Grinch empathy and friendly hedge trimmings

As it happens, I am not a big fan of Christmas.
At this time of year, on this day, I find myself siding with The Grinch in almost every way. 
I hate the crazy present buying, the unnecessary wrapping, the endless mince-pie eating.  I want to scream as I squeeze into packed supermarkets full of people panic buying because the shops will all be closed for one day and we might all starve or dehydrate or run out of alcohol.
I get embarrassed pretending to love unwanted gifts while secretly planning to drop them off at a Charity shop on the way home. 
I groan as the big day gets closer and Mia and Joss remind me that we still haven't put up our tree.
" Perhaps we don't need one this year," I suggest tentatively.
" What! " shout Mia and Joss in unison.
" Just because you don't like Christmas mum," says Joss, " doesn't mean that we don't. And we want a tree."
" He's right," agrees Mia, siding with her brother for once. " Just because you don't like Christmas, doesn't mean you have to ruin it for us."
Grumbling I drag our fake, black tinsel tree out of the cupboard under the stairs. 
After being folded up for a year its branches are bent and the tinsel looks a bit scraggy.  
Half-heartedly we hang  a few baubles from the branches.
" It looks like its been run over," says Mia, standing back and critically assessing our handiwork..
" Why is there wire instead of branches?" asks Joss.
I shrug.
" Perhaps its deciduous," I say. " At least we can put all the presents underneath it now, so we don't lose them."

But I know Mia and Joss are right.
  I'm definitely not a good mum at Christmas.
I find it hard to overcome my abhorrence of the overt consumerism and the fact that Christmas is now, more than anything else, about presents. 
Everything has to be the most up to date, the fastest, the trendiest, the coolest, the best.
 I shudder to think of the number of Play Station 4 games, laptops, mobile phones and DVDs that have been given as gifts.
Whatever happened to a new pair socks and a bar of chocolate?
And the closer December 25th gets, the more I rant and moan and the more Mia and Joss roll their eyes indignantly and disown me.
Except for Christmas Eve. 
The24th December is the one evening that we all look forward to all year. 
It's true that the "eve," of most important days is usually more exciting than the day itself. The day before something happens is generally full of anticipation and excitement without any of the disappointment that reality often brings.
But that's not the reason everyone in our family looks forward to Christmas Eve so much,  it's because it's the day we have dinner with the Medways.
The Medways are our next -but -one neighbours and they have been our friends since the moment we moved in. 
Mia was not quite 2 and Joss not quite born the day I met Gill Medway.
We had just moved in and I was walking along our new road, holding Mia's hand, feeling Joss kicking inside me.
And there was Gill, standing on the pavement trimming her hedge.
" When's your baby due," she asked,pulling a stray leaf out of her hair and smiling.
" Next week," I said. 
Joss kicked again,
" But I think it might be sooner. "
" Let me know if you need a lift to the hospital then," said Gill, calmingly. " My daughter Emily is in Holland at the moment. She'll be back next week. She's going to be so excited when she hears there are two little ones living next door.  I'll send her round when she's back."
And there was something about the welcoming warmth of Gill's smile that day, that made me realise that, even though we had no fridge, no unpacked furniture, no proper beds, everything was going to be alright.
And Emily did come round when she came back from Holland and she's never really left, not our hearts anyway.
The thought of her not being a part of Joss and Mia's life, is unimaginable to them and us. Her love and friendship is the branch that has let them grow away from us, knowing that they will always be safe.
So it's probably not strange that we started spending our Christmas Eves together,
There's no planning involved, we're none of us good at that. 
 We only decide a few hours before whose house we will have dinner at.  
Everyone cooks something, children and grown ups and in-betweens. 
And every year we create the perfect feast: starters and main courses and puddings.
And every year we eat and laugh and put the world to rights.
And every year, for one whole Christmas evening, I forget about presents and wrapping paper and overcrowded supermarkets. 
And instead I remember what Christmas really is: a time to share what you have and be together.

But then again, isn't that exactly what happened to the Grinch?

Happy Christmas!

Patrick, Jonny, Gill, Joss, Emily, Mia and  Ninesh- Christmas as it should be.

Impact measuring, Jude Law and four "sisters," from the fourth floor

I have spent a lot of the last week self-evaluating.
Nor myself but our Children"s Centre.  
Which means I have spent a lot of the last week drowning in stats and data 
How many families from our reach area attend our centre.
 How many of those families are targeted families. 
 How many of the children of the targeted families go to a nursery, a health visitor, eat healthily, weigh the right amount…….the questions are endless, the statistics screwy and our ability to change the world, limited.
But the worst part of all is when it comes to measuring impact.
How can we show that, by doing what we do, we can truly make a difference.
How has your centre changed lives for the better.
And that's where stats and data fall apart.
You can get statistics to prove almost anything.  
You can turn them into graphs or charts or percentages. 
You can even get them to predict what might happen in the future..but you can't get them to tell you what that future holds.  
Impact doesn't fit into a tickable box because impact is about something immeasurable.  It's about changing an attitude, altering an aspiration, planting a dream.
And how  do you measure that?
How do you quantify what might happen tomorrow or in a week or in a decade as the result of something you have done today?

And the more time I try to spend analysing data, the more I find myself daydreaming.
Wondering what it would be like to impact measure ourselves. 
To assess the difference we have or haven't made.

As it happens, I have been thinking about the past a lot lately.  A few weeks ago I met up with 3 long-ago friends in Dusseldorf, Germany.  We have known each other since we all met on the second floor of C block at university in Liverpool more than two decades ago. Over the years we have fallen in and out of touch and our lives have travelled in very different directs.  But somehow across oceans and countries and years, we have always found each other again. Because there was something immeasurably special about that year when we lived on the same floor and the next, when we shared a student house ( so cold that we had to burn most of the furniture to keep warm! )
 It's hard to say what it was.
 Perhaps it is because student days are the only time in your life when you spend every waking hour with your friends and friendships that can survive drunken nights, hungover mornings, love, heart-ache, exam pressure, shared cooking and the contentious splitting of electricity bills- can survive anything . 
Perhaps it is because, living so far from home, we had to grow up and become independent. And to do that we were, for a time, dependent on each other.  
We sat round the psychologically warming fake fire in the hotel, drinking champagne from ice cube filled pint glasses discussing Jude Law and whether or not he had ever  been in our garden, reading glasses, Christmas markets, the situation in the Lebanon and what to have for dinner.
And as we got out of the lift, chatting and laughing and made our way back to our rooms, someone from the lift called after us:
" Four sisters from the fourth floor."
And I thought: from the 2nd floor of C Block to the 4th floor of a hotel. We have definitely gone up in the world!
And the truth is, that we have all gone up in the world and perhaps none of us would be where we are today if we hadn't met each other. 
But then again, perhaps we would.
And that's the trouble with measuring impact.
 It is not finite or definite.  
It is the possibility that because you met someone, their lives are now different.
All that I know for certain is that all these years on with all that has happened my life is richer and slightly crazier for knowing them.But all these years on, for me at least, it is easy to measure the impact my 3 friends from the fourth floor have had: my life is richer and a little bit crazier for knowing them. 
Fit that into a tick box if you can!

 

Four friends from the fourth floor

Breakfast cocktails and perfect Sunday mornings

Last weekend I met some friends for breakfast at Canary Wharf in London.

Canary Wharf is an eerily quiet place to be on a Sunday morning. 
I'm sure Monday to Friday it's full of the buzz and bustle of smartly suited business people manically buying, selling and generally being very important.  

But the weekend is a different story.
The London Underground doors slid open automatically, revealing a completely empty platform. And as we wandered through the metalic, shiny station, we didn't see a single human being, just sign posts and big glass doors and long, silver escalators.

And outside was just the same.  
Wide empty roads. 
Tall empty tower blocks. 
And a big, empty cafe, where we were meant to be meeting our friends.
" I've reserved a table for 4," I said unnecessarily to the waitress.
" Well," she said, pointing to a table with a sofa and basket chairs, " I'd reserved this one for you, but…… basically, you can choose any table you want."
There's something about an empty cafe which makes you feel that you have made the wrong decision.
So, pretending that we hadn't noticed that we were the only people there, we flixkws through a menu while we waited for our friends.
And that's when I discovered something that made the reservation worthwhile and the  empty cafe, the best breakfast joint in the world. 
 Because after the coffees, teas and hot chocolates on the drinks list, was the list for 
" Naughty and Nice BREAKFAST COCKTAILS."
And suddenly Sunday morning stretched before us in a haze of poached eggs, toast,  bacon and perfectly blended alcohol.
Parlour Bloody Mary, Breakfast in Bloom Martini and Morning Fruit Sparkles.

Breakfast in Bloom Martini and Morning Fruit Sparkles, The Parlour, Canary Wharf

Our friends arrived and we ordered the Sparkles and Martinis ( a surprisingly delicious mix of alcohol an marmalade! ) and the morning melted into the afternoon.
And the waitress came and asked if we wanted to look at the dessert menu. 
" Does breakfast usually come with dessert?" I asked.
The waitress looked confused and glanced around the no longer empty cafe at the customers ordering lunch
" Does breakfast usually come with cocktails?," asked one of our friends.
" It should do," I said.
And ordering another round of toast and jam and breakfast cocktails, we raised our glasses to perfect Sunday mornings and almost empty cafes.

And if we had been there today, we would have raised our glasses to Nelson Mandela: 
an "almost saint," in an almost hero-less world.

RIP Nelson Mandela

The wordless Snapchat universe

I was sitting in a cafe with my daughter, Mia, and her friend last Sunday.  
Like all 16 year olds, they were discussing how awful their friends were, and of those awful friends, who did what to who at last night's party.
And like all mums allowed to go to a cafe with their 16 year old daughter,I tried to look 
"acceptably cool,'" by sitting quietly, drinking my coffee and pretending not to listen to their conversation.

Best coffee in Chichester, Attibassi

The strange thing about their chatter, though (making it very hard to keep track of when you are pretending not to listen ) was that it in the end, it didn't seem to involve using many words.
" You won't believe what they sent me from the party last night?" Mia was telling her friend, " this Snapchat, with a picture of two of them smiling, doing a thumbs up with the word PT underneath."
I was itching to ask what PT meant and desperate to explain that PT wasn't a word, but bit my tongue, repeating 
 " acceptably cool, acceptably cool," in my head.
" OMG," said Mia's friend ( "you could use the actual words," I wanted to say ).
" I know," said Mia, " it made me so angry. I mean why can't they just go to a party without having to tell the whole world how cra..they are." ( " I think you will find the  word is crazy," I want to say ).
Since Mia had seemed to include me in the last comment, I took my cue to speak.
" Perhaps they were just taking a photo because they were having a really good time and wanted to remember it?" I suggested weakly, feeling my comment taper off into a question under the fierce gaze of incredulity that Mia and her friend turned on me.
" If they wanted to do that they wouldn't have done it as a Snapchat would they?" said Mia, " it disappears after like 20 seconds. And why would they be smile-pouting if it was because they were having such a good time. "
Cowed into silence at this logic, I carried on pretending not to listen.
" I know what we need to do," shouted Mia gleefully to her friend, " we need to Snapchat them exactly the same picture from here, you and me with our thumbs up, just like their photo and write AB underneath ( Attibassi is the name of the cafe we were in, best coffee in Chichester! ). 

Attibassi, coolest hangout in Chichester

Enthusiastically they set to work.
Posed, clicked and sent.
 Two girls, thumbs up, the gold and black Attibassi wallpaper in the background.
There was a few minutes of expectant silence and then Mia's phone buzzed.
" Look," groaned Mia, showing the phone to her friend and me." i knew that would happen. Now everyone is going to be bitching about me all weekend.I knew she'd be angry.  Why doesn't she get that  it was just a joke."
" How can you tell she's angry?" I dared to ask, looking at the photo before it disappeared:
A tired girl, lips arching downwards making a weary thumbs-up.
Mia gave me another one of her withering looks.
" Obviously she's angry.  Look at her."
But before I could look anymore, the picture was gone.
The trouble with conversations without words, is that they are constantly open to misunderstanding … .and understanding each other is hard enough, even when we are talking. 
But where's the fun in words when you can spend the whole day misinterpreting pictures!

"I know what we can do," said Mia," we can go to all the shops in town and take the same photo in all of them…."
"Yeah," said her friend excitedly, " we could go to Top Shop,take the photo and put TS underneath."
" Or just take a photo of everyone around you Snapchatting and write BS underneath," I suggested..
Fortunately, Mia and her friend didn't hear me. They were too busy trying to get their smile-pouting poses exactly right.
Hugging my hands around my steaming cup of coffee, I glanced around the cafe. 
Sitting comfortably on the red, leather sofas or perched on high stools in front of the floor to ceiling windows, almost everyone was holding their phones up in front of them, taking perfectly posed pictures. 
 Dads with their kids, so that without words, they could show the world what  perfect dads they are.
Mums holding glasses of steaming coffee: "look at me," the image would say, " even though I'm a busy mum, I'm still so trendy, I have time to drink coffee from a  glass."
Teenagers leaning their heads together, hair gleaming or time-consumingly sculpted, perfect smiles on their perfect faces " look at the fun we are having while we are young and beautiful," the image would say.

" We've got to go now mum," Mia said, " Thanks for the coffee ( Nutella Mocha ) 
" Yeah, thanks for the hot chocolate," said her friend ( a whole bar of Montezuma chocolate melted in frothy milk) " it was delicious. Where shall we Snapchat first Mia?"
I watched them drift youthfully out of the cafe, feeling grateful that for now, at least, they were still using words instead of temporary photos to communicate with each other.

Perhaps I am just a conservative purist but I have struggled with text speak.
I find the LOL's and sos's and cra's and wht tme?s hard to take. 
Our 14 year old son, who has never been particularly interested in spelling things correctly, no longer needs to try. With his 30,000 followers on Twitter, spelling correctly is obviously a thing of the past.  The important thing is to say everything in as few characters as possible,so vowels are definitely a complete waste of space.
But even textspeak must be better than the "no speak," of Snapchat or Instagram.

I finished my coffee, carefully hid my very old-fashioned phone ( only letters and numbers, no camera ) in the deepest pocket of my coat, paid and left.
And walking through the busy pre-Christmas streets of Chichester, I watched the wordless couples, staring down at their phones, the teenagers giggling as they shared photos. the kids pointing out the latest mobiles in shop windows to their parents who were busy sending Instagrams on their own.
And if anyone had snapchatted a photo of me just then, it would have shown a picture of a middle-aged woman wandering through a phone-filled world and the caption underneath would have read:
" Lost for words."

The " 5- minutes- before -school," daily crisis

There's something about the 5 minutes before leaving for school that induces a daily crisis in our home.  It doesn't matter how calm the hour before has been, how friendly the teenage grunts or how willingly the kids have been woken from their dreams, the hand on the clock reaches 8.25 ( late for some I know ! ) and pandemonium sets in.
" Mum," shouts Joss from his bedroom, " where are my green PE socks? The ones I put by the washing machine last night before I went to bed.
" Probably still by the washing machine," I suggest.
" What,' shouts Joss, horrified, " you mean you haven't washed them yet?.  They're covered in mud."
" Mum," moans Mia, " where's my French book? I left it on the sofa last Tuesday and have you seen my…..nooo."

Looking for a Frenchbook in a haystack, I mean sofa!

Her questions die off as Joss dashes past and darts into the bathroom before her.
"Joss," yells Mia, " that's not fair, you've already had a shower for about an hour and I haven't even cleaned my teeth yet."
" Tell mum and dad to build another bathroom then," says Joss helpfully through the bathroom door, his words accompanied by the clicking open of a jar of hair gel.
By the time he emerges, each strand of hair perfectly positioned, Mia has found her French book but lost her geography homework and her compass.
" I left my compass on the floor by the table. Why do you always have to clear everything away," she complains, striding angrily into the bathroom.
"Mum," calls Joss from the hall, as he struggles into the blazer he has left in a crumpled heap on the floor, the button has just come off my trousers. Can you fix it? I have to go in like 2 minutes."
I walk into the kitchen to try and find a safety pin.  
Mia is doing her hair in the mirror over the kitchen sink.

" Why does my hair always look like THIS," she cries, " grabbing fiercely at one of her perfect curls. " It's not fair, why is my hair so horrible."
Joss stands still so that I can pin his trousers back together.
" Did you make me a hair appointment?" he asks. " my hair's getting so long."
I stare at his skin-hugging, side-buzzed hair and wonder what short hair would look like.
" And I need £2.50 for geography. If I don't have it by today, I'm going to get a detention."
" Have you signed my letter for the theatre trip,"  shouts Mia from the living room, " If you don't do it today, I can't go." 
She tips the contents of her schoolbag onto the floor and hands me a crumpled note. " I told you about it ages ago. Why do you always leave everything until the last minute."

And I stand there, biting my tongue.
I could say, if you had both got everything ready last night, none of this would be happening.  
I could say, if you got up 5 minutes earlier there would be enough time for everyone to use the bathroom.
I could say, Mia if you put your things away instead of leaving them scattered around the house, you would know where everything was.
I could say, Joss, you must have known your trouser button had fallen off, why didn't you put on your other pair.
I could say, Mia your hair is beautiful, Joss your hair is short enough and neither of you told me about money that needs to be paid or letters that need to be signed.
But after a decade of experiencing the " 5 -minutes -before -school crisis point," I have learnt it is best to say nothing.
Nagging only causes rows.
Telling your teenagers that they should be better organised is as pointless as telling your Sat Nav it has got the directions wrong.

The truth is, just before leaving for school, your kids don't want solutions, they want stress.
The thought of spending a whole day sitting, listening to teachers, getting in trouble for breaking rules and generally doing things you would rather not be doing, is not something that fills most children with joy. 
A day at school is rarely something kids look forward to, even if it is not so bad once they get there.  
So of course they need to begin their day with a " crisis." 
It just reflects how they feel about school.
If mornings were calm and cheerful, we might think they like going to school.
How else can they remind us parents how hard their lives are.

So I sign Mia's letter and find £2.50 for Joss from the change scattered around the kitchen.
The doorbell rings.
" Holly's here," shouts Mia, " Have you seen my phone? Never mind, got it. 
Bye mum. See you later."
I listen to the giggles and chatter as they wander down the road.
" Bye mum," shouts Joss, texting his friend  as he strolls cooly through the door.


And I am left, standing in a quiet house, surfaces covered in safety pins and Mia's make-up. I find Mia's compass in the fruit bowl and wonder if she would find it, if I just put it back on the floor by the table.
But it's 5 minutes before I need to leave for work….and I can feel my stress levels rising!

The tragedy of data addiction

I spent a morning last week learning about how to better gather, use and analyse data.
And it made me sad.
I am the first to admit that statistics and numbers and graphs are not my thing. 
And I'm not proud of that.  
I look at a page full of lines and numbers and co-ordinates and immediately start dreaming of blank pages waiting to be filled with words and stories and pictures. 
I see a pie chart divided into percentage pieces and start wondering if it is time to pick the apples from our tree. 
Pie charts and statistics make me crazy, even when they are true.

It's a pie chart, so it must be right

Data analysis sends me into an imaginary world. A world where we do strange things like  talk to people instead of turning them into a statistic. A world where we know who people are because we have met them, not because they are a number on a piece of paper.

No, wait…... 
That's the real world.

The joy of working in a Children's Centre is that you get to meet everyone who walks through your door.  Whatever their background or ethnicity or needs or ability, you can welcome them, make them a comforting cup of tea or coffee, sit down and listen to them.
And maybe they have had a night of no sleep with a screaming baby, maybe they have had a row with their partner, maybe they have lost all their benefits or their job or their house.
Every day is different, every family has a story to tell. 
Sometimes it takes 2 cups of tea before we can piece together what the real problem is. And when we have,if we possibly can, we help and if we can't help, we try and find someone who can.
What are the graphic co-ordinates of 2 cups of tea and a box of tissues ?

But the data shows that not enough people walk through our sliding doors, that not enough young parents, dads, ethnic minorities choose to engage with our services.
" What you need to do," say the powers-that-be, " is use your data better….At least 30 to 40% of your time should be spent inputting and analysing data.That way you can work out who isn't coming and why."
Or we could just try and find them and ask them.

There are times when our centre is so full there is nowhere to sit, when we spend our days in a whirl of problem solving for children and parents . On those days, if you walked out of your office you would meet people of all genders and from all walks of life.
But if you did that, if you left your office, you would have to leave your computer.
And if you leave your computer, how are you going to have the data to show you who you should talk to.
And what if, what you are seeing with your own eyes doesn't match the data?
What if, by spending time talking to people instead of reading the data about them, you actually find out what they want.
And what if that's not what the data is telling us?

What people need, whether they are the most vulnerable families or the most affluent, is a familiar face and a welcoming smile to help them join in.
And we can only become familiar if we are out there meeting them.
They will only recognise our smile if we have met them before.
And we can only be out there meeting them if we are not sitting in front of a computer screen analysing the data about who we should be out there meeting.

You can sit with your back to the window and look at a computer screen to find out if it's raining outside. But you have to actually step outside, to understand that rain makes you wet!

The heart-warming coincidence of friendship

I spent last Friday night sitting upstairs in my friend's bedroom, while downstairs her teenage daughter (and mine ) were partying the night away.
We were under strict instructions, my friend and I: we were not to set foot downstairs unless summoned.
And we did as we were told. Obedient to the end, as all good parents should be.
Every now and then, Eliza ( my friend's daughter ) and Mia ( my daughter ) would come upstairs and check on us. Like reverse babysitters, they would bring us a few snacks and drinks and make sure we were still awake.  
And between visits from our daughters, my friend and I talked.  
She has two small children now, as well as two teenagers, so it's rare that we get such a stretch of uninterrupted time to sit and chat.
We shared stories and thoughts and laughter and memories.
And threading through it all was the coincidence of our friendship and of how a chance meeting in a park has led to such an interweaving of lives.

Our now teenage daughters were 3 when we met. 
It was a sunny day and on my way to pick up Mia from nursery, I took Joss (2), in the bike trailer ( I only mention it because it is an important part of this story )  to Priory Park in the centre of Chichester. It has swings and roundabouts and climbing frames, everything that a toddler could wish for. Only one other mum was in the park when we arrived.  She had a little girl about the same age as Mia. We smiled at each other and continued watching our own children, each of us looking for an opportunity to start up a conversation.
" Is that bike-trailer any good?"  she asked me at last.  " Only I've been thinking about getting one."
I grinned, relieved that she had opened the conversational door. 
" It's great," I said, " carries the kids, the shopping and even the cat sometimes.I'm Becky, by the way and this is Joss"
" Leisa," she smiled and pointed at her daughter who was busy climbing the steps of the slide, " and this is Eliza. You've got a daughter as well, haven't you?"
" Yes," I said, surprised " how did you know?"
" Oh, I was reading a library book with Eliza in the back garden yesterday and you cycled past." 
" I  cycled past your back garden?" I asked, " how did I do that. I usually only cycle past front gardens!" 
Leisa laughed.
" I think you have a friend who lives a few doors down from us," she said.
And she was right, when she told me where she lived, I realised that some our best friends lived two houses away from her.
" It's strange," she said, " because I had just been wondering whether I should get a bike-trailer and I looked up  and there you and your bike trailer were, cycling past." 
As we chatted I found out that they had just moved from Woking, that she had a son at primary school and that she was an artist and wanted to illustrate childrens' books.  
I told her that was strange because I was a children's author.
" I've always wished I could illustrate my stories as well as write them," I said, " you artists are a constant source of wonder to me."
" What books have you written?" she asked.
" Only a few," I said, " my first one was about an autistic boy and his brother….you probably won't have read it….."
I trailed off because Leisa was staring at me.
" Is it called " My Brother Sammy?" she asked.
I nodded, pleased and surprised that she had heard of it.
" Have your read it?" I asked.
" Yes," said Leisa, " yesterday. It's the book Eliza and I were reading when you cycled past!"

And that's it.
The co-incidence of a friendship that was meant to be. 
A few days after we met in the park, we went to Eliza's 4th birthday party in the very rooms, where downstairs, last Friday night, the music boomed and our two teenage daughters partied.
It's a friendship that has weathered many storms.
A friendship that has survived where even love has failed.
But perhaps that's the thing about friendship- it"s more constant and less volatile than love.

The joy of being a " grown-up," is that you can choose your friends.
Unlike when you are younger, your friends do not have to be your school peers or the children of your parent's friends.
As you get older your friends are not people you want to impress. There is no longer the pressure to be popular with as many people as possible.
Instead, your friends  are simply the people you most enjoy being with, the people whose company gives you the most pleasure.
People who you can comfortably laugh and cry with.
People who warm your heart.
Perhaps once you leave school or college or university most friendships are based on coincidence.
Perhaps they depend on two people being in the same place at the same time.
But I can't help thinking that there is more to friendship than that.
That there are people in life who you are destined to meet.
People who will keep cycling past the end of your garden until you look up and invite them through the gate.

Butlins, Bognor, bumper cars and that cousin-thing

It's the half term break here and our house has been full of cousins, ranging in age from 5 to 16 and in personalities from divas to Incredible Teenage Hulks.
But the amazing thing about cousins is that whatever the age difference, there is always the feeling that they are " no-strings attached," bonded, that however good or bad or happy or sad they are, their moods will always be forgiven and forgotten because they are cousin and that's what cousins do.
There's always been something special about that " cousin-thing," - even Shakespeare knew that. 
And over the years, Mia and Joss have shared lots of adventures with their cousins: camping holidays, climbing small mountains, a Christmas spent in a huge slightly dilapidated watermill in France, a holiday in Sri Lanka, birthday parties in halls, on farms, in cinemas and of course, the Greenman Festival. 

Cousins hippying it up at the Greenman Festival

Cousins hanging out in our living room

Unlike siblings, you don't see your cousins every day. Which immediately makes them  better company than any brother or sister.
The normal bickering and rivalry seems to disappear and instead they become a bonded gang, taking on the world.

But even a gaggle of cousins is hard to entertain when storms and rain are forecast and there is no chance to let off steam in a park.  
Which is probably why Joss uttered those dreaded words last Sunday evening:
" We could go to Butlins tomorrow."
To which all the cousins, whatever their age, responded:
"Yes, yeS, YES."
"What is Butlins?" asked Neela, the youngest cousin, when she had finished celebrating.

Butlins holiday park in Bognor Regis is just down the road from us.
 It's a complete 24 hour sensory overload for all the family. 
With fairground rides, a Noddy train, a floor to ceiling indoor soft play area, shows, go-karts and a swimming pool with a wave machine and watery rides, there is something for everyone.
Even cousins.
 When the kids were little my friends and I would take our toddlers and over-excited pre-schoolers to Butlins quite often.  We would scan the local papers for money off vouchers and when we found them, a few of us frazzled mums would spend whole days there. 
We would watch the kids racing up and down the soft play area, enjoying the shows, riding the Noddy train, spinning in the Alice in Wonderland teacups and playing hide-and-seek in the wooden fort outside and enjoying the free shows. 

Fireman Sam at Butlins, Bognor

When the kids are that little, Butlins is like a gift.
It  gave us time for whole minutes of time for adult conversation without the constant demands that come with the first few years of parenthood. 
But as we walked through the automatic doors this time, the decade older me was hit not by a sense of freedom but by the noise and flashing lights and shouting children.
" Do families really come here for whole weeks?" asked my alternative-energy loving brother, turning pale as a trail of 6 year olds ran past him, heading for the slot machines.
" Can we have some money?" asked my 8 year old nephew.
" Can we go on the trampoline?" asked my 10 year old nephew.
" When is the swimming pool open?" asked my 13 year old nephew.
" There's Fireman Sam," said my 5 year old niece.
" Can we buy a cup of coffee?" asked Mia.
And while a glass of brandy might have been better for numbing the senses, coffee and a bag of warm, donuts won the day.
And sugared up, the cousins took Butlins by storm. 
Dodgems:

2p slot machines:

And best of all, hours of fun in the swimming pool:

"You are so lucky Mia and Joss," said Ollie their 8 year old cousin, when we finally left the Butlins bubble.
"Why?" asked Joss.
" Because you live so close," said Ollie, stroking the tasteful soft-toy dog he had won, "You can come to Butlins whenever you want."
I caught my sister-in-law's eye.
" We're very lucky Ollie," I sighed.
But he was already gone, caught up in some cousin race to the car.
And the truth is Ma and Joss are lucky. Not because we live close to Butlins but because of that "cousin-thing." And it doesn't matter if they are in a holiday park, at a festival or just hanging out in our living room, they will always have each other.

Life with a twist of homegrown lime and stolen oranges

There's nothing like relaxing in front of the football with a bottle of beer... if you like football and beer that is.  
And I don't particularly, well not beer.
Generally I'm more of a wine or cocktail or "anything but beer," sort of person.
But last week was different.
Last week I couldn't wait to hear the gentle hiss of a bottle of Corona being opened.
Not because Corona reminds me of Summer ( although it does ) or because I like the taste ( although as beers go, it's my favourite ).
The reason I was so excited was the slice of lime that goes with it.
Because the lime I was slicing, wasn't just any old lime.
A moment before I squeezed it into the neck of the bottle, I had plucked it from our very own  lime tree. 

Study of a lime in front of a chair

It was the very first lime that  had ever grown in our not very exotic South East England garden ( now over-wintering in our not very tidy South East England house ).
And Corona has never tasted so good- the green, tangy lime, the cool, golden  beer.... but mostly just the green, tangy lime.
We had friends over so I forced each of them to inhale its fresh, fruity scent.
" Amazing," they agreed, turning briefly away from the football ( England v Poland ),
 " smells just like a real one. What's the score?"
I tried explaining that it was much more " real," than any old shop bought lime.
But England had just scored a goal. 
So I turned back to the kitchen, opened another bottle of Corona, sliced gently through the deep green, waxy skin and squeezed another piece of lime into the bottle.

In truth, I don't just have a lime tree.  I have a lemon tree and an orange tree as well. But so far, the limes are my only success. 
Every day I check and there are tiny oranges and lemons growing on the other two trees, but somehow they never quite make it beyond the " very tiny," stage before withering and falling off. 
But I won't give up.
Growing things takes time and skill and experience. 
Just like people, you have to get to know the likes and dislikes of the plants you are tending.
And I am a patient gardener!
Ever since we lived in California, I have dreamed of bringing the scent of orange blossom to our garden. 
When I first brought the plants home, the little orange tree was in full bloom. Its  blossom iridescently white against the orange bricks of our house, its deep, sweet scent drifting through the open back door into every room.
" How come it smells like Thailand?" asked Joss, so impressed that he even made it out of his bedroom.
He had the scent confused with the smell of Jasmine that filled the air when we were on holiday in Thailand.
But that is the thing about scents and smells, they immediately evoke a memory.
When we lived in California, we had an old convertible Mustang.  
Every day I would put the top down and drive to work through miles of orange groves.
In spring, the fierce, sweet scent of orange blossom filled the warm air, intoxicating and beautiful.
A scent that lingered with me throughout the long day- which was lucky considering the number of nappies I had to change.
Perhaps, if I work at it, it is a scent that will fill the memories of Mia and Joss, reminding them  of teenage evenings spent sitting in the garden, instead of in front of the TV.
At least I can dream!
And for this year , I will content myself with the scent of orange blossom in the Spring and tangy limes in my beer at the end of the Summer.
Perhaps next year all my loving labour will bear more fruit!

When I was young and romantic, my pockets were always full of mouldy oranges because of this poem.
And even though today my pockets are mostly orange-free, there are days when I long to reach out for an orange and inhale.

THE STOLEN ORANGE 

When I went out I stole an orange
I kept it in my pocket
It felt like a warm planet

Everywhere I went smelt of oranges
Whenever I got into an awkward situation
I`d take the orange out and smell it

And immediately on even dead branches i saw
The lovely and fierce orange blossom
That smells so much of joy

When I went out I stole an orange
It was a safeguard against imagining
there was nothing bright or special in the world

Brian Patten

Soggy devotion

Last weekend I spent a lot of time standing on the sidelines. watching my nephew playing rugby and my son playing football.
 A lot of the time it was raining so hard that the players could barely see the ball or hear our cheers and groans.
But even though they couldn't always hear us and even though our devotion was rain-drenched, my son and my nephew knew we were there. 
And sometimes knowing that someone is there, rooting for you, whatever the weather is almost ( though not quite )as important as winning.
The under 9s rugby tournament on Saturday was in a beautiful,  Hogwarts-like boarding school just outside Bristol. The perfectly mowed rugby pitches were in the middle of rolling green fields surrounded by age old woods.

All Hallows, Somerset

The view from the rugby pitch

The under 15s football match on Sunday was at Durrington Recreation Ground, near Brighton, its mud-worn pitch  bordered by roads and housing estates.
But in the end it doesn't matter how rich or poor you are.
It doesn't matter how perfectly mowed or unevenly muddy the pitch is . 
It doesn't matter if the sun is shining or the rain beating down ( except for the dirt and mud factor ).
What matters is that, when you turn to look, there is someone there cheering you on from the sidelines, Someone who cares enough to give up their time just for you. 
The emptiness in the eyes of the kids who have no one there is the same, whatever their background.
Sadness is a great equaliser.
And giving your time as a parent or an adult, is one of the hardest things to do. 
There is always something else you should be doing.
Why does sacrificing something you would rather be doing to do something your would rather not, make any sense?
If no one ever did it for you, why would you do it for anyone else?
When the rain was beating down and we were soaked to the skin and the players were covered in mud and it wasn't even half- time yet, I found myself dreaming of hot baths, warm, steamy kitchens or any form of shelter with a roof.
But in my heart, I knew that  I was in the right place. 
I knew how proud my nephew was that  his " grown-up," cousins were watching him 
( I don't think his old aunt was quite such a coup !).
I saw how often Joss glanced to check I was watching.
Sometimes it's only when you actually give your time, that you realise you haven't actually given up anything.
And I hope that if, one day, Joss or my little nephew have children of their own, they will be standing, watching willingly from the sidelines, however soggy their devotion.

Jimmy Carr, racism and the rudeness factor

With hindsight, I'm not sure that taking our teenage children to see Jimmy Carr was the wisest thing to do. 
Perhaps, if we had thought it through, we might have waited until they were old enough to see him by themselves.
Perhaps we should have been more willing to bide by the age guidance.
 But we bought the tickets on a whim without much thinking through or checking for the adult nature of the content. 
And anyway, it's been a long time since we have so successfully surprised our kids.
They are too canny these days, always sneakily working out what it is we plan to do.  
" Just give us a clue.." said Joss when we told them.
" Will we like it?" asked Mia suspiciously.
Ninesh and I said nothing.
Even as we started walking into town on the night, Ninesh and I gave nothing away.
" We're going to the theatre aren't we?' said Joss as we got closer and started checking  his phone to see what was on..
" Maybe," said Ninesh.
" It is the theatre isn't it," said Mia gloomily as we got closer 
" You're right," I sighed, " you've guessed.  We're going to see A MIdsummer Night's Dream.
" What," howled Mia and Joss in unison. " You said it was a surprise."
" It is a surprise," I said.
" Not a nice one," said Joss.
I smiled. 
 " It's a really good production. It's had amazing reviews."
This Summer, Chichester Festival Theatre has constructed a huge space-age tent in the park.  At night it looks magical, illuminated and surrounded by trees and fairy lights. 

But Mia and Joss weren't feeling very magical.
" We could have been watching telly,"  moaned Joss.
" We could have been doing anything," said Mia, " everything else would be better than this."
" Anyone with tickets for Jimmy Carr- this way," shouted out one of the black clad ushers.
Mia and Joss stopped and turned to look at us.
" Is that where we're going," asked Joss, trying to hide a grin.
" Really," said Mia " to see Jimmy Carr? That's so cool. Thank you guys."
But as we walked up the path they both suddenly stopped and turned to us worriedly.
" Do we have to sit together?" asked Joss
" He means, do Joss and I have to sit next to you two?" explained Mia, " that will be so cringey."
To their relief, we didn't have to sit together.  We had booked 2 seats in one row and 2 in another.  And as Jimmy Carr came on stage and started his stand-up, I have to say,  I was relieved not to be sitting next to them.  
Some things are just too embarrassing to watch with your children!
Because he was very rude.
Very funny but very rude.  
When he wasn't talking openly about sex, he was alluding to it. 
And if he wasn't talking about sex, he was swearing.
And if he wasn't swearing, he was talking about sex.
But he's very clever.
I've never been a particular Jimmy Carr fan. His high pitched laugh hurts my ears!
But  standing up on stage all by yourself trying to make people laugh must be one of the scariest and hardest jobs in the world.
And Jimmy Carr managed it.
A lot of his act is based on responses to heckles.
But since,in  Chichester, we are too polite to heckle, Jimmy asked us direct questions instead.
" What's the worst present you have ever been given?" ( "Tickets to this show." best answer).
" What's the weirdest sexual act you have ever been asked to perform?" ( best answer too rude for this blog! )
" Has anyone ever walked in on a couple having sex?
Embarrassed titters from the audience and the odd admission that yes, they had walked in on their parents, their friends and then one woman who said she had walked in on her son.
" On your son having sex," repeated Jimmy Carr, "what happened?"
" Well," said the mum," she was Asian." 
 And for just a moment Jimmy Carr was speechless. 
All he could do was repeat what she had said.

" She was Asian. She was Asian. 
What happened? She was Asian. 
What the F......has that got to do with anything."

And that's the moment I started liking Jimmy Carr.
Because he was so genuinely shocked by the racism inherent in that answer, that for a moment he seemed to lose his stage persona.
For a moment it felt as though we were seeing the real him.
For just a moment.
But sometimes a moment is all you need.

Of course he kept coming back to that woman all through the show. 
There's no escape from a stand-up comedian once you have made a comment like that, especially when it smacks of racism.
You make yourself into a target and have to accept everything that's thrown at you-
she probably wished she had never opened her mouth.
That's the power of comedy!
And did Mia and Joss enjoy it?
I think so.  
Sometimes, when the comments were at their most sexually explicit, they would hide their head in their hands and glance surreptitiously at us. 
Trying to gauge whether or not it was alright for us to know that they understood what he was talking about.
But the truth is, they are hovering on the edge of adulthood now.
And they probably know much muchabout most things than we think they do. 
" Is anyone going out after this?" asked JImmy Carr at the end of the show.
This is Chichester, so  only a few people said yes!
" You're crazy," said Jimmy, " it's Monday. All I want to do is go to bed. I love sleeping!"
So on the way home we didn't talk about the rudeness factor or the sexualcontent. 
 Mia and Joss were much more interested in knowing whether Jimmy Carr was going to stay the night in Chichester or drive back to London. 
And if he did stay in Chichester, where would he have breakfast?
Perhaps the biggest surprise of all, was that a TV celebrity is actually a real person!

Out of the Arsenal closet

After years of being worn down by my "Gooner crazy family," I have finally given in.
Last weekend I went to my first ever Arsenal match.

It's not that I'm opposed to watching live football. I watch our son, Joss, pounding the pitch  almost every weekend. 
It's just that, since the children were tiny, Ninesh has always taken them to the family enclosure to watch his team. It's something the three of them have always done together, while I had a whole day of freedom.
 Firmly of the opinion that early indoctrination is the best way to prevent his flock from wandering and supporting the wrong team, Ninesh took them to their first match when Mia was 5 and Joss was 3.  And his plan worked because all these years later Mia and especially Joss, are die-hard Arsenal fans.  Joss, who at the moment is a teenager of very few words, can wax lyrical on the tactics used at last night's game or on the impact of Walcott being injured (again). Although Joss is now too cool to wear his Arsenal shirt, I am part of a family where every member is, inwardly if not outwardly," proud to be a Gooner." 
And the truth is, over the years, I have become a closet Arsenal fan too.
It's impossible not to be pulled into the noisy cheers and jeers that fill our living room when an Arsenal match is on TV. Ninesh, who remains cool, calm and collected when moving countries, interviewing for a new job or organising big meetings ,becomes a nervous wreck hours before an Arsenal kick-off. Over the years I have learnt to keep my distance and say as little as possible until after the game. A bad score can cause a cloud to hang over us for days, while a victory can make the most boring day a celebration.  With so much emotion crackling around me, it's hard to resist the red and white pull of Arsenal.
" You should come to a match." Ninesh started saying when Mia was 6 and Joss was 4.
" It's such an amazing atmosphere," he said when Mia was 7 and Joss was 5, " I just want you to experience it."
" Mia and Joss would love it if you came too," he said, using 8 year old  Mia and 6 year old Joss as his utlimate weapon..
And so the campaign became three pronged with Mia, Joss and Ninesh all offering me reasons why I should come  to a game.  
For over a decade I resisted, standing firm,clinging onto my day of complete freedom. 
But somewhere deep inside the closet Arsenal fan was stirring. 
" Just come out," it whispered, " one match won't hurt. Just one."
And that is how come I was there, last Sunday, sitting right at the front of the enormous Emirates stadium where the grass is so green that it's hard to believe  each blade has not been lovingly painted by the head groundsman.

Emirates Stadium, where the grass is always greener

" We hate Stoke," explained Ninesh happily, " ever since Shawcross broke Ramsey's leg."
" Oh," I said, absent-mindedly turning to look at the dads and children sitting in the rows behind us , wondering jealously what their partners were doing with their free days.
" Walcott's not playing," said Joss, looking up from his phone to share the news, " he's sick."
Mia seemed unsurprised as everyone else by this information.
" I'm so glad you're here mum," said Mia, squeezing my arm, " it's nice not to be the only girl."
But her words were drowned out by the roar of the crowd as Ozil, Arsenal's newest favourite player ran onto the pitch.       . 
" Everyone likes him," explained Ninesh. 
"Really!"  I said.  
The only thing louder than the cheers for Osil were the boos for Shawcross when he arrived on the pitch.
" Everyone," hates him, explained Ninesh.
"Really!" I said.
"And you have to boo every time he has the ball,' added Ninesh.
" What if I don't want to?" I asked.
Ninesh just looked at me and without answering turned back to the game.
And I have to admit the atmosphere was amazing, like a party where everyone arounds you shares something in common with you so you know, for this afternoon, you have 40,000 friends and you don't even have to make exhausting small talk.
Every time Arsenal nearly got a goal we had to stand up and cheer and every time Stoke nearly got a goal we had to stand up and gasp and when Arsenal did get a goal ( 3 altogether ) we had to stand up, jump up and down and shout important things like:
 " oo are ye, oo are ye!" 
And when Stoke finally scored, we had to sit down and clasp our head in our hands in despair.
And we were so near the front that when Ozil took a corner we could almost reach out and touch him  which meant that Ninesh got lots of good shots of his back.

The most popular back in Arsenal

We cheered and shouted and booed ( when we remembered ) and groaned and stood up and sat down for an hour and a half. 

But it was awe-inspiring to watch the skill, energy, passion and sheer physical endurance of both teams, although of course Arsenal was much better at all them. 

And when the final whistle blew and Arsenal won 3-1, I was right there, part of the red and white wave of noise that filled the stadium. 

" We are top of the league, we are top of the league."

" Are you going to come again mum?" Joss asked as we drifted towards the tube station, 

 jostled by the crowds. " You enjoyed it didn't you?"

And the truth is, I really did, although I don't know if I will go again.  

Days off are too rare and too precious. 

But now, whenever the rest of the family go, a little part of me will always be there with them- standing up and sitting down, booing and cheering.

Because after all these years, I think I at last understand what it means to be a football fan.

 It's not just about wearing a shirt or having the most expensive players.It's not even about winning all the time, although that's nice. It's about something else, something bigger than us. 

It's about sharing a passion.

It's about having something to believe in. 

It's about fidelity (relationships may come and go but once an Arsenal fan, always an Arsenal fan).

It's about dreaming a dream that just might come true. 

It's about never giving up hope.

It's like belonging to a family that you have chosen, instead of having it forced upon you.

It's a phrase that is twee and overused but when you are a football fan, you honestly

" never walk alone."

These are hard times for lots of people. People might not have a job or money or a home - but they will always have football.

I can't help thinking that the closet Arsenal fan in me has been well and truly, forever outed.