is simply the best…

Happy Father’s Day ‘Hubby’ love from ‘Wifey’…xx

Blog54 s...coming soon...next Wednesday...

Copyright©GML 2012.

Blog 54q...Friends, Family & Fences...

Blog 54 q…Friends, Family & Fences…

What a week we have had! In the run up to the Jubilee my father had become concerned that his new neighbours were not able to understand his distress when they used his garden as a short cut. Petty though it sounds to you and I but when you are 84 years of age and you have a communication problem with someone who does not speak the same language as yourself it actually becomes a major issue.

My father has lived in the same house for 44 years. There has been very little change to the neighbourhood or indeed to his garden in all those years. But sadly things cannot remain the same; untouched by life is a thing of the past. His neighbours of 23 years moved out and what problem is that I hear you say? People do move out and people move in…constantly over the past few months in fact, the neighbourhood is being swallowed up by a different generation of people, but the issue here is what protection is offered to the people who do not move out and opt to remain in their family home until they are carried out in a box? [my father’s words not mine.] Well the answer is actually no protection is offered, no support and no easy solutions. When your neighbours suddenly change into young, go ahead people with precise ideas it’s almost a case of to hell with the rest of you this is what we want…this is what we will have…and so it came about that after all these years of peace and quiet and privacy my father became a victim of today’s society: like so many other lonely pensioners.

My father’s home is a large semi-detached house with massive gardens. The garden at the side of his house used to be a mini orchard of several baking apples and sweet eating apple trees. This orchard swept down the side of the house and was bordered by honey suckle, elder flower and lilac and stopped short of his red bricked garage. The path through the orchard ran down into the raspberry plot, the rose tree garden and the children’s sand pit. The front garden was a mass of bushes, rose trees, iris, forget-me-nots and hedges. The back garden that ran the full width of the house and side garden was lawn, shrubs, more rose trees, a magnificent silver birch that we used to sit in and watch the pensioners bowling on the bowling green that was behind our perimeter fence. To give you some idea of the size of the land; our neighbours who were in the attached semi had a croquet lawn the length of their garden and as young children we loved summer afternoons when you heard the click-click of the croquet bats, the genteel clapping and calls of 'Well done Norman,' from the ladies who were having their afternoon tea in china tea cups whilst sitting in the shade of their lacy umbrellas and sun hats.

Yes it was idyllic, yes it was a fabulous place to grow up in and yes it is far too big for him now. But, with a lifetime of memories of his children, his grandchildren, his nephews and nieces and their children playing in the garden, the summer parties and most of all his memories of my mother tending to her roses: he is more than reluctant to leave all that behind. Why should he? Why can he not just stay where he has been the most happiest?

Well, there is a slight problem in that many years ago his old neighbour on the other side of the orchard, built a garage slap bang on the boundary line, having removed parts of the boundary hedge. Not the type of people to fall out or cause confrontation, my parents allowed this to go through and to be honest it was when my mother was dying and the last thing we as a family needed was the hassle. The garage was built and the bushes grew back and to be honest you didn’t know it was there.

Until he sold his house.

First there was the sudden removal of hedges and plants that have been growing in my father’s garden against the garage wall for the best part of 23 years; then there was the appearance of stones and bricks along the side of the garage: in my father’s garden and then there was a huge gate put up across the back access road which runs behind the row of houses and ends at my father’s garden; his only access to his garage by car.

When asked about the removal of the bushes the reply was that it was so that the new occupants could repair the guttering on the garage side that faces my father’s breakfast room window; now of course he had no pleasure sitting looking out at a grey breeze block building instead of his green hedges and plants.

A discussion about the gate merely left us with the option of full blown neighbourly fall out, reporting to the local council or merely putting up with having to open their gate when needed. My father chose the latter option. BUT there was no way that I was going to allow the persistent entering of my father’s garden to allow the passage of neighbours, their family and friends along their new, roughly formed path into the their back garden via my father’s garden.

Enter good friends. Sometimes it is true that a problem shared is a problem halved. On discussing my father’s plight and how we could best solve it, we were inundated with people who knew someone who spoke the same language and could interpret for us, we were offered support in lots of ways by friends who were wiling to visit the neighbours and explain the rules of boundaries on our behalf and most of all a brilliant friend who came along with his trusty digger and erected a fabulous fence in place of the missing shrubs and bushes for my father in order to regain some of his privacy. He has lost a few more extra inches of his garden but the fence is wonderful. He is private once again and there will be no more sudden appearances of people in his garden whist he is pruning his roses or sleeping in his deck chair.

This then gave me the wonderful idea of the ‘Gift Of Time’ for his birthday. I organised one of my younger brothers who lives locally, his wife and their two daughters, the ‘Hubby’ and our boys, ‘Bridezilla’ and her ‘Young–man’ and together we cleared his garden of broken bushes, tree stumps, weeds, rocks, stones, bricks, we cut hedges, pruned roses, trimmed the honey suckle, freed old lilac branches from crawling ivy: we planted rambling roses along the fence, the ‘Hubby’ made him 3 new bird boxes, the ‘Cutie-pie’ painted them and the ‘Intelligent-one' held the ladder whilst bird boxes and hanging baskets were put in place. We worked from 8.30 am until later in the afternoon; in the pouring rain: I do mean pouring! The dye from gardening gloves stained our hands and the wet mud weighed down our jeans. Our feet became soggy due to water logged wellingtons. We all formed a ‘Chain-gang’ to place everything into a skip which was full to busting by the end of the day.

Exhausted we ate beef-burgers and crisps and drank ‘cocoa-cola’ in the rain and reminisced about birthday bbqs we had in the past when the sun burnt the back of our necks and we would all sit round the fire telling jokes. We left wet, tired but totally satisfied that we came, we saw and we conquered! [Probably not quite what our father was expecting but it will make life a little easier!]

The rain persisted, the cleared ground became a quagmire and it was unsafe to use the electric hedge clippers. So home time beckoned and we wearily returned to our homes and hot showers and hot toddies or two [or in my case four!] And so it was that the Jubilee bank holiday has been a bit damp to say the least but not without a little added action…

As you know by now I am not a good sleeper and so in the early hours of the morning just as it was coming light I returned from the bathroom to open the bedroom window for fresh air and relief from the exhausted snores of the ‘Hubby’. I had only been dozing when there was an unearthly sound. Not quite an explosion but a definite bang, crash, thudding sound and I shot out of bed as the ‘Hubby’ moaned: “Was that the ‘ Cutie-pie’ falling out of bed?”

I checked; both boys were sound asleep and safe in their beds. I went to the window…not really expecting to see anything but my sleepy gaze was met with the vision of a car sitting on top of my fence which had been knocked into the next door neighbour’s garden…OMG… AND some of the young lads were running away!!!

I hung out of the window like a flaming, screaming, banshee…in fact I WAS a flaming, screaming banshee…from nowhere this voice screamed; “ Get back here, don’t you leave that * car…where do you think you’re * going? Don’t you leave you * hooligans…” [For the sake of decency I’ve deleted the rude words I used…but you can guess what I might have said!!]

Well of course the voice was me…the boys; shocked at the fact that someone had seen them and at the sight of a frizzy haired, half naked, foul mouthed old woman... did actually return to the crashed car for a moment…whilst I grabbed my dressing gown and fled the house leaving the house alarm blaring and the words; “Call the police” hanging in the air as the ‘Hubby’ sprung into life…despite his retort of “But I need the loo…” [I’m putting that politely too!] I had no idea what would face me as I reached the end of our drive but thankfully there was no injured body slumped over the wheel…and in that moment I realised I was standing barefooted and half dressed facing a group of unknown youngsters who were in shock but also looking very guilty and realised for my own safety perhaps it was best not to continue to tell them off and aggravate the situation: instead I offered hot drinks for shock…OMG was I losing the plot? [it was also at this point that I was thankful that I sleep in a bra…now that would have caused even more shock to these youngsters to see my womanly shape at such an early an hour!]

Luckily the ‘Hubby’ came outside having resolved to save his morning constitution for later…we waited quietly for the police and unable to retain the boys any longer they each began to disappear up the road but we didn’t worry as we recognised one of them under his hooded jacket AND it was his mother’s car…so less said about that the better…they weren’t going to get away with this…

Luckily other neighbours understood our recent plight…suffice to say we have had flowers and home made curries and then I also had advice over a cup of hibiscus tea from a lovely friend who knows all about the legalities of this type of situation due to her past career and she put my fears of being left to replace the fence to rest.

It has been amazing how out of so much hassle just lately, we have re-discovered the value of good friends, good neighbours and our family.

18 year’s worth of loving and caring and nurturing hostas, blackberries, rhubarb, mini shrubs…all for some youngsters in a stolen car to smash and flatten in one stupid moment of fun...is so frustrating and upsetting.

But we are thankful that no one was hurt seriously…plus the fact that the driver has confessed: so I do not need to attend an identity parade, thank God.

Ah well…cars can be replaced … new plants can be planted;

…and it’s a good job we know someone who has a trusty digger to sort out the fence…

and I have family who know how to garden…even in the pouring rain...

…well then that’s lucky isn’t it?

Blog 54 r coming soon…next Wednesday…

Copyright©GML2012

Blog 54 p…A Celebration…

We’ve all gone slightly mad at the moment with Jubilee Fever…and it’s wonderful! I love that we have a Queen and all the pomp and glory that goes with a Royal Family.

I love the fact that this weekend is extended by two more days making it a special holiday!

Get the flags out! Get the bbq’s going! Hang the bunting and make cakes and sandwiches!

Well actually at the time of writing this it’s a case of get the wellies and umbrellas out…the garden is flooded again!

This is such a contrast to the Silver Jubilee Celebrations when the sun was shinning and the heat was cracking the pavement…and why do I remember the Silver more than the Golden? Well that’s because I performed for the Queen! [Well in a sense I did…]

Many years ago, in fact what seems like a lifetime ago now, I was studying Drama and English at the teacher training college in Liverpool. I had always wanted to be an actress from the moment I saw Ali Mac-Graw in ‘Love Story.’ It became a burning passion but one that I couldn’t tell anyone about as I was supposed to work hard, get qualifications of some kind and then carve out a lucrative career. Fat chance of becoming famous anyway as I was such a nervous person I didn't volunteer for anything throughout school…what on earth was I thinking? But anyway, I filled my dairy with daydreams and then when I had to decide what was I going to do after my exams I of course had no idea…go to London and join a theatre? No way was I going to be allowed to waste a moment of the Convent school education my father had worked so hard to pay for; in fact I had been offered a job as a trainee manageress in one of the shops I worked in during school holidays. [Now those were the days! I worked on a Saturday in a fabulous modern dress shop where the discount was more generous than the wage…and then during the week of the holidays I worked in a slightly classier shop that sold leather goods…ah the smell of the leather...] It was the leather shop manageress that was giving me the opportunity to train…which also meant that I could go on the window dressing courses in London. Ah ah! That was my ticket to freedom. London, bright lights and famous people…I’d be discovered in a shop window and make my fortune as an actress…

However, my parents had other ideas… my mother was diplomacy itself when she tackled the possibility of me applying for the same teacher training college as my big sister… ‘…just apply to keep your father happy.’ Then it was… ‘go for the interview to keep your father happy’…not in a million years did I think I’d pass and actually be offered a place…but I did pass and I did get offered a place and my mother said; ‘Just go for the first term and then tell your father you’re not happy…’ Oh yeah right, sure he’d let me come back home, un-employed and un-qualified and the job offer for the manageress had long gone…so it was that I was at college in Liverpool in the summer of 1977…the year we celebrated the Queen’s  Silver Jubilee.

When filling in the college application form I confided in my mother that I wanted to be an actress and she confided in me that I could be anything I wanted to be but I had to go to college to stop my father moaning how his life had been wasted by giving me an education…but we could reach a compromise…I was to apply to do Drama as my main subject; that way I would get drama training as well as a career in teaching to fall back on. Mmm…wise woman my mother. So I studied Drama.

I was terrible; the nerves got the better of me most of the time plus I didn’t really ‘fit’ in with the other budding actresses who had the looks, the talent, the moves.

I was clumsy, buck-toothed, frizzy haired, knock-kneed, fat then thin then wobbly in places, so busty that I was self conscious in the leotards we wore for the practical sessions, I have a dreadful speaking voice [shite through a sieve my dad used to say] broad Lancashire accent that got worse as the Liverpuddlian twang got mixed up with it…but worst of all I couldn’t remember my lines or anyone else’s for that matter so I often missed my cue!

So the fact that I was less attractive and more clumsy than the other budding Elizabeth Taylors was why I was selected for the less than wonderful parts. For the Queen’s celebrations she was visiting the North West of England and the first ever Hope Street Festival was produced to involve all Drama students and school children in the most magnificent street dramas. My drama group were to perform a traditional Mummer’s play which needed a character like a court jester…enter me…my tutor thought this part was more my thing and I was dressed in a multi-coloured jacket, black tights, carrying a mini jester on a stick with bells to rattle and I had a mask. Thank goodness for the mask! I could at least hide half my face!

The role of the 'jester' was to enter the street staging from behind a curtain, introduce the play and wander around the street gathering people to come and watch.  OMG.

During rehearsals I popped my head through the curtains and forgot my opening lines the minute I saw the other students gazing at me…45 attempts and the Drama tutor called me to one side and suggested that I go away and practice on my own and come back when I had perfected the role…another student played the same part and she had NO problems!

Hell fire I couldn’t help it, in tears I rang my mum for advice…’write your lines on a piece of paper and stick them all around your room so that you see them the minute you wake up…’ mmm well it was worth a try…dress rehearsal came and I was much better; much to the relief of the other students who were by now less than enamoured by my feeble attempts…

The day dawned and my stomach was in knots, I hadn’t slept for fear of forgetting my lines, my body was shaking and sweating so much I couldn’t get the black tights on properly and to make matters even harder not only were we performing for Royalty but we were being assessed by our tutors for the end of year exam! Standing behind the stage curtain I tried to calm my nerves, ‘stand alone and don’t talk to anyone,’ had been some good advice as well as to run my lines through my head…I could hear the noise of the crowds of people passing by the stage on their way along the street to enjoy everything the festival offered and then…it was time; time to climb the steps onto the stage and pop my head through the curtain…I stumbled, falling head forwards I grabbed the curtain, it twisted, I tensed, my mask slipped and I fell through the opening…struggling to regain my dignity I shouted the opening lines as I lunged forward stopping just in time before falling off the staging…people stopped and stared at me as I stood precariously on the very edge and then I froze…what comes next? What’s my next line? OMG…I looked around and then…I jumped off the stage into the street and began my first ever public performance…not quite word perfect but a few ad-libs and careful movements around the people and before I knew it I was joined by the other ‘actors’ and together we pulled off quite an impressive street performance of the Mummer’s play.

PHEW! I even somehow managed a Scottish accent when I said my line ‘Is there a Doctor in the house?’... mimicking a very famous actor from a soap opera of the 70’s.

The crowds laughed, clapped and we took our bow and only then did I stop to think…where was the Queen?

Ah well, you see her motorcade was actually only passing the top of the street we were in on her way to see the wonderful performance by the school children near the Cathedrals…but anyway perhaps she turned her head and was amused to see a multi-coloured 'jester' flying through the air from the stage to the street below…

Who knows?

Happy Diamond Jubilee to our Queen!

Blog 54 q coming soon…next Wednesday…

Copyright©GML2012.

Blog 54 o… “May the Force…”

The ‘Hubby’ is very laid back when it comes to some things; like for example a broken fence doesn’t need repairing straight away it’s not bothering anyone, a leaking tap needs to drip,drip for at least two years before it’s an emergency despite the water meter, a broken cupboard door can be propped up with a stick, a draughty window can be sealed temporarily [4 years so far…]with masking tape and a missing cupboard handle doesn’t pose a problem as you can pull the cupboard door open with your toes…I could go on but I think you get the picture. The boys have inherited this gene also from their father…a P.E. kit only needs packing 5 minutes before setting off for school, a trip permission slip only needs to be signed when detention for not returning it is looming and the toys on the floor only need putting away when you can no longer see the floor.

The 3 men in my life have no sense of urgency in their life and least of all when it comes to me…

They have long stopped running to my assistance when they hear a scream, a thud, bang or crash. They are used to me falling down the stairs, slipping off a ladder and hanging onto the light fitting [seriously it did happen I was trying to change a bulb and as I lent forwards the ladder went in another direction leaving me perched precariously on the top step as the ladder fell against the wall…my only option was to hold onto the light fitting despite the flecks of plaster falling…shouting for help…]They no longer respond to cries of; “Quick get a glass it’s a massive spider,” or “Help me there’s a wasp in the shower curtain,” [that was intended for the ‘Hubby’ not the children…I did maintain some dignity !]

The three of them do not even flinch when I ask for help whilst doing the ant dance…hopping on one foot to stamp them out; unsuccessfully! There is no rush to free me from the tangle that was once the clean washing as it trips me and traps me and sends me flying into the bushes.

They know eventually I will sort myself out.

So it came as no surprise when one sunny evening I needed their help…don’t get me wrong they heard me they just thought ‘mother has found another spider’ and they would help me during the adverts on the T.V…

I had been sitting in the conservatory trying to read for as long as I could without getting up to put the light on…it’s a problem these days as it takes so long to get comfortable that once I am, I am reluctant to move for a while! It had been a gloriously hot day and all the windows were thrown wide open to let what little breath of air there was to circulate through the house. It became too dark to read and the rest of the house was in darkness except for the light from the movie the 3 ‘males’ were watching in the family room. I decided to go upstairs and get ready for bed. As I approached the second landing I had a sense of being watched; that I was not alone. I froze at the thought that there was someone standing on the top landing in the dark…everyone else was downstairs, I knew I was being stupid…then in the darkness I saw 2 bright eyes staring at me almost face to face. A sudden movement, my scream and the eyes disappeared.

Yes I did scream and no there was no immediate response to my distress call…like all heroines in a scary movie I followed the moving shadow into the dark room without putting the lights on…and there I was confronted by the biggest, blackest, angry cat you had ever seen. It just hissed and bared its teeth ignoring me as I hissed back and bared my teeth!

“Get out!” I screamed at it…not sure if it understood those words at all…but it had got in so it must be able to leave the same way.

The windows in ‘Cutie-pie’s’ bedroom were wide open and the cat must have jumped onto the garage roof and climbed up and hey presto he was in! He just sat there curled up on the window sill daring me to come forward…daring me to defend my ‘Cutie-pie’s’ bedroom from this intrusion.

I screeched, I hissed, I almost barked at it but it was challenging me…right matey you’re on…I looked around the room…what the hell was I looking for? Something to wave at it and help it safely through the window and on its way. Grappling around in the dark my hand landed on the ‘Cutie-pie’s’ light-sabre. As I grabbed it and flicked it towards the cat the light sabre pinged into action…it made a swooshing, vibrating noise and then it lit up.

The fat cat sat up on its hunches and spat at me. He was no match for my 'Luke Sky Walker' moves as I swayed from side to side menacingly…hang on he was…he was 'Darth Vader' re-incarnate…I swooshed the light-sabre from a safe distance and he pounced onto the bed waving his front paws as if to grab the light from me. Vroom Vroom the light-sabre swished in the air and the light changed from red to green.

The fat cat sat on the bed and stared, his eyes glowing in the dark.

Calmly he jumped back onto the window sill…I lunged forward to threaten him…

“Get out!” I bellowed.

With a swish of his tail and a flick of his paw he jumped onto the garage roof and his head popped back up through the window…he watched as I did a little dance swaying the light-sabre from side to side and shouted the theme tune to ‘Star Wars’ as I jumped forward to shut the window with a parting shot of “Friggin cat…take that!” and with another zoom zoom I grabbed the handle only to see two startled neighbours out on a peaceful summer’s night stroll looking up at me…er no not at me; but beckoning “Blackie” to be careful…to get away from that woman… to come down off the roof before he falls...

I stood in the darkness, I clicked the light-sabre shut and turned victorious to see three heads and 3 pairs of eyes glistening in the dark…

“Good God what has been going on?...” asked the 'Hubby'.

“You see dad I said it wasn’t a spider…” replied the 'Intelligent-one'.

“Hey dad…’The Force is strong with this one’…”

Thank you ‘Cutie-pie’, the best compliment a son can pay his mother…

Footnote…no animals were harmed during this episode.

Blog 54 p… coming soon…next Wednesday

Copyright © GML 2012

Blog 54n...P.S.

Blog 54n...P.S....

Well I chickened out and didn't  go to the police station...instead I emailed our local community bobby so that I'd have time to get organised here in case I was held for questioning! I also emailed the local councillor and explained what happened and what I saw... both emails were replied to with similar statements; putting my mind to rest...

apparently the organisation that owns the land where the statues had been are in the process of planning to do some extensive road works and the statues were in the way...so for their safety they had been removed but paperwork and the usual bureaucracy had caused a delay in the information getting to the council. Of course someone reported it to the newspaper before the information had filtered through!

I am soooo relieved; although I have to say it did all look pretty shifty to me...so watch this space I'll keep you informed as and when [or if] the Vikings return.

[A little of my trust is restored!]

Have a wonderful day wherever you are...catch the next blog tomorrow.

Blog 54n...The Missing Statues

Blog 54n...The Missing Statues...

My mother brought us up to always be honest no matter how hard it was. She always told us we could trust some people some of the time but not all of the people all of the time. She was right to try and instill these values in us and I do try to instill as many values as I can into the ‘Intelligent-one’ and the ‘Cutey-pie’ in preparation for the big world. But sometimes I wonder what kind of people there are walking side by side of us along the way…

I once knew a young female Vicar who was brilliant in every sense of the matter and the way she talked to young people and old sometimes took my breath away and made me think long and hard about life. She once said something quite profound but also what I thought was strange for a Vicar:

“Look in the mirror…you see the face staring back at you? That’s the only face you can trust. Everyone else can let you down.”

It made me worry that if I couldn’t trust myself then who could I trust?

In teaching I worked as hard as I could and if there was a chance of promotion I steeled myself ready and took the plunge. Time and time again I trusted management when they said things like;

“You’re in line this time round, trust me I’ll put a good word in for you;”

 or; “The interview is only a formality you’ll get the job...

 ...Trust me, produce this scheme of work… take the football practice…volunteer to do the Dance Festival...join the Parent Teacher Association... job’s as good as yours.”

Fool that I am I followed what I thought was sound advice, I did what I thought was expected of me and trusted that someone would see that I was capable of doing the job I applied for.

When I was told that it was a close shave, that the panel really liked me but the successful candidate was younger, more competent with today’s systems, confident with computing…blah blah blah…I realised that perhaps the only person I could trust to get me the promotion was me!

When my first ever true boyfriend told me that he loved me I trusted him to always be there for me…well he was, but he was also there for half a dozen others as well and when a Taekwondo partner [er yes I did do that sport…and I did get the green belt!!] told me to close my eyes and trust him he’d catch me I did…and of course I fell flat on my back because he had whipped the legs from under me and forgot to catch me! [I’ve since forgiven him as I was in love with him and eventually married him…yes my ‘Hubby’ is a black belt in Taekwondo!]

I have always been as honest as my mother would expect me to be and except for the occasional little lie for the benefit of someone’s happiness, this has been the case for the best part of 40 or so years!

It took me a long time to discover that telling the truth when a friend asks if she suits the colour of a dress or make up is not what they wanted to hear: eventually after losing many friends whilst growing up I began to learn how to smile and say something stupid like; “What a difference that shade makes.” Or agree that indeed their new boyfriend was trendy or better looking than the last one. Sometimes being honest meant being quiet or extremely tactful in the hope that they didn’t really want my opinion anyway.

I also learnt that in teaching telling 100% truth to a distraught parent that their child is an absolute nightmare is of no benefit to anyone…least of all to the child who would be punished for their behaviour; so I developed a different way of telling the truth; less brutal and more constructive: giving parents hope and the pupil a chance!

But is all this honesty and being trusting a good thing or plain stupid?

Read on and decide for yourself…

I live in a community that is slowly being surrounded by developments in the name of progress and quite often you can leave the house one day and have beautiful trees wafting in the wind and return at night to have just the bark pieces wafting in your face. For the most part when we are informed of plans that would have a detrimental effect on our community and lives we get the opportunity to disagree. But just lately without any warning several standard sized trees and bushes had been cut away, despite the fact that they had originally been planted to protect us from the noise and the pollution of the local motorway slip road [which was built after the houses]

Over a period of days these trees disappeared and I suppose we all became a bit complacent when we saw even more workmen in their yellow vests digging away.

Now for the past 14 years there have been a set of stone farm gate posts that were carved into the shape of Saxons complete with the conical shaped hat. These stone figures have stood proud and gradually became a landmark: everyone used them for directions:

“Turn left by the Vikings…go straight past the Vikings…or…if you drive past the Vikings you’ve gone too far…”

At Christmas a neighbour would brave the cold and dark and dress them in white beards and red hats…much to the surprise and enjoyment of the younger generation.

Sometimes people would hang birthday messages on them. They became a respected part of the community and would become an Historical part of the landscape…or so we all thought.

One afternoon in March ‘Bridezilla’ and I were returning from an unsuccessful shopping trip. She was grumpy because she has given up smoking and I was grumpy because I’ve given up chocolate [in a last ditch attempt to reduce my waistline in time for the wedding…I can dream…]neither of us were particularly happy as we approached the  roundabout on the way home and saw a lorry with a crane and three workmen digging away at the Vikings.

“What the hell is going on now?” I shouted.

“No need to shout at me.”

“Here, go round again I want to see clearly…”

“For crying out loud I want to get home…”

She did drive round again, she also listened to me moaning and cursing and swearing about all these changes.[‘Bridezilla’ just thinks it’s my age that makes me grumpy; it is… but it’s also the lack of sleep, the hot flushes, the lack of chocolate and the niggling pain…I’ve very little patience these days]

So even though we had just parked up and she needed some cake ‘Bridezilla’ kindly agreed to drive me back to see what was happening. What on earth was I thinking? Anyway, we parked in the nearby lay-by and trudged across the newly cut grass verge and approached these three men who suddenly looked a lot bigger than they did when I was sitting in the ‘Bridezilla’s’ jeep…

“Er excuse me, can you tell me why you are digging up the statues?

“They’re going into retirement…” chirps the smallest of the three.

“Why?” Blabs me.

“The motorway exit is going to be extended…they’ll be in the way.”

“Where are you taking them?” I persisted.

“Oh locally, to the Council’s yard…” the big man smirked and the red head controlling the crane laughed as I said…

“Can the community please have them for the Nature Park?”

“You’ll have to ask the Council…” and they all beamed.

We walked away feeling a little silly and by the time I got home I was fuming. Humph! Extending the motorway! So I emailed a Councillor who very quickly emailed back that there were no plans for an extension. Something did not add up.

What has all this to do with honesty and trusting? Read on…

I was happy that the statues were safe and that as a community we could request to have them on the park. I was also happy enough that there was no extension planned and we just needed to be vigilant to make sure that no one snuck in an extra lane whilst everyone was out! Life goes on and 4 weeks later I was talking to a neighbour…the very one who used to decorate the statues. During our discussion he mentioned the loss of the statues and how sad it was to see them go. I recounted the fact that we could have them for the community if it was decided not to replace them on the roundabout. He was slightly confused and suggested I read the local paper; he kindly emailed the link this morning. What I saw brought tears to my eyes and made me feel furious.

The article I read was detailing how the statues were stolen and that the police were looking for any leads!

Any leads? Hell fire I was not only standing talking to the thieves whilst they were digging the statues out of the ground but I thanked them [through gritted teeth] for answering my questions. STOLEN! Who on earth would do that?

So now I am off to give my evidence to the police in an effort that just maybe they can be tracked down…I think they’ll be surprised to hear that the thieves did not come in the middle of the night but in broad daylight surrounded by traffic!

Which leads me to the question…

Is all this being honest and trusting a good thing or am I plain stupid…I trusted what the workmen said…they laughed at my belief in their lies…I'm going to be honest when informing the police of what I saw...will my honesty be rewarded by being arrested for hampering the police's efforts to track the statues?

What do you think?

One thing you can be sure of is that you can trust me when I say…

                    …it’s a good thing I’m not in charge of Stonehenge then isn’t it?...

 

Blog 54 o...coming soon...Next Wednesday...
Copyright© GML 2012