The Rules

Is it a rule that, if you've closely followed five programmes in a six part series, something will prevent you from watching the grand finale?

Is it a rule that you'll get a spot on your nose just when you've got friend you've not seen for ages coming to stay?

Is it a rule that it'll rain the day you've had your hair done?

Is it a rule that really fat* people have to sit next to you on the bus?

Is it a rule that taxi drivers have to stop so that the passenger door is right next to a big puddle?

Is it a rule that someone will call for a chat when you're up to here (*gestures point quite high up) with things to do?

Is it a rule that, just after you've hoovered, you'll drop a big pile of something dusty or granular?

Is it a rule that, when you put black jeans in the wash, there'll be a tissue in the pocket?

No? SO WHY CAN I RELY ON THESE FACTS SO COMPLETELY!?

Grr!

(NB I'm actually in a fairly prosaic mood. I mean, all of the above rules have proved themselves to exist today, and I've dropped a few things, lost a few things, accidentally hoovered up a few things, but I'm feeling fairly tra-la-la about it all. Just, y'know, avoid giving me any sharp objects of children to hold in the next 24 hours, just in case).

* If not fat, then smelly. If not smelly then squirmy. If not squirmy then downright flaming mental.

Super Nova

Today, I received a text message from my friend Bally. It read simply, "Ahh, memories," and came with this photo.

Ain't she a beauty?

This is a photo of the back view of a Vauxhall Nova Saloon. Oh yes!

When I passed my driving test, my Mum had a black Nova, just like this one. A21 PKR. Occasionally called "Parker," but really just called "the car". It was too simple a car to warrant anything as fancy as a name. It had two doors, and drop-down seats to get in the back seats, where the windows didn't open. It had a medium wave radio, so you couldn't listen to the charts, but you could listen to French cricket commentary. It had a one litre engine. Well, almost. 993 cc's raw horse power. C'mon!

After a while, we traded it in for a maroon one, JUST like the lovely little number in the photo. The NEW Nova (as it is still referred) had a 1.2l engine though. I know. Wild. And we bought a cassette player for it in Argos. We knew how to live the crazy life, my mother and I!

Like most late-teenagers, I was one of a group of friends, genetically incapable of going anywhere in anything less than a small tribe. If we went anywhere, we went mob-handed. Invariably it would require us to take two cars, and both cars would be packed full.

Two of our favourite venues were on the other side of hills. This was never a problem when we were going. Down hill, three six foot tall lads in the back, with a tail wind, that car would really shift! Coming home though, was troublesome.

The Hook and Hatchet pub, in a village pleasingly called Hucking, was remote. Really remote. The Hook and Hatchet is in a place where, when it's dark, it's REALLY dark. The Hook and Hatchet is in a place where you don't want to break down. Leaving the Hook and Hatchet with a car full meant that there just wasn't enough time to build up a head of steam to get up the hill, so instead, I would stop at the bottom of the hill to let out all my passengers, drive up the hill slowly in first gear, high revs, faint smell of burning, then stop at the top to let them all back in again.

Henry's Table was more trouble. It's on the other side of Detling Hill, which is about two miles of twisting dual carriageway steepness. It's scary, man! On one occasion, coming home from the weekly Henry's Table pub quiz, I had to drive two passengers up the hill, leave them in the Happy Eater car park at the top of the hill, go back down to get the other two and collect the loiterers on the way past to head home.

Aw, that little car! I wonder where it is now. (Scrap heap? Bottom of the Medway? Stock Car Heaven?) It was, if we're honest, not a good car. But thinking about it has brought back lots of happy memories.

Thanks Bally! Now I wonder if I can snap a brown mini to send you?

This weekend (5) ...

1) On Thursday, friends were in town for the day to celebrate a birthday, and invited me to join them for cocktails in a fancy-pants bar. After a fairly intensive afternoon at work, I gratefully sank a dry martini (olive, not a twist) whilst they regaled me with stories of champagne, dim-sum, trying on overpriced and overfrilled evening dresses, and afternoon tea.

2) Friday morning dawned fine and dry and as spring like as the week before it. After a quiet morning pottering and shuffling around the house, I went into Tooting for a late breakfast in my favourite cafe, to watch the world go by. The good weather seems still to startle some, who walk around the corner blinking into the sun; and be rather too well embraced by others, in shorts and flip-flops already.

3) I had a list of jobs to do, errands to run, tasks to undertake this weekend. Paint the dining furniture, buy a wall unit, tidy the garden, clean the car. And with all these things in mind, I went to the cinema on Friday afternoon to see Alice in Wonderland. What a terrific surprise to discover that it's in 3D! Was I the only person not to know this already? Must have been living under a rock, I think.

4) With catching up to do from Friday's negligence, I set the alarm for Saturday morning for a not-too-early-not-too-late time. But I woke ahead of the alarm (most uncharacteristically), and got to snuggle down under the duvet to enjoy the luxury of dozing for a while.

5) Some very most favouritest friends came to London to go to an afternoon party, but arrived early to meet me for lunch. We went to Wagamama and the children were given a sheet of games to play. Next to a dot-to-dot picture of a bowl of ice-cream was the question, "do you know what this is a picture of?" I read the question to the six year old, who looked at me blankly. "What's the answer?" I asked. "Yes!" she answered. Well ... I suppose she's right ...!

6) We've had a date in the diary for weeks to go for dinner to celebrate a friend's birthday, but at the last minute we've to change our booking from 7:30pm to 9pm (disagreeable for those with small children, and immensely preferable for those without). The birthday girl arrived early at my house for a glass of wine and a natter whilst we got ready to go out, and we set the world to rights.

7) Over dinner we give our friend her gift. A pair of purple Hunter welly boots. She made all the right excited noises as she took them out of the box and stood them on the table, much to the amusement of the people sitting around us.

8) The lovely Gillian and I set out for the Midcentury Modern fair at Dulwich College. As we went out to the car, I asked her, "roof up or down?" We both looked at the sky and then at one another. "Top down! I've brought my headscarf with me!" So for the first time this year, we went topless!

9) After the fair we headed to East Dulwich to the Chandelier tea room. We were to meet friends of Gillian's there, so were looking for a large table, which was clearly most inconvenient for the staff. After being shown to one table, we were asked to move to a table that clearly wasn't big enough, then waited for ages for menus, and even longer for our tea to arrive. (If there's one thing that makes my arse twitch, it's bad service!) But the tea arrived with a slab of banana cake with a creamy frosting, so perhaps I'll forgive them.

10) A text message from an old friend. A boy I've known since I was eleven. "Is it bad having a bottle of wine solo on a Sunday night?" I reply, "Not ideal. But it's only 8pm, what will you do with the rest of the night?" "I'm only half way through. Watching Desperate Housewives. I think I might be gay." "That depends on the wine. Red, white or rose?" "White. It's not looking good is it? It would be better if it was red, wouldn't it?" "At least it's not rose dear. You're fine."

Have a good week, folks!

My day starts

Monday to Thursday (my (slightly slack) working week) the alarm sounds a quiet b-b-b-beeb, and vibrates slightly on my bedside table, emitting a low rumble. It's not enough to wake me, but enough to disturb my sleep.

Five minutes later, the radio starts. The first song an a half, and the news pass me by, although sometimes I hear something on the news later in the day, and realise that I already knew it. I get out of bed with the opening jingle to the breakfast show.

I get to the bathroom, but rarely remember the journey along the landing. I could have floated there for all I know. Shower on, and hop in. By the time I've finished shampooing my hair, I'm awake. By the time I'm conditioning, I'm also working through the day. What's on? Who am I seeing? What am I doing this evening? Then, whilst I'm washing, I work out what I'll wear today. Perversely, I usually start with the shoes, then piece together an outfit in my mind which will go with them.

Out of the shower. Brush teeth. Deodorant spritz. Towel dry hair - never a hairdryer. Splodge on some moisturiser. No perfume anymore - I'm allergic apparently. How dull. Get dressed. Change my mind. Decide on something else. Realise it's in the laundry bin. Put the first thing back on. Find jewellery to match. Have a sneaky boogie to something on the radio, and sing into a hairbrush microphone.

I trot back to the bathroom, remembering more of the journey this time, put some goop on my hair and generally rearrange it, then put some slap on - a process with takes progressively less time every day. Soon I'll just be dunking my face into the make up bag, and wiggling it 'round a bit.

The radio goes off, and I head downstairs to sort out my handbag, pulling out things I don't need, and dropping in things I do, and prise the zip across. Coat on, and quick paranoid check for purse, keys, phone, book, then out the front door.

I speed walk up the road, thinking about nothing. I get to the station having no idea what's passed through my mind on the way. I never run for a train - I have an inbuilt paranoia about falling down the steps onto the platform. Rather than risk it, I'll allow one train to go and wait for the next one.

I have a spot on the platform. Opposite the last but one sign on platform one. It's the right spot when I get off at the other end, but not so busy that it's a scrum. If I'm lucky, I'll get a seat on the train. Otherwise, a leaning post will do. And I get my book out.

Train through the common to Balham, to Wandsworth, another common to Clapham Junction, and through Battersea. No idea what's going on around me. I envelope myself in my novel for fifteen lovely minutes.

Then the train crosses the Thames, and every morning I look up from my book to watch out of the window for a minute.

And that's when my day starts.

Spring has sprung

Well, I hope it has. The signs, thus far, are positive.

I feel like the cold started a lifetime ago. I feel like I've spent years planning coats and scarves and gloves and hats. Tights under trousers and spare socks on top. Vests under t-shirts under jumpers under cardigans. I feel like I've spent every other day doing laundry because I've been wearing so much so fast. I feel like I spend my journey home from the office living for the moment that I feel the fuggy warmth of the central heating.

One of my early posts was about the thrill of feeling the first bite of winter in the air. That post was written by a stupid person who WAS NOT IN HER RIGHT MIND! That post was written by someone who clearly had forgotten what being cold is like.

THIS person remembers. And THIS person is gleeful to see blue sky, flower shoots, buds on trees. This person has a bunch of daffodils on the kitchen windowsill, nodding their happy spring heads at me when I walk in the door.

These last few days have been like a new world. I've felt the sun on my face, and seen banks of crocuses. I've come home and turned the thermostat down on the central heating. I've left the house without gloves, put my scarf in my bag, and unbuttoned my coat. Yesterday I even went coatless!

Resolutions ought not be made on January 1st. They should be made now. This is the time of year when things feel optimistic and positive. It's now when there's reason and incentive to look to the future.

Is anyone nervous that I might burst into song? You should be. I am. A couple of sunny days and I'm prancing around like Maria Von Flaming Trapp!

Ach, who cares! Spring in the air, and a spring in my step. And thank the Lord for that!

Coming Home ...

I’m going away this weekend. Well actually, since you’re now reading this, I’ve gone. Toodle pip! Three days in Kent with my parents. The first time I’ve seen them since Christmas, even though they are only a short hop away. Shameful!!

News flash! I’m not actually a Tooting girl (*gasp*). I’m a Kentish girl. Actually, I suppose I’m not even really a Kentish girl. Born to a Geordie mother and a Welsh father, in fancy Surrey, and moving to Kent when I was three, it’s a wonder I’m as balanced as I am.

Nowadays, when I speak to Dad on the phone he asks, “when are you coming home for a visit?” and I always dodge the question. Not because I don’t want to go, but because it’s not home, and I don’t know how to say that without hurting feelings.

As is, I think, pretty normal, I spent age 18 – 21 “treating this place like a hotel” whilst I darted back and forth to University, then moved out proper. Since then I’ve lived in six homes in three postcodes. To start with, I suppose I did still think of their place as “home” and my place as temporary lodgings. Perhaps it’s part of the internal instinct to protect oneself from the shock of having flown the nest, and suddenly being responsible. Culpable. Or perhaps it’s just that it’s still really where the heart is.

In any event, slowly, over those first few years, home became Home, and now, when anyone asks where I come from, I say Tooting, without questioning the longevity of that answer, or what it means that I’ve left behind, and am sacrificing.

Nevertheless, here I am, sur le train (as they say in foreign), heading south. Out of Victoria station, over the river, past my favourite lovely Battersea Power Station. Through the less salubrious corners of South London, where the buildings on the rail side are more graffiti than brick, and sneaking unnoticed over the boarder into urban north Kent.

Into a tunnel next to a business park, and suddenly out, on the other side, in the county. And equally as suddenly I get a pang of nostalgia.

There’s the field with the derelict barn in the corner that I always thought had potential to be done up into a fancy country house. Looks like someone’s doing it now. There’s the field with the strange patterned white and brown, patched horses. My brother calls them cow-horses. (“What noise does a cow-horse make?” “Quip quip quip!”) There’s that pair of cottages, permanently wrapped in scaffolding and being extended. Can we still call them cottages? Over the last twelve years they’ve become sizable houses.

The familiarity of the journey brings a warm and stabilizing comfort. I’m finding myself fidgeting with anticipation for that first point where the train pops into the Medway Valley, from where the river and the towns look so quiet and gentle (and not a hint of the run down chaviness that Medway really offers on the ground). Once there I can mentally follow the journey out the window attaching a memory to each view. The roads that I learned to drive on. The roundabout that I failed my first test on. The café where my friend Lou used to work. The lane that Jo lived in. The housing estate that my brother and his girl moved to. Churches where I’ve attended weddings, christenings, funerals.

And finally, Sittingbourne station. Where I’ll bump into someone I know within 100 yards of the station. And where my Mum is having coffee with The Girls. And where, when I walk in to the coffee shop to meet them, the lady behind the counter will say hello and bring me The Usual.

So maybe it is home after all.

Feeling Creative?

My word, but you look like a creative bunch!

Fancy tapping that creativity? Then sign up for the lovely Amelia's new Experimental Art e-course.

Amelia is a neighbour of mine, a fellow local creative type, and also a pretty splendid friend. She also writes a fabulous blog called 101 Bird Tales about all sorts of things, but mostly about following your heart and doing what makes you happiest. If you're seeking a spot of inspiration, I can recommend it most wholeheartedly.

Anyway, she's launching an e-course on a theme of Experimental Art, which you can sign up for one her website here. It's a six week course which aims to encourage you to try your hand at a range of artistic techniques from the comfort of your own home. So if you are someone who's always meant to do something creative, but never got around to it, or someone who wants to try some new creative styles, or just fancies trying their hand, then this is, surely, perfect for you! Go and have a read. She explains it much better than I do.

Whilst you are there, check out the rest of her website. She's a talented lady. She did the lovely embroidery below for me, which I love.

Ah, go on! What are you waiting for! Who knows what lovely think you might create!

Happy creating!

xxx

PS - I feel duty bound to assure you that I am not earning any kind of commission for this promotion, but I am hoping that I might get invited to the Critchlow residence for a cup of tea and a jaffa cake some time soon.