London Calling

One of the things about living in a village is that it will eventually turn you into a Country Mouse and a trip to London will become a major event which involves discussing travel options with your friends because:

• Your nearest train station might as well shut from 8pm onwards given the infrequency of the service (and the fact that you need to change to get on a main line which, if timed wrong, could leave you stranded at Reading as your car waits patiently in the car park at Newbury for you).

• Driving to a 'proper' station involves either a parking fee that will make you swear (£17.80 for 7 hours at Reading..) or a walk to your car that includes having to cross a bridge with steps so steep you'll develop an irrational fear that the man behind you is going to push you down them (thanks Didcot).

This combination of extortionate parking, irrational bridge-fears and worrying about being stranded, led to me deciding to drive to an evening event in the arse-end of nowhere (or Docklands, as it is more commonly known).  The sat nav was set, I was ready to go.

I glided along the M4 and entered our capital city under the watchful eye of giant Mockingjay and Call of Duty ads - a grim portent of things to come?  Not initially - the sat nav lady had decreed that I should experience some impressive sights first:

The Royal Albert Hall where cyclists slither at speed between cars like black lycra-clad sperm rushing to a waiting egg.  They wear no helmets and use tiny flashing red lights to alert you to their presence - a far cry from the blinding bike torches and neon clothing of the countryside cyclists that I know.  The parking sensors go mad and I wonder how on earth they maintain their balance and concentration under the assault of traffic fumes, breathtaking buildings and unpredictable manoeuvres.

The Ritz where a top-hatted doorman skips like Fred Astaire across the road to usher an elderly couple into a cab.  They are elegantly dressed but look dowdy next to his tails and epaulets.  Back on the pavement a bell boy pushes a gilded luggage trolley filled with bags from Selfridges and Harrods.  He wheels them to a discrete side door so they can be whisked to the room of someone too rarefied to be seen with their own shopping.

Image from broadwayworld.com

The Strand, strewn with Christmas lights which makes me feel like I am on a float in a Disney parade.  Even the buses are in a festive mood - great sweeps of window curve up and over the side of the them like the flash of a shoulder revealed by an evening dress.  I am in awe, but not for long....

Hyde Park Corner and Holborn await me snarled up and twisted like a spastic colon.  Lanes closed, cars too close, people oblivious to the traffic lights.  The sat nav represents major junctions as mere roundabouts which confuses the hell out of me, lanes disappear behind netting and traffic cones, signs and road markings become invisible under the weight of traffic.  I pause for a group of pedestrians who have ignored the lights.  A taxi driver properly, massively, blares his horn to inform me that it really is 'each for their own'.  I realise that I am not cut out for using my car as a plough to move people - he'll have to wait.

After a learner-driver on a moped swerves across two lanes and into my path, I find myself off course and on Liverpool Street.  Which is a cul-de-sac.  A cul-de-sac full of taxis that have formed a little Yo! Sushi style conveyor belt to allow customers into their cabs.  They are not going to move for me (not a great night for me and taxis) and I end up reversing the length of the street - unfortunately not with my left arm slung casually across the back of the front passenger seat...

A good hour later the Limehouse Link tunnel welcomes me and I eventually get to the NCP which closes in just over two hours time unless I want to pay a £50 release fee.  It has taken me 2 hours to cross the city.  I am deflated as I walk from my car to the venue but then I cross the bridge and see this:

Many people would argue that there is no beauty to be found in the financial district but there is something about seeing London lit up at night, reflected on the water, that is pretty magical to me.


My inner Country Mouse marvels at the sight and then I remember that behaving like a naive tourist at night is not a sensible thing to do and put my phone away.  The event goes well and the journey home takes only two hours door to door - it's a result but what will stay with me is the journey there.

Those two hours crawling across the city felt like a valid way to experience London - beautiful, maddening, alive, infuriating, confusing, crowded and never, ever boring.  It drove me round the twist, and I feel like I earned some driving stripes, but most of all I fell a little bit more for our capital city.  London, I love you.


Soundtrack:  London Calling - The Clash

Quelle heure est-il?

What's the time?
I'm

6 o'clock and all's...dark

Not sure, anymore

Clocks 'spring forward' and 'fall back'

I wake up and it is the crack
of dawn
I yawn

My brain is in an awful mix

Is it 7 o'clock or 6?

At 4.30pm we go to the park
And sit there, swinging in the dark

Our body clocks are all confused

I don't think that we can get used
To shortened days
And longer nights
Bare legs now swathed
In winter tights

We bundle up indoors and pine
For warmer days and bright sunshine

Five things to do - for free - in the school holidays

School holidays are expensive - even if you're not heading off for a week in the Canaries.  The expense is inconsistent too: a day at Legoland will sting you for at least £70 even if you have collected your cereal packet vouchers; two hours at the cinema will cost you close to £30 for an adult and two children, but one of the local holiday clubs near me (why aren't they called 'play schemes' anymore?) charges only £11 per child for 5 hours.  Whichever way you turn it's going to cost.

So, in an attempt not to hemorrhage money this summer, I thought I'd rack my brains for those times when my children have enjoyed themselves, and it hasn't cost me a penny.  Here's my top five:

Mmm.....delicious!

1. Let them make a 'potion'

Give the kids a bowl or jar and (almost) free reign to put what they like into it. When it's complete, decant the potion into a used water bottle and 'voila' your very own 'marvellous medicine'.  It will be disgusting but you will get at least 30 minutes peace.

Warning: Before you attempt this - make sure you've put the good stuff away or your favourite hand cream is going to go missing (as I discovered here).

2. Funny face drawing game

Beautiful - no?

Get a sheet of paper, fold it in three and take it in turns to draw parts of a face.  Warning can be addictive - you may need a ream of paper.

Double warning this can get very silly, very quickly - watch out for the addition of "wee and poo" to the character that you've worked so very hard to render accurately.

3. Tickets Please!

This is a much loved game in our family (read more here).  We play it using our slide - but you don't need a slide to do it!  Here's how it works:

• You are the ticket inspector - it is your job to inspect your child's 'ticket' (real or imaginary, either will do) and decide whether they are allowed to pass (down the slide in our case).
• You never, ever allow your child to pass on the first go.  You must inspect the ticket, then explain in outraged voice why you cannot let them pass because their ticket is out of date / for a different mode of transport / poo-stained.
• Once you decide to let them pass, you must let them think they've got away with it before exclaiming "Hey!  That ticket says Mickey Mouse / is a used chip wrapper / is poo-stained!"
• You then chase them around the house / garden / park until they are back at the start.

4. Shout at your children in a foreign accent

This game started in our family when we found ourselves stuck in a caravan with no tv on a very wet day.  Having become frustrated at the children's failure to listen to me shouting at them not to play with the pull-out bed, I thought I'd give it a go whilst using a German accent (and the handful of German words that I know).  It resulted in unexpected hilarity and gave us a welcome respite from playing Uno for the 130th time.  

Note: You don't need to speak a second / third / fourth (okay, okay uber-talented linguist) language to succeed in this game, but you do need to shout it like you believe it.  

5. If all else fails.....give them an Argos catalogue

Who needs the internet
when you've got one of these?

I reckon Argos could compete with serious publishing houses for the amount of print that they produce...and the popularity of their free doorstop-sized shopping bibles.  This popularity seems not to have waned with the advent of the digital generation - my children love them more than the internet!  And far from turning them into mad consumers it has actually made them aware of how much things cost, encouraged conversations about saving, and there is the extra bonus that there is absolutely no risk of them clicking a link and adding twelve Lego Death Star kits to my basket.

Warning: You need one per child or all out war will start.  No-one wants to be given the furniture section whilst the other one gets the toys....


Well those are my top five - perhaps not quite enough to get us all the way through the holidays but it's a start - if you've got anymore let me know!


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Duvet Wars

It's time for the Duvet War

And I want to have more

Than you

The problem is

You want more too

Image from harrycorry.com

The weather here is freezing tonight

And in our sleep we start the fight

I wake up and my left side is cold

Because you, my one true love,  have rolled

And gripped the duvet between your thighs

I shiver and wish it was King-Size

I tug the corner

But it’s stuck tight

And you are out, just like a light

All toasty, sleeping like a log

Dreaming merrily in our 10 tog

I pull hard and wake you

But I don't care

This is Duvet Wars 

And you must share!

The Tandem

Ten minutes after this photo was taken
I wasn't smiling quite so much.....

"Let's ride a tandem" my husband said
Planting a seed inside my head
Of a romantic gesture, built for two
"I'll ride up front, and chauffeur you"

I thought it was a marvelous treat
Until ten minutes spent in the seat
Revealed that the tandem we had on loan
Had a back seat that was made of stone

And whilst the pace was easy to keep
My nether regions fell straight to sleep
"Please can we stop" I found myself sobbing
My legs were fine but my noony was throbbing!

We dismounted: and this feels hard to explain
But along with standing like John Wayne
Came a pins & needles fizzing sensation
That made me lose my concentration

Back on the bike and I can vouch
I said something a lot stronger than "ouch"
It felt like a brick was beneath my smalls
I held in a scream and wished I had balls

The man at the bike shop said "How was your ride?"
As I hobbled, wobbled and staggered inside
"My bits really hurt" I said with a choke
"I see why", he replied, "that seat's meant for a bloke!"

If Estate Agents had to Tell the Truth

Image: sellahouseonline.co.uk

I have been highly entertained this week by an estate agent's description of a house that is up for sale near me.  It says that it can be accessed by a "ramp passing up over a stream".  The 'stream' in question is actually a culvert that is either bone dry or full to bursting on those rare occasions when the rivers that flow underneath the village rise up and surprise us all, bringing shoals of energy drink cans, and crisp packets discarded by people who are allergic to bins, floating up to the surface.

The point of this post however, is not to expose the estate agent in question, but rather to ponder whether we'd sell be able to sell our houses if we had to tell the truth.  To try this out, let me take you on a virtual tour of my own home....

The front garden
Estate agent: "a charming gravel drive with stepping stones leading up to the front door".

Me: "if I slip one more time on this bloody gravel I am going to block pave the entire bloody thing and don't get me started on how bloody difficult it is to pull a pushchair / wheelie bin / carry shopping in heels up here.  We've got gravel on a slope - who in their right minds would do that?!"

The hall
Estate agent: "a bright hallway which allows light to enter the length of the house."

Me: "this is where the children dump all their crap.  Sometimes they simply shed their shoes as they enter the house which means you can't shut the front door."

Clear stairs - so rare
I took a picture...

The stairs
Estate agent: "an elegant enclosed staircase with very high ceilings giving a sense of spaciousness."

Me: "this is where my husband dumps his coat.  It also acts as a transition point for crap that should belong upstairs but has made its way downstairs.  The high ceiling means it is an absolute bitch to decorate and impossible to remove cobwebs from without balancing perilously on a chair at the top of the stairs.

The living room
Estate agent: "a comfortable room featuring French doors that offer easy access to, and from, the garden."

Me: "this room has no storage.  Unless you count "under the sofas" oh, and "behind the sofas"".  Nobody steps from the garden into this room - it's got a bloody carpet!"

Don't go in there...

The kitchen
Estate agent: "built to an excellent specification, this kitchen has been incredibly well designed to accommodate family dining."

Me: "this room cost us a fortune, so it should look nice.  Just don't open the cupboard under the stairs unless you really like the sight of 3,000 plastic bags and 112 cook books wedged in at right angles around a hoover.  And mind the change jar doesn't fall of the shelf and kill you."

The bedrooms
Estate agent: "Period features bring charm to these three well appointed rooms."

Me:  "These rooms do not have enough storage.  Unless you count "under the beds".  The period features mean you will smash your hip at least once on one of the fireplaces."

The bathroom
Estate agent: "a high quality, very modern family bathroom."

Me:  "This is where I spend at least 3 minutes a day cleaning wee that is not mine from around the toilet, 30 minutes a day sorting out washing, and 10 minutes a day hiding from my children.  It is the only room in the house with a lock on and normally has a child outside of it shouting "muh-meeeee!".  If not that, there will be a child on either side of the door shouting at each other.  The floor is hard enough to smash a smartphone screen."

Fortunately I am not an estate agent, and not about to sell my house.  But if by some chance either of those come true, and this post comes back to bite me on the arse, at least I'll have told the truth.

Errant Fly

*Burp*

Errant fly
I don't know why
You zoomed into my mouth as I was running
Was it a premeditated act of cunning?

Or did my ill-timed intake of breath...
Draw you, buzzing, to your death?
And as you travelled towards my gut
I think we both wished, I'd kept my mouth shut.