The day the gingersnap lost it's snap

That was the defining moment. When I realised I didn’t feel truly myself because a) I didn’t look like me (a 2 ½ stone weight gain can do that to you) and b) events of the past few years had coloured me. So I needed a good ‘wash’ and a health kick. I started five weeks ago and have lost half a stone. (More of the same and I’ll be there somewhere).

To celebrate this small ‘milestone’ I decided to visit my No 1 watering hole, Starbucks, and instead of the chamomile tea I had feasted on in recent weeks I’d treat myself. Go mad. Skinny cappuccino. Not crazy – I wasn’t thinking in terms of venti, or even grande – no, a tall one would do. More than modest yet less than greedy pants. And I wouldn’t splash out and have a cantucci biscuit. No, I’d read that a packet of two ginger snaps were positively saintly in comparison to the obscenely calorie-laden rocky roads and chocolate brownies of this establishment (can any cake really have that many calories?).

So two days ago my eight year old and I ventured into our nearest and dearest Starbucks. I’d been waiting for this moment for – ooh, at least a week. I lovingly paid for the delights, sat at a nearby table and passed my daughter her rocky road (yes, really) and small bottle of OJ. I placed my cup and plate in front of myself adoringly. My hand reached out and picked up the longed-for ginger snap. Um. Gorgeous I thought, as I took my first mouthful. I placed it back on it's plate and savoured every crumb of that first bite.

My daughter reached for her juice and due to our constant chattering, taking her eye off the ball (or bottle, if you see what I mean) the bottle flew over, throwing its contents all over the table, all over my gorgeous biscuits, and all over the person sitting opposite – yes, that would be me. My hair, face and clothes were well splashed but it was the gingersnaps that had taken the worst of it. They were swimming, positively drowning in fact. Desperately I grabbed one and, lifting it hopefully, was about to take a quick nibble (before it really did sink) when – plop! – it fell and landed in my cappuccino. Result? Not only did I not now have a biscuit, my lovely milky cappuccino had turned sour when introduced to the OJ. The taste was definitely not for the faint hearted.

When we exited five minutes later, little one had a self-satisfied smile on her face owing to the rocky road delicacy and a few drops of OJ. Me? Well, I was dripping juice and soggy biscuit crumbs. Not a good look. The moral of the tale? I guess I shouldn't have felt smug when I'd only just reached first base. I might just get bitten on the bum. I legged it home quickly, as smelling like Jasper’s best friend, I wasn’t going to take any risks.

Designer.....? So behind her

Phew. What a week. And deffo not a good one. I haven't been able to sit down for seven days and although things are improving there are still remnants of frostbite, but it is almost behind me (oh but it were - behind me rather than in front of me, if you see what i mean). I have spent much of the week with a mirror in places you really shouldn't be putting mirrors. It was not so much 'Mirror mirror on the wall who is the fairest of them all?', as 'Mirror mirror, have they gone?'. But yes. Four of the infection sites I'm pleased to say are now clear which leaves one little blighter left but almost gone. Half way through the week I was desperate, pacing the floor.

"Nothing else for it", I confided to a friend on the 'phone. "I'm going to have to have the frostbite taken away".

"Well don't stress about that one", she said, "Designer vaginas are all the rage right now - quite the thing in fact. Quite overtaken silicone implants as it happens".

Now she wasn't exactly a friend, more of a 'we speak once a year acquaintance' actually. Because if she was a friend she would know that this was so not me. Umph. Cosmetic surgery may be a part of my future, but I hadn't planned to make that decision until everything went so far south it was no longer in my line of vision. This part of my anatomy though had never been up for debate. No. I would soldier on regardless and hope for the best. Pollyanna has nothing on me I thought, as I happily 'looked on the bright side'.

But then I got the e-mail from Ann Summers and that's what really annoyed me and made me feel less than satisfied about my lack of proper progress. 'National Orgasm Week' it screamed out and went on to list all the fascinating articles on sale this week to make each and every one of our orgasms particularly enjoyable.

Did they know? I huffed. Was this a wind up? Who could have told them? Because I certainly hadn't. And how the heck had I suddenly joined their mailing list?

The one time that I so don't want to even think about sex, or intimacy, or anything getting any closer to me than my favourite comfy pants (no, not even my party pants), they send me a message about some rampant rabbit and tell me I must (really must) celebrate national orgasm week. Well I'm sorry but I really have taken umbridge at that one. I'm not playing. I'm definitely not playing. But have a good week everyone and I hope you can do your bit for Ann regardless. I've nominated myself to the sidelines feeling more than a little put out.

Yes, I have frostbite (Having a real 'Bridget Jones' moment here....)

Well I've really done it this time. Boy does it hurt. My dodgy ligament in a rather dodgy place recently experienced a flare up of inflammation. Knowing the quickest way of easing the discomfort was to pop an ice pack on it, i duly did so. Ah. That's better I thought as I drifted off to sleep.

I woke up to find I'd wet the bed. Had I? Surely not. No, sure enough, it was the ice pack that had leaked. However as it had leaked onto the ligament (just above the pubic bone..um...yes) it had at the same time slipped down and leached out over what my daughter affectionately calls 'the twinkle'. Yes. Just there. And on waking I found I was stuck to it - or rather, it was stuck to me. I prized it off gingerly (didn't fancy spending the day walking around with an ice pack dangling precariously and painfully from there thank you very much - which seemed just about my only other option at this moment in time). So yes, I prized it off and yes, it was excruciating. But once off I thought, that's it, it's over, and life as I knew it carried on as normal.

But there was nothing normal about how I was feeling the next day when I got out of bed. As I walked to the bathroom I was aware that my 'twinkle' was very puffy and swollen - I could even feel it as I walked. Help I thought - what is going on? Hopping into the shower I put it to the back of my mind and carried on regardless. Only the next day that was nigh on impossible. I was in agony. There was nothing else for it. Donning my glasses and clutching a magnifying glass, all very Inspector Cluseau, i went 'down under', holding a mirror as close to the offending site as possible. Ah! Help! I'd turned a rather bright shade of purple!

Grabbing the 'phone, I made an appointment to see my doctor. This was not something I could fix on my own. 24 hours later and there I was, up on the doctor's table, legs akimbo and all ready for inspection.

"Yes, it's frostbite. You've given yourself an 'ice burn', and it's become infected" she quickly diagnosed.

Clutching my prescription for antibiotics I left the Surgery as gingerly as I'd arrived. So. It really is possible to get frost bite anywhere. Um. If I'd been a man this wouldn't have happened I thought. Could hardly stick an ice pack to your willy now could you. Could you? Let's not go there. Please. This is bad enough.

But there was some good news. Although my 'twinkle' was not feeling altogether twinkly at the moment, apparently I'd missed my clitoris by millimetres. Otherwise I guess I would have killed it. Gone. Dead. Forever. So thank you God. For small mercies. But not for a frost-bitten twinkle. No. Definitely not for that.

JULY IS A WICKED MONTH

It wasn’t until my daughter started school that I knew anything about the ‘who knows who’ of life at the school gates. As for birthday parties and who is and who isn’t invited, well that’s something else!

We live about five miles from my daughter’s school and there is only one other girl from our class where we live. Naturally I’ve encouraged my daughter Imi to play with Freya – she lives just a couple of minutes away by foot, after all. Each holiday for the past three years, we’ve had Freya over whilst her Mum works, and enjoyed taking her to arts and crafts club, to trampolining, to gym…. in fact when I think about it I’m quite dizzy recalling all the adventures we’ve had together. I think we almost made it to the moon once, on a particularly dull day last October.

So when Freya arranged her seventh birthday treat, for July 9th, a trip out Ten Pin Bowling followed by Pizza Hut, I felt sure Imi would be invited - especially as Imi and Freya share the same birthday.

Yet no invitation came home and this led to confusion and upset in our house. Did I arrange something else for the day in question?

In the end I arranged a family Bar-B-Q in the garden. I invited my three sisters and their children, plus a few neighbours and friends.

The day dawned and it had been raining all night. We’re going to be stuck inside, I thought - but no, an hour later, the sun came out and stayed all day. Everyone came – there were around thirty of us. It was one of those beautiful lazy, hazy summer days where we sat in the garden, three patio tables joined together for the adults. We all crowded in under the sun umbrellas, bottles of wine and bowls of salads passing back and forth. The children were on the lawn, playing tennis, swinging on the swing, jumping in and out of the paddling pool. We played pass the parcel and musical statues. It was just lovely.

And really I have Freya and her Mum to thank for our beautiful day. If it hadn’t been for Freya’s party we, too, would probably have had a small group of children to take either to the Bowling Alley or the Cinema or the Swimming Pool. It would have been fraught, expensive and tiring.

I guess this is life at its best; just as you think things have gone wrong they come right, and often in a way that can exceed your expectations.

The other nice thing to come out of this is that I’ve realised that the school gate ‘stuff’ doesn’t matter. Our real friends, and our family, are what matter ultimately. The road to friendship is not exactly a straight one, and it takes a while to work out who is merely being friendly and who is in fact a true friend. I must admit I’m still learning to separate the two (and having fun trying).

So July has turned out to be just wicked, as opposed to ‘wicked’ in the Virginia Woolf sense, and it bodes well for the summer. With the holidays upon us I guess we are all looking to entertain the children/grandchildren/friends/families as best we can. We have been really lucky and have received an invitation to a friend’s house in Cornwall where I’m looking forward to introducing Imi to pasties, piskies, sandy bays and calm waters (as well as finding myself a quiet corner of an old inn for a crab salad and a crisp glass of white).

In fact when I think about it, it looks to be turning into a pretty wicked kind of summer. I hope yours is too.

Bonne vacances!

Old Flames

Long Ago And Oh So Far Away

Last year, an old friend/flame telephoned. We were together 20 years ago and had always kept in touch. I'd helped him through some tough times - talked him into staying put when he was ready to throw in the towel both at work and at home. He'd talked me through many of my own crises. So when he 'phoned and asked if I would do some work for him I panicked. I'd put off meeting him for 10 years - even though he was always saying he'd love to come down and take me out to lunch.

But I needed the work because I needed the money, so reluctantly I agreed to meet up. We scheduled it in for a month's time and the next day I started a diet.

A few days before we were due to meet, I changed hairdressers for the first time in years. I threw caution to the wind and daringly asked for a shorter, younger style and some brave hi-lights. I went out and bought a cream canvas bag like the one I'd seen my 18 year old niece with. And a short brown fitted puffa jacket like my 16 year old niece wears. When the day came to meet I'd lost a stone. Still a stone overweight, I wondered if he'd notice. I worried about the wrinkles, the laughter lines and the tired eyes.

When he got out of his car at the Restaurant we both laughed. Older (and probably not much wiser), it was a great lunch. I came away remembering who I was - who I am. He told me he'd felt the same. We meandered a little down memory lane. I'd taken some photos along of 20 years before - "isn't age a terrible thing" he'd said, as he looked at his once trim figure (that was now portly) and his thick dark hair (now noticeably thinner and grey). Yet all I saw was that he had the same twinkle in his eyes and the same great laugh. And he still made me laugh out loud.

Why is it that time does this to us? Makes us feel world-weary? We have lovely homes, wonderful children, (hopefully) enjoyable careers. Yet we tend to forget who we are. We get forgotten in our role as Mother/Father, Breadwinner/Homemaker. We can end up feeling like an organiser with no time for ourselves. And in all the rush, our very essence gets lost. Worst of all, we forget the importance of laughter.

Sometimes it can take a person from our past to bring us back to ourselves. Today I've got a spring in my step. It's as if he's opened my eyes. I've seen the girl of 20 years ago because an old friend found me there, lurking in the shadows of myself. Where I had seen and felt my age, he had seen my essence.

When he left he said he felt chilled and happy. He feels better about things at home. In seeing the 'me' of 20 years ago he also rediscovered the 'him' of the same time. He found the boyish enthusiasm for life and pleasure, before the financial responsibilities and children came along bringing with them unavoidable pressures.

Age, after all, is just that. It is just a number, yet we can all too easily allow it to become a state of mind. So scratch beneath the surface and I bet you're there - the fun you, the young you. I hope you have the courage to jump out and make the most of your day.

Life is short - let's wear our party pants.

Climb Every Mountain

I'm off to Physio this morning. Never did I think I'd be going there again. I thought and hoped I'd left all that behind me a couple of years ago. My ligament was healing nicely - a pelvic ligament - um - actually it's above the pubic bone so it doesn't fit into my top ten things to chat about over a cappuccino. Not remotely. Anyway back to today. I'd been doing so well. I'd even climbed a mountain on my recent holiday. Well, half way up anyway, but that still counts. And sitting half way up Ingleborough sharing a bar of kendal mint cake (chocolate covered no less) with my 7 year old daughter was bliss. I explained to her that when I'd grown up in North Yorkshire the view out of my bedroom window had been of this very mountain. So that half-way-up walk meant as much to me as an all-the-way-to-the-top walk on any other mountain.

When we got back I was exhilarated. Yes! I'd done it. It really was one of those defining moments. Not only had I managed to climb half-way up a mountain but I'd taken my daughter to Manchester to see my old college stomping ground (whilst she took me to Old Trafford footie stadium). I took her to the Albert Docks in Liverpool and the Tate Gallery (she took me to Anfield Football stadium). So we did lots. We packed it in, a veritable santa's sack of activities.

So it comes as something of a surprise to be having this set-back. Two days after coming home I was due in Hospital for what was called an 'exploratory' op: a hysteroscopy. They wanted to make sure all was as it should be as my monthly periods had gone a bit mad. I don't want to risk it I told them - my ligament may get stretched again. All that 'there there hysterical woman you'll be fine' bit came out as they reassured me I would be OK. More fool me for believing them.

Because I wasn't fine. 24 hours post-op and I could hardly walk. Could hardly crawl. Going upstairs felt like running up Ingleborough (right to the top this time). It was agony and that's how it carried on. I can only imagine that under anaesthetic my legs were pulled, pushed, tweaked and finally shoved, a-kimbo, over my head with such gusto I'm surprised my trolley didn't come shooting out of theatre with me screaming 'take me home!'. Only no such luxury when we're 'under' - we know nothing till the deed is done.

The Doctor now tells me the prognosis is mixed: the offending ligament may come true again, but it may take longer than last time because it has re-injured a pre-existing weakness. My Physio is jolly chipper - she tells me I may never recover. Well jolly great but you know what, I ain't listening. If I thought it wouldn't come right again then I may just run to the top of the nearest mountain and stay there. But then did running away ever solve anything? Don't know but at least I wouldn't have to face the situation anyway - there are no mirrors up there for a start, so I wouldn't see myself and say 'hello you, yes, it really did happen'. No, I am sticking it out down on planet earth and hoping for the best.

But I do know one thing. No more exploratory ops for me - ever. I will wait till I'm well and truly dragged in there out of necessity before I go in hospital again.

So I'm trying to find plenty of things to do that you can do whilst 'resting'. They keep telling me I should be 'resting'. How does the concept of resting go side by side with having a child to look after? Tricky to be sure. Especially as the long 6 week holidays are almost upon us. Help! School! Cancel the holidays for this summer only! The holidays are usually my favourite time, and we had such plans, most of them involving sandy beaches and maybe even a little sunshine. Plans now will be curtailed for the foreseeable. Just off to rest.

Birthday Parties

A child's birthday party should be an eagerly anticipated event, a highlight of any child's year. I have fab memories of my birthdays as a child: a few friends coming round for tea and games played on the lawn.

Today there is a myriad of things to choose from and none of them include playing at home. No, by the time you've looked at the various options - swimming, bowling, discos, cinema, clowns, and all the other entertainers - you could well do with a sit on the lawn! And that's only the start. You then have to decide on the menu to be served (sandwiches and jelly and ice cream would appear to be so last year, if not last decade, for the average 8 year old) and also the length of the party. All day - even a sleep-over - seems de rigeur.

My daughter's birthday falls on the same day as another little girl's from her class, and of course she is always invited to whatever we arrange. But last year the invitation wasn't reciprocated. The other little girl held a marathon - bowling, pizza hut, party bags, you know the sort of thing - and my daughter didn't receive an invite. To make matters worse, my daughter - who did invite the other child - arranged her party (a bar-b-q at home) on the same day, unwittingly of course. How could we have known? We didn't receive an invite. So we had the added problem of re-arranging our party.

This year I didn't want the same situation arising. I decided to face the situation and feeling mature, texted the mum in question to ask if she would be having a party, saying that I would make sure I didn't choose the same date again. I received a reply saying they weren't having a party. So we went for the date of our choice and arranged one at home. I don't have the cash to throw at a lavish affair so my daughter and I decided each child will paint a plant pot and when the paint is dry, fill it with compost and plant a flower each. They can then take this home with them. If the weather's bad, we can make some cookies and decorate them.

So it was with disappointment that my daughter came home from school yesterday almost in tears, tellling me that the same little girl was indeed having a party - Shrek 3 was mentioned - and that my daughter wasn't invited.

Why is it that children's birthday parties always cause such distress when they are supposed to be such happy occasions? And the competition is fierce - even the party bags are de rigeur. Yet it remains a shame that a happy, joyous occasion is marred in this way.

Oh well. I'm praying for sunshine. We're going to have a traditional party in the back garden with games and activities and a big group of children. And yes, we're having sandwiches and jelly and ice cream and iced gems and pass the parcel. Call me old-fashioned if you like. Only no, please don't. My party bags are lush. So this century. And my house will be rocking with music - karaoke no less. Joseph? Grease? We got 'em all. A fine time will be had. And you know what? The kids will love it. Because as great as it is to give them choice and variety, I still think what kids love most is being left to their own devices to run free and be themselves. At least when they're eight. As they get older that will change, and yes, we'll be up there with the rest of them. The stretch limo is booked. But for this year, bring on the fun, the innocence and the simplicity. And a large dose of luck. I'm hoping for a fab day.

WHY don't we?

Why is it that we do many things but not (often) the things that really matter? I need to lose weight (groan) and you may need to buy a house but I don't stop eating and you don't step over the threshold of an estate agent's. Yet we are capable intelligent women. We could do what each other need to do - I would love trawling through estate agents seeking out that perfect property, and you may have no problem eating plenty of healthy foods. Yet we can't do what we really need to for ourselves.

Is it fear? Are we afraid that if we start on our quest we may not succeed? I feel it is that we are seeing the problem rather than the solution. And when we concentrate on the problem it gets bigger and more dominating and therefore less easy to tackle so we don't bother. Whereas if we saw the solution and worked towards that - joy! Motivation indeed.

So why is it that we see the negative rather than the positive? And why don't we see the 'us' that others see? Also - and this is weird - are we scared of succeeding?

I've decided that in order to achieve something we have to focus on the end result rather than the process itself. Whether it is buying a house, getting a new job, getting fit: don't think about the how, just think about it being, at the end. So that's what I'm going to do. Starting now. And in a way it's a different way of looking at things because we've always been taught to be methodical and start at the beginning but actually maybe here we have to start at the end - the result we wish to achieve. Maybe by starting at the end we find ourselves at the beginning - at the point of satisfaction and hope. And that's surely where we'd all like to be.

Am I in moral decline????

Help. I am now the only one left. Am I being frowned upon??

When my daughter was ready to go to school - 4 years 6 weeks, far too young in my opinion! - I looked around at my various options. Near to me was a 'town' school - all concrete with no green spaces. A large number of parents were regular drug users and the dealers dealt at the school gates (if not in my car parking space behind my house). These were really the deciding factors for me - I wanted my daughter to play on a field at play times, running around and feeling free. And I didn't want to trip over dealers at 3.15 when going to collect her. I was also aware that a high proportion of the parents were single parent families and whilst this by no means put me off using the school, when I found a school with green spaces for the children to run around in with no dealers crowding at the gates, I signed on the dotted line. And I also found that the majority of the parents in the class were married. In fact there were only 3 of us who weren't married couples. So I had company.

Only now I don't. One of the other Mums got married a couple of years ago and the other one is getting married next weekend which only leaves myself and my daughter's father as the only unmarried parents along with one single parent. Am I in moral decline???? After all as others rush up the altar, I hurry to my own bedroom (yes, I did say my own bedroom). Separate rooms. We are what I think are known as LATs - Living Apart Togethers. And I didn't mind so much when there were more than one of us - I felt in good company. But now one of the Mums kicked out her 'LAT', found a gorgeous toy boy and hot-footed it to church and now lives in marital bliss. Yes, I'm feeling a little out on a limb. And the problem with that is, it makes you put your own relationship under a microscope and I have to say mine is not passing muster. Firstly, he says he doesn't love me (not a great start). Second, I feel we disrespect each other (yes, it's mutual). And third, I realised recently that we don't share a sense of humour in fact to put it bluntly I don't think he has one. He laughs at people but not with them and I find that so infuriating as I can't share it. I don't want to laugh at people I want to laugh with them.

So where do we go from here? Would I be brave enough to go it alone when I'm fair fat and forty plus? If I was slim and fit and confident then maybe. So that tells me what I have to do. And yes, I'm making a start. Healthy food and exercise is where I've started. I'll let you know where it takes me. Hopefully to a few belly laughs. And hopefully to courage

The Steam Train of My Mind

Why is it some days we wake up and our minds are racing, sprinting, much more than the normal chugging, positively buzzing and breezy? It's only 10am and I've potted my hanging baskets, 'phoned catalogue companies, dealt with all correspondance, read my inbox, tidied the house, done two lots of washing. Am I running or am I hiding?

This year two men have told me they'd love to have sex with me - please note, I used the word sex. When I spoke to one of them about this fact, and asked if love entered into the equation, I was told it didn't. Men are men and sex is sex and women are vehicles for men's needs (so I was told). So I am, in fact, a vehicle. Steam train? No, I believe trains are more locomotives than vehicles. A car maybe, a swish dashing red ferrari? Well no. In fact I am not loved. So I am more a Robin Reliant - I am not loved but I am great to have sex with. If it was just one man who told me this I could accept it - his problem, not mine. But it is two men and as I have only really loved 3 men in my entire life and 2 of them have told me this I am wondering: is it me? Am I hard to love? I must stress that both these 'loves' of my life and I had relationships in the past and both were trying to resurrect them. Or rather I was (one of them - not both), not knowing that it was rumpy pumpy in the sack he wanted rather than love in the mist. The other one wanted to set me up as his mistress in the south east - I could take my adorable daughter and live the lifestyle I had formerly been accustomed to before my change in circumstances. Mistress. It has connotations of 'wife in the background' so I declined - graciously of course. He was very pissed off and that's when 'it' started. I walked away. Yet the other relationship is harder to walk away from as our lives are 'entwined' as it were. So I've worked on it since that fateful night when I learned I was an old car. And it's just as well - a week after hearing the incredible news I went to stay with a friend in London to clear my head and it was there, in Kingston upon Thames, in Barclays Bank, on the third floor, that I burst into tears. The poor girl had only told me I couldn't extend my overdraft and there I was, flooding over her desk. All the other bankers were looking at me pityingly. She must have felt like Scrooge for it was a few nights before Christmas - she gave me many options, hoping to cheer me up. But I sat there thinking of old cars, rusting away, bangers on the scrap heap, all scratched and scraped. Was I old scrap? At the time I thought I was. Yet I made myself a promise. I was going to win him back - yeah, that was it. I'd get him. I'd show him what I was made of, why he fell in love with me. (When will I learn?). I'd lose weight, earn great money - anything that pays loads whilst letting me do the school run, keep house, shop, and chauffeur my 7 year old around to as many after school clubs as you can stuff into any one week if you please.

That was almost 6 months ago now. Sadly I haven't lost 2 stone (yet). But something is going down and I don't know exactly what it is but it feels fab. By showing him I was sexy as hell and interesting to boot and really worth the effort I now feel - I'm obviously having a l'Oreal moment - worth it. I am WORTH IT. Has anyone out there seen 'Under The Tuscan Sun' (I'm sure she ran off with my life, the life I should be leading if only I were brave enough: I speak Italian, I like Poles and I love the sun - is she my sister? my double?). Anyway. If you have seen the film (my daughter and I have watched it 10 times in the past 6 months) you have to remember the moment when Frances gets back from Positano (fab place - love it - always buy jumpers) and hangs on to the bed posts doing an 'oh yeah' kind of dance, celebrating the fact that she still has it. Well I feel like that. In trying to show someone else that who I was is still who I am I got the chance to dust myself off, polish myself up and shine. I mean shine. No-one may have noticed but I am glistening. And the more I glisten the more I want to eat apples, big juicy shiny red ones, instead of chocolate. So look out world 'cos soon I will be both glistening and toned. And you know what? Sometime soon I am going to ask the question again, the one where I say, is it just sex or do you love me? And I know my answer. If he says he doesn't love me then he is out the door. If last time taught me anything it's that this time I will cling on to my dignity by my fingernails if I need to, until they are jagged and torn but at least I will be standing tall (which would be fab as I'm only 5'4"). I would not prove myself again to any man. I am woman and I am worth it and I am worthy of love (as well as sex). For now though, funnily enough I am enjoying the sex, because it is on my terms (deservedly so after being called an old rust bucket). Sex with him has always been good and it means I don't have to even daydream about escorts/agencies/asking out an old school friend, or whatever else I may contemplate doing (on-line dating maybe??). No. I am fine on that score and also it keeps me fit and so much more fun than conventional exercise: he may think he's getting the last laugh but he is so not.

As for today, it's back to the garden for me. I've bought myself some pink gardening gloves and secateurs as an early birthday present. Last Sunday I saw a pink plastic wheelbarrow. Now I've never considered a wheelbarrow before but having trotted around the garden today back and forth and up and down I now see the benefit of them. And if it's pink well so much the better. I don't give a toss if he's cynical about it. You see he says I talk too much (perhaps I do but I don't like the silence he inhabits). He says my friends and family don't like me. Well perhpas they don't but till they tell me I'm reserving judgement on that one - could it be that as he chooses not to socialise with family or friends he could be jealous that I do? He says I'm not interesting 'cos he isn't interested in what sparks my imagination. Well maybe he isn't but I'm not going to stop being interested in education, psychology, relationships, people, languages, food and wine and travelling overnight. So it may annoy him and piss him off but I'm buying a pink wheelbarrow. Not only will it be useful I will push it up and down the garden when he's looking, shouting 'look at me! i'm here, i'm staying and i like who i am'. It will be a real moment. Whose moment? My moment. And it will be for all those moments and times he rejected me and I wore black so as not to draw attention to myself in the hope he wouldn't call me 'lardy' (yes, really). It will be a Diana Ross moment, an 'I'm coming out, I want the world to know, gotta let it show.....There's a new me coming out and I've just gotta live, and I just gotta give, I'm completely positive'.

Just off to the garden centre. It's going down and it feels great.

Gaffes

Well I can't believe it. I came on this morning and raced through a comment on a programme I had watched last night (and I am racing now between tea-time and bed-time for a 7 year old - why am I always racing? Feeling so tired I meet myself coming back?). So this morning then. Between burnt toast and school-run and the arrival of Reflexologist (one monthly luxury I would no way be without) I posted a short piece - my first - and didn't check it. Mistake - big mistake - I feel like waving those 'Pretty Woman' bags at myself as I say this because it was a pretty woman moment. I gaffed. Carrie Bradshaw would roll off the bed in hysterics - I wrote 'their' instead of 'there' and when talking about Tom forgot to end his 'brackets' and left them strung out till the end of the sentence. Worst thing is, I don't know how to edit a posting - or even whether you can. So it will stay there, forever pink, forever wrong, and forever I will see Carrie laughing, saying I am a lesser writer than she. Well I've learnt something from my 'Learning' posting - I will read before posting in future. See ya.

(quick update - dashing as usual - daughter off school sick, the big red bowl is being yelled for - i learnt to edit and i did it. so my big 'pretty woman' moment is not as devastating as first thought. hoorah. now off i go before it's too late).

Learning

I'm calling this Learning as it is so much more than Education. I saw a series of three programmes recently on three pupils, Tom, Jeremy and Libby going from Wells Cathedral School to Preston Manor in Wembley with their mentors, Moeed, Mustafa and Michelle (I hope I spelt the names right as I have no written reference). It was so interesting. The Head of Wells Cathedral school had said that the school - one of the oldest private schools in Europe no less - was there to teach children to learn, and that they could then go on through life with this learning capacity being their prized tool.
The Head of Preston Manor on the other hand explained that their Comp was large - with 1400 pupils, almost three times the size of Wells Cathedral School. And different - being situated in Wembley it was one of the most diversely multi-cultural schools in London. Outside the school there were sometimes incidents involving drugs, knives and guns. But the Head explained that rather than being a bad thing, although these events always affected the pupils, it also acted as a learning ground that would prepare the pupils for 21st century living.

The dilemma I was left with was this: does a prep school prepare you for life in our world today as well as a huge comp in London does? Obviously geographics come into this but then so does money. Can money buy you out of 'life' as we know it and purchase you privacy, protection and cotton wool?It was interesting to see what the pupils from Wells Cathedral School thought of school life at a comp like Preston Manor. Tom was looking forward to returning to Wells, but only because he missed his toast at break time! Yet he would prefer to be able to take some of his new 'mates' with him. He had found that altering his speech - saying 'init' a lot instead of 'isn't it' - helped him become accepted, to open himself up to people and to make friends. Jeremy was just lovely and became 'Jez' at Preston Manor - he was open and willing from the start and just a brilliant lad. Jeremy would have preferred to stay at school in Wembley. As would Libby, who loved the experience - it was endearing to see how moved Libby was by the reception she was given from the other girls in Year 10, especially as some of the girls sang her their own composition, a welcome song, during break time in the canteen. Libby was stunned by this and rightly so.The three of them arrived at Preston Manor expecting to have to try to fit in, to be accepted, yet they were welcomed with open arms. What a tribute to such a diverse comp in London, that the pupils there were open, friendly, helpful and welcoming, willing to share and enjoy all they had with these three. What it showed as well was how we are all just people - young, middle aged, old - we are all the same whatever our 'packaging': private school, state school, posh house, social housing - we are, at heart, the same, with the same needs and a shared interest in each other. When Jeremy started to say that he felt privileged, I thought he was going to say privileged to have been to Wells Cathedral School even though enjoying Preston Manor. But no, he said he felt privileged to have been one of only six pupils in the country to have taken part in such an 'experiment'. And the three pupils from Preston Manor - Moeed, Mustafa and Michelle - were happy with where they were thank you, and would like to stay. They are living proof of the fact that if you make the most of what you're given (intelligence, humour, schooling in whatever form, family) then you will shine alongside even the brightest star. I loved watching them. Overall, all the pupils involved (except Tom) questioned the money spent on private education, each feeling that both the teachers and the lesson content was as good at Preston Manor, a large state comprehensive, as it was at the prestigious (and expensive) Wells Cathedral School.It was a fab programme but best to remember that Preston Manor, although large, is one of the best comps in the country with a Head Teacher who has helped turn it around from a failing school. My lasting impression was that I will be happy to send my daughter to a state comprehensive but I would like to be able to choose her a good one, the best one I can find.

Yet by then will I have that choice? Even if I make the effort and move into the desired location, I may not be able to send my daughter to the school of our choice, closest to us, and within our catchment area.

The Government are piloting a scheme in one county of the UK where the comprehensive your children are sent to really will be a lottery. You are notified by post which school your child will attend and that’s that. They are ‘mixing it up’ so as not to get an imbalance: in some schools the pupils come from many cultures and backgrounds whereas in other schools the pupils are predominantly white and middle class. The new school ‘lottery’ means there will be a mix and all schools will then become similar. And if this ‘lottery’ works, it could be rolled out across the entire country.

What is the betting then that Private schools will become fiercely sought after by those who can only just afford it but who don’t want the alternative: after all, isn’t it our right as parents to choose our child’s environment, especially if we have moved to a particular area with that thought in mind.

It really does put the meaning of fair into question, as what some may see as fair may not be seen in the same light by others. It may herald a change in the way children are educated in Britain: we may be nearing a future where private schools are not the domain of the wealthy but are the school of choice by parents who refuse the alternative. Democracy may still be the name of the game, albeit in a different format.

My First Day

just like at school, first days can be scary yet fun. come join me (please!) 'n tell me what you think. from tomorrow i will have plenty to say!