These in-between days

It's strange this time between Christmas and New Year.
Like a no-man's time of in-between days
Between Christmas and New Year.
Between this year and next year.
Between the over-indulgence of Christmas and the resolutions of New Year.  
But while we waiting for all those next things to happen, we just sort of carry on doing all the things we were doing at Christmas: eating, drinking, spending too much money, but with a bit less enthusiasm. 
The Christmas decorations and flashing lights that looked so exciting at the beginning of December,  look slightly forlorn now, like has-been film stars who still want people to believe they are young and beautiful and full of promise.
The excitement and interest in new presents has waned and for parents of young children, the days return to their normal wrong-side-of-6-am starts and tantrum-filled evenings.
And for the rest of us, who are lucky enough to not yet have to go back to work, the days are mostly full of crisps, staling crackers, cold turkey and all the tear-jerking movies we don't want to admit we love.
There are, of course, " The Sales," casting their elbow-sharpened, mania-inducing, bargain-hunting shadow over these half-hearted days.
People queueing outside shops at 5 o'clock in the morning to make sure that they get to the " must-have," bargains before anyone else
But even the most die-hard consumers can't keep it up for a week and in the end, they too have to surrender to the inbetweeness of it all, to the knowledge that the next part of the year isn't here yet.
But there are worse things to surrender to.
Worse things than snuggling up on the sofa with an oversized packet of crisps-( the crisps you're going to give up eating in the New Year so you might as well eat the whole packet now ) - and a glass of the Baileys you only drink at Christmas.

Worse things than waking up in the morning and knowing you don't have to get up and go to work or school.
Worse things than watching good films on TV and relaxing together.
Worse things than knowing that the day is yours to fill.
Because the good thing about these in-between days, is that most of the holiday obligations are over.
You've seen all the family members you're meant to have seen, bought all the presents you're meant to have bought,  sent all the cards you're meant to have sent - there is nothing left that you're meant to do, so instead you are free to do whatever you want.
Perhaps these in-between days are not so much "no-man's time,"  as "an island of time," when we can bask in the warm feeling of having nothing-in-particular to do and relax in the knowledge that we can do whatever we want.
They are rare, these days of "no-strings-attached -indulgence," so the best thing to do, is enjoy them.
And who knows...perhaps these days of faded Christmas decorations and leftover mince pies are the very days that dreams are made of, or if not, they are the very days that sleep is made for, so that there's a lot more time for dreaming!
Enjoy...

Putting the HAPPY back in Christmas

There's no subtle way to say this, so I think it's best to be honest - I don't like Christmas.

I don't like the flashing lights or the  glitter and tinsel.
I don't like the messages of peace and love stuck on the windows of neighbours who haven't spoken to each other for years.

I don't like the overt consumerism or the pressure to buy presents that nobody wants at prices nobody can afford.

And I don't like the tension Christmas creates within families.
It's starts with the phone call ( usually in June ), when one parent or parent-in-law asks:
  " So, what are you doing for Christmas this year?" and it carries on right until the inevitable family row over the Christmas dinner table on December 25th.

The Family Row is almost as permanent a Christmas tradition as the roast turkey, long-standing, unresolved family feuds have started while pouring the gravy over the roast potatoes and stuffing. 
And everyone with young children knows that all they have to look forward to on Christmas evening are the tantrums, tears and broken presents that come with too much excitement and too little sleep.

" I don't have anyone to spend Christmas with," said someone I bumped into at the Christmas market the other day, " so I thought I would spend the day researching my new novel..I've just booked my ticket, I'm spending Christmas Day  in Auschwitz."
It seems like a bit of an extreme response, spending Christmas in a concentration camp,  but I can sort of see where he's coming from.

Nothing makes you feel more lonely than having nowhere to go and no one to be with on this most family-oriented of days. 
 Perhaps immersing yourself in desperately horrific memories is the best way to put it all in perspective and cheer yourself up.

For the families in the Children's Centre where I used to work,  Christmas stress begins with the opening of the first door on the kids' Advent calendars.
By the time Christmas Eve is upon us, the hysteria is almost tangible and the downward spiral into financial and emotional crisis has begun. 
January is a Christmas hangover month, not just because of the lack of money and huge amount of seasonal debt, but worse than that because of permanent emotional scars caused by overindulgence and over-much time spent with family members. The number of couples filing for divorce in January can be double that of any other month in the year.

"Experts claim factors ranging from the stress of family gatherings at Christmas, unwise candour encouraged by excessive alcohol intake and even office (christmas) parties can prove the final straw for many married couples."
Ian Cowdrie, Daily Telegraph

I'm thinking I should start a " Stop Christmas Now!" campaign.
I'm sure the government would back it .  They could cancel Christmas for a few years, the way they've cancelled so many other things like public services, benefits, and public funding for anything important.. Think of the money it would save (except for Amazon) and the emotional crises it would avoid, not to mention the multi-cultural, secular message it would give:

Our 17 year old daughter, Mia, despairs at my lack of festive spirit.
" Can we at least put up some Christmas decorations and our tree before Christmas Eve this year?" she asks. " I don't see why we all have to suffer just because you don't like Christmas."
I shrug. 
" Well," I say, " If you want to do it, I won't stop you.  The tree's in the cupboard under the stairs but we haven't got any lights because they broke last year and we don't have that many decorations."
She shoots me a " did-Dr-Seuss-actually-base-the-Grinch-on-you?,"  look, and googles " My Parents Hate Christmas Support Groups<" and templates for Christmas decorations.
" Did you have to get a Christmas tree this colour," she complains, dragging the dusty box out from under the stairs and trying to unbend the wire branches.  " I mean, if we can't have a real one, couldn't we at least pretend the fake one was real by getting a green one."
" We felt that a black one was a more honest visual representation of our true feelings about Christmas," I say.  
Mia groans and tries to find a way of keeping the star from falling off the top.

And much as it pains me to admit it, she's done a good job.
The tree looks as good as can be expected and a little less lopsided than usual and our front window is now covered in snowflakes and reindeer and stripy candy-canes.
And in big red and green letters across the top, she's written the words:
"HAPPY CHRISTMAS, Cred to Mia."
But the best thing about it, is not that she has dragged us kicking and screaming into Christmas but that everyone who walks past, smiles as they read it.
And I suddenly realise why it is that my inner Grinch always takes control at Christmas, it's because something really important is missing.
Amidst  the hectic preparations and manic last-minute present buying, it's easy to forget the " happy," and the "merry," that should be the biggest part of Christmas.
The words of the song aren't: " We wish you a present-filled Christmas and a debt-filled New Year," 
And the truth is, I would take off my " Stop Christmas Now," T-shirt if Christmas truly did make people merrier and happier.
And I know there are moments when it does.
For our family it's Christmas Eve when, whatever else we are doing or wherever else we are going, we always have dinner with the family who lives next door.
Over the years we have become more part of each other's family than friends. 
And each  Christmas Eve ( although none of us can actually remember how the tradition started) we, each of us spend the day cooking  a special dish and the evening sitting around a table overflowing with delicious food, contagious laughter and warm, rose-tinted memories.
And I'm sure that as the evening wears on and the cognac appears, I will be filled with the very un-Grinchlike feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, Christmas isn't so bad.
And already I can tell that my campaign is flawed because it's not so much that I want to stop Christmas as that I wish it would start meaning something different.
I wish that instead of being about the giving of meaningless presents and the cooking of too much food,  it could be about caring for each other more and celebrating what we already have.
So today I'm launching a new campaign to -"Put The Happy  Back in Christmas."- if I can do it, you must be able to!
And I'm going to start by wishing everyone all the love, laughter and "dreams-come-true,' that a really happy Christmas can bring..

Queen of Nothing

It's strange, but since I've stopped working, I've found myself increasingly defined by my past, by the things I used to do.
" This is Becky," people say when they introduce me, " she's..um...she used to run a Children's Centre," or " she used to work for  that charity PACSO." or " Do you remember Just Write for Kids Club, she used to run that?"
And it's fine.  I don't mind.  .
But there is a little bit of the : " she-used-to-be-someone," about it.
It's almost as though people are embarrassed for you, ashamed for you that you don't go out to work or have a "proper," job.
" Is it really boring being at home?" people ask, "What do you do all day?" .... and when I think about it, I'm not sure what exactly it is I do but I know that I'm never bored.
I know that since I stopped working, my life has become much simpler and in a strange way, much more meaningful. 
And that's what's hard to explain.
it's easy to give a value to work that is paid.
Easy to believe that if you have a job with a title and a job description, you must be doing something useful and important.

it's harder to believe in the importance of what  you are doing when your days are spent hanging out the washing, unsuccessfully matching socks,overloading the dishwasher and generally failing to be the domestic goddess you thought you were. 

But truthfully, I've never felt so fulfilled.
When i worry, it is about things that are important to me or my family and friends. I no longer have to worry about a budget that isn't mine or targets imposed upon me by people I will never meet who care little or nothing for the services they are asking us to provide.
I'll let my MP and local councillors worry about those while I worry about what to cook for dinner,  how to convince our son that revision is important if you want to pass exams ("what's the point, they're just mocks, I'll have forgotten it all by May") or our daughter that she really doesn't need to buy anymore clothes or another pair of shoes ("you don't understand mum,I can't wear the same outfit twice,")...
They are all things that  I used to worry about when I remembered, but only in a half-hearted, " I know they should matter but there isn't really time," sort of way. 
I couldn't even worry properly. 
I couldn't do anything properly: not my job, not being a parent, not tidying the house, not cooking the right food..and so I used to feel constantly guilty.
Being able to concentrate on one thing is amazing.
 Sometimes I even feel that I'm doing it, if not well, than at least to the best of my ability.
And that's such a relief.
It feels as though slowly, very slowly, I'm reclaiming my life, remembering who I am and what's really important to me.
Instead of bombarding our son with unwanted questions the moment I walk through the door, I wait for him to volunteer information. And In spontaneous, erratic moments of closeness, he is beginning to talk to me again. 
Instead of listening with half an ear to our 17 year old daughter, Mia,  while I'm making dinner and mentally responding to work emails, we sit down together and talk when she comes home from school.
Evenings are not spent in collapsed exhaustion gazing helplessly past the television at the growing piles of untidy chaos that surround us and thinking: I'll deal with it all tomorrow.
" I hear there's much less shouting in your house since you stopped working" says my mother-in-law when I speak to her on the phone
" Do you?" I say, surprised, "who told you that?".
" Mia ," she laughs, "when she was here last week."
And thinking about it, I realise it's true. 
I can't remember the last time we had a full blown argument, the kind where you worry the neighbours are going to report you to social services. A consequence, I suppose,  of the fact that, when I was working, I was in a state of perpetual slight irritation with work, with my family, with my life and took it out on whoever was closest to me.
" I couldn't do it," said one of my oldest and most treasured friends this weekend,  " I couldn't stay at home, I'd just sit on the sofa, eating and watching telly all day. I'm too sociable, I need people to talk to."
She has a point the temptation of chocolate and day time TV are a definite downside but not the lack of conversation.  
Of course I miss the people I worked most closely with but I still see them and now they are friends instead of work colleagues. And there are lots of unpleasant conversations I'm glad I will never have again. 
And then there's the friends I almost lost because I never had time to meet up, the friends who drop in for an hour for a cup of tea and a chat, the mornings spent sitting round the fire in our living room, talking about things that matter to us instead of things that matter to someone else, sharing the hopes and dreams that come with trust and friendship.
And I know I'm very lucky.
I know it's a privilege  to have been given this chance to rediscover what is truly important to me.
I know it is not forever but just for now.
And just for now I'm loving it.
Loving being here when the kids get home from school.
Loving being here to catch them when they fall.
Loving having no deadlines or time limits.
Loving baking cheese muffins and making vegetable soup that no one eats.
Loving laughing with friends and really listening to what they say.
Loving almost touching my dreams.
Loving being "Queen of Nothing," and "Mistress of Everything That Matters To Me."
So the next time somebody introduces me, I'm going to say:
"I'm Becky, I used to be someone else, but now I'm me."

The strange coincidence of birthdays

There are some dates that become unexpectedly important to you in your life.
November 14th is one of those dates for me.
To begin with, it's the birthday of my husband, Ninesh- a-goes-without-saying-important date.

Happy Birthday Ninesh

But that's just the beginning.
Because co-incidentally it's the birthday of two other people who have become very special to us.
It' s the birthday of the eldest daughter of one of my best friends. 
But what makes her " not just a daughter," is the fact that she's adopted.
She and her younger sister, not born on November arrived in the arms of my friend and her husband more than 10 years ago 
The wait had been a long, hard and frustrating one.
Sometimes my friend  would come round and talk about it: the raised hopes, the shattered dreams, the heartache, the constant expectation, the impersonal  beaurocratic, box-ticking nightmare of the adoption service.
There would be days when she would float through the door, hopeful, smiling
" They think they've found a match," she would say, " nothing's certain yet but...." and her eyes would stare dreamily into the rose-tinted, child-filled future.
But there were other days, days when she would sit on our sofa, huddled over a cup of tea, trying to be brave, trying not to show that her heart had been broken again,.. the match hadn't worked out or the birth parents were being given another chance or the children were being offered to someone else first...
" It's alright," she'd say, trying to smile, " I guess.. they weren't the ones.

And then there was the day the wait was over.
There was a ring on the bell
" I've got something I want to show you,"  she said, sitting down at the table while I put the kettle on.
I watched as she pulled two photos out of her bag.
" Holiday shots?" I asked.
" No," she said, shaking her head and handing me the photos.
I took them and stared at the two girls smiling out at me.
"I wanted to show you my...our....," I watched her hesitate, like she wasn't sure if she had the right to say the words, " I wanted you to see our... daughters." 
There she sat, my friend who was already a mother long before she had children, my friend whose aching emptiness had at last been filled, my friend showing me photos of two of the luckiest girls in the world.
It's always easy to try and read too much into things, to try and put a positive spin on what is essentially bad, to explain away every cloud by finding its silver lining.
And of course I would never wish upon anyone the agony, emotional anguish and sadness of not being able to give birth to your own children. 
But when I see my friend and her husband with their two girls now, it's impossible not to think that it was meant to be.
Not to think that somehow in this crazy, unpredictable universe of ours, they were meant to find each other and be a family. 
And somehow, sitting there in our kitchen, photos in hand, that day, I wasn't surprised when I found out her eldest daughter and Ninesh shared a birthday.
It seemed right somehow, like an invisible thread bonding her new family with ours. 
And in the end, it's the thousands of invisible threads  connecting us all that make us who we are and catch us when we fall.
A shared birthday is just the start and it's hard to explain why it's special.
Because birthdays are strange, they are like coloured bookmarks in the pages of our lives, a subconscious marking of the beginning and ending  of chapters, a chance to celebrate what we have achieved and how far we have come or an opportunity to make a promise  that next year will be better. 
Or, of course, they are simply an excuse for a party.
But the best thing about birthdays ( and the older you get, the fewer good things there are ) is the people who remember.  There are people you only speak on your or their birthdays, people who are part of your past, from a different page of your life but whose warmly, familiar voices immediately make you smile and float you back into the kind of friendships that can only be created by time.
But time is something one of our friends never had.
In another one of those quirky birthday co-incidences, it turned out that one of the friends we met in Chichester was also born on the same day as Ninesh, just a few years later...
I met her at the Children's Centre where I worked and very quickly, unusually quickly for us, our families became friends.  Although their children were younger than ours, we spent a lot of time together, walking, talking, chatting, laughing.
It was while we were camping together for the weekend that we discovered that she, Ceylan, and Ninesh shared a birthday. But as soon as I found out, just like with my friend's adopted daughter, I wasn't surprised. It just seemed like another thing that connected us, another coincidence that added to the sense of "meant-to-be-ness," of our friendship.
Laughing, Ninesh and she, both of them quietly passionate, thoughtful, caring and kind people, planned the shared birthday parties of their future.
And under that starry sky, it wasn't the flames of the barbecue we were huddled around that kept us warm, but the certainty that our friendship was a lasting one.
I'm glad I didn't know then that Ceylan only had two more birthdays left to share with Ninesh.
Glad that, for at least one of those birthdays, she and Ninesh did celebrate together.
Glad that, because the 14th of November is Ninesh's birthday too, we will never forget to remember.

Ceylan, trying ( unsuccessfully ) to unicycle through the campsite on our son's unicycle

In a room of 23 people, there is a 50/50 chance that 2 people will share the same birthday. 
In a life full of twists and turns and crossing paths, I'm not sure what the odds are.
But it doesn't really matter.
All I know is that the 14th of November has become a very special day for me because it is the birthday of so many people I care about. 

So here's to love and laughter and silver linings, to star-filled memories and smiling photos and most of all, here's to very, very happy birthdays.

50 years of happiness and soup bowl mortality

We have just come back from an amazing holiday to celebrate my parents' 50th wedding anniversary.
What made it so incredible, apart from the constant sunshine and unendingly delicious food, was the fact that all their grandchildren- aged from 11 to 17 -said it was the best week of their lives.
And I'm wondering how my parents have done it.
Not only how they've managed to survive 50 years of togetherness, but also how they've  managed to inspire such love and devotion from their ( mostly ) teenage grandchildren. 

Lisa and Vic 1964

Lisa and Vic 2011

" How have you and Lisa done it?"  Matty and Mia, the two eldest granddaughters asked their granddad while we were there." How have you two stayed together for 50 years?"
My dad, Vic, looked thoughtful.
" I don't know the answer to that," he said, " I suppose it's like Lisa explained on the phone the other day...." and he began to tell the story.
Mum and dad had been sitting down, having a quiet bowl of soup with crusty bread for lunch, when the phone rang.
Like most people their age, my parents have a long list of ailments.  Most recently it is my mum, who suffered a stroke about 5 months ago.
So when it was their GP on the phone it wasn't particularly surprising.
" So Mrs Gersten, How are you?" she asked.
" Not too bad," said my mum cheerfully.
" Good, good," said the GP "I just have a quick question,"
" OK," said my mum.
" If you were to have another stroke, would like us to put -do not resuscitate - on your file?" 
My mum who is rarely ruffled by anything, was completely thrown by the question
" Well, I um... I," she stuttered, " well, the  thing is... " her eyes rested on my dad, " the thing is, I think we still need each other. So I don't think I do."
Being faced with your own mortality over a bowl of soup can really spoil the flavour.
For days afterwards my mum was shaken by the call.
" It's just not the thing you expect someone to phone and ask you at lunchtime," she said.
"Or anytime," I want to add.
" But what she said was true," explained my dad looking affectionately at my mum and addressing his young, fashionably bikinied granddaughters, " After 50 years we still need each other."

And perhaps that's it, the thing that keeps people together for 50 years is mutual need.
But I can't help feeling there's something more to it than that..
For the last 50 years my parents have been each other's constant companions. 
Through good times and bad they have never stopped being there for each other, never stopped caring, never stopped trying to make the best of things and somehow, they have never stopped finding things to laugh about.

When one of my friend's was getting divorced, she had to tell her daughter's teacher.
" Why are you doing that," the teacher asked
" Well, we just don't get on anymore," mumbled my friend.
" That's ridiculous," said the teacher, " my parents have hated each other for years and they're still together!"
So perhaps the extraordinary thing about my parents: after 50 years they don't hate each other.
Most of the time, they're even quite fond of each other! 
Like everyone, they have had their share of disappointments, missed opportunities and unfulfilled dreams.
" When I think of all the mistakes I have made ...." sighs my dad.
" How about all the successes?" I say.
He just shrugs,
But even he must admit that their marriage counts as a big success.
I watch him and my mum surrounded by their children, their children-in-law, and all their grandchildren.
Everyone is laughing and chatting, enjoying being there with them.
And perhaps I see what they don't see: that they have created something special, something that many people aspire to and few actually achieve.
They have created a family who love each other and who love them. 
And perhaps that won't make any of us rich or famous but it does make us happy.

And if 50 years of marriage does nothing more than create happiness, it has been a race worth running - even if it is with a zimmer- frame these days.

Weddings, marriage and the great wedding dress hunt.

Strangely, I spent much of last weekend wedding dress shopping.
I say " strangely," because I know nothing about wedding dresses.
Our wedding wasn't the kind that needed a dreamy dress.
But one of my friends is getting married next year and Chichester is a good place to start  "the great-wedding dress-hunt." because it has lots of wedding dress shops, all very close together.
So despite my complete lack of experience, knowledge or expertise, I became my friend's wedding dress guide for the day.
I was looking forward to it.
Sitting, watching and subjectively advising is the easy party.
Trying on hundreds of dresses, each one fitted and flowing with miles of fabric, is the hard part.
But even I felt overwhelmed when we walked into the first shop and were greeted by  oceans of silk, miles of satin and a forest of lace and netting.

Where do you begin? 
How can you find out what style you need or what shade of white is best?
How do you know whether you need your dress to be boned or corseted, body-hugging or meringue-skirted? 
" Let me just talk you through our shop," said the first smiling assistant, greeting us at the door.
And immediately I could tell, this wasn't going to be the easy, laid-back, fun-filled  day I had imagined..
Because if you have to begin by being  "talked through," a tiny shop, down a narrow side-street in a small city, things are only going to get more complicated!
My friend, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed by the unending choice of dresses or the complicated styles or the wedding dress lingo.
"These ones at the front of the shop are the designers with the longest lead time," explained the assistant.
" What's lead time?" I asked.
The assistant cast me a pitying look and my friend a sympathetic glance.
" The amount of time it takes for the dress to be ordered and arrive in the shop," she explained patiently." Now towards the back it's a bit shorter.  And then there's the fitting time to be factored in. Tell me again, when are you getting married?"
My friend gave her the date - about a year from now.
The assistant sucked in her breath thoughtfully, 
" You might still have just enough time," she said.
I almost fell over.
For someone, like me who usually plans what they are going to wear two minutes before they leave the house, the thought of having to plan what you will be wearing in a year's time is a hard concept to grasp.
My friend took the news bravely and began to browse through the rails of taffeta and frills and ivory silk.
And somehow, from the impossibly huge number of dresses, she managed to choose six.
" Don't worry," said her personal assistant comfortingly, " it's a start!"
While my friend  stepped in and out of fairy-tale dresses, I sat on a comfortable sofa, watching and listening and struggling to keep a grasp on reality.
Behind every changing-room curtain, brides-to-be were being helped on and off with dresses.
When they emerged, they would walk past me with a rustle of netting and a swirl of silk and survey themselves critically in a full-length mirror. 
it began to feel as though I had stepped into a world peopled only by princesses and me.
And everyone looked beautiful-whatever their size or shape or style.
Because isn't that the thing about wedding dresses?
For just one day in our often very ordinary lives,they make us feel that we are someone special and important and beautiful.
For just one day we live the fairy-tale dream.
And it works.
Every time my friend walked through the changing room curtain, she looked amazing..
But I'm not sure that was because of the dress.
I think maybe it was the flush of happiness and the thrill of excitement.
I hope it was because she's looking forward to marrying the man she loves. 

According to the office of National Statistics, every hour in England in 2012, thirteen couples got divorced.
Most divorces happen in the first ten years of marriage.
So as I sat in that " land of taffeta and lace,"  I couldn't help wondering if maybe we should be spending less time searching for the perfect dress and more time checking that we have really found the perfect partner.
Of course none of us ever know what will happen in the future, our hearts are " daft," and unpredictable, but it can be easy to get swept up in the excitement of a wedding and forget that what you are doing is getting married.
And that means committing yourself to another human being for the rest of your life: for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health.
A complete giving of yourself.
It's hard to imagine what that really means.
Marriage is an enormous thing to contemplate.
Never again in your life will you have to make such a huge decision.
Yet people spend more time choosing dresses and venues and cakes than truly contemplating the journey they are about to embark on when they say the words: " I do."
It's something Ninesh and I were thinking about slightly nervously on the drunken night before we got married.
We were in a bar in New York.

The Kettle of Fish, New York

  
Our witness, the only person who knew about our plan,  is gay and so it was a gay bar 
( always the best bars in New York).
Mostly it was full of gay men.
" What are you doing?" they asked Ninesh,crowding around him supportively.
" Celebrating," explained Ninesh, " we're getting married tomorrow."
" That's what we mean," chorused his audience, " what are you doing? Why are you marrying a woman?"
" I tried it once," said one of them, catching hold of his boyfriend's hand, " biggest mistake i ever made. Don't do it"
Have you really thought this through?" asked another.
" Have another shot, why don't you," they said, calling the waiter over, " it might help you change your mind, see things more clearly."
But many shots later, as we made our way back to my friend's loft apartment at 5 o'clock in the morning, Ninesh could see nothing clearly but remained adamant that he not only wanted to marry, but was sure he wanted it to be to a woman.
So we woke up on our wedding-day, blurry-eyed, muddle-headed but determined.
Outside the sky was painfully blue.
Ninesh pulled his sleeping bag over his head.
" Somebody turn off the sun," he moaned " what's for breakfast?"
" Lunch, you mean," said our friend climbing down the ladder from his loft bed, " it's 2 o'clock."
" Nesh," I shouted, struggling to sit up and hold my head at the same time, " we've missed our wedding.  We were meant to get married at 10 ."
From under the covers Ninesh groaned again.
" It's ok," said my friend, handing me a calming cup of coffee, " I phoned City Hall, they said if you are there before 3.30 you should still be ok to get married.  They don't close 'til 4. We can make it if we leave in the next 10 minutes."
Which is how come our wedding day found us hungover and gasping for breath, racing through Manhatten, me barefooted so that I could run faster,  diving on and off tubes and trains, arriving just in time to get married before the office closed for the day.

City Hall, New York

And all I can remember thinking as I sat on the train watching the Manhatten skyline speeding by, is how lucky I was not to be wearing a beautiful, priceless dress. 
Because the one thing you don't practice in any of the wedding shops, is running for the subway in your wedding dress.

Neither Ninesh nor I remember the date we got married but it doesn't really matter.
It was a long time ago and we are still together.
But the journey hasn't always been easy.
Like every couple, we have had our ups and downs.
There have been times when we have had to work hard at being together, work hard at being there for each other.
Understanding someone else is never easy, even when you love them.
Marriage is about compromise, about accepting each other for who you are and not trying to change each other into someone you are not. 
But in the end the effort has always, always been worth it.
Marriage is our prize that's worth fighting for.

Of course my friend found her perfect dress.
She stepped through the curtains and took my breath away.
She looked stunningly beautiful.
" It's like a red-carpet dress," she smiled.
And she was right.
And I know, on her wedding day everyone will cry because she will look so beautiful and her future husband will feel like the luckiest man in the world.
But a wedding lasts just one day ( or sometimes just a few minutes! ).
A marriage is for the rest of your life.
So here's hoping that the rest of their life together is one long red carpet of dreams and love and happiness, even if they are only wearing ripped jeans and old T-shirts as they walk along it.

Never Again

I think I'm glad that I never have to be 17 again.
Never again  have to go through the agony and the ecstasy, the soul- searching and the confusion and most of all never again have to deal with hormones raging in uncontrollable  waves through my body.
At 17 the world oscillates from hope to despair, from laughter to tears, from unlimited possibilities to utter boredom at a break-neck speed.
It's exhausting to watch, let alone experience.
And worst of all, is the searching for love.
Fun as it is flirting your way towards Mr ( or Mrs ) Right, the emotional and mental games we play with each other are painful and often unnecessarily mean.
Everyone is too scared to say how they really feel and too frightened to risk the pain of rejection and heartbreak.
So instead we pretend that no one really matters.
Why do we do it to each other?  
Why, when we are young, is it so hard to tell someone you care, to say " I like you, let's try each other out and see what happens next."
Is it so hard to admit that you want someone standing next to you while you take your first steps into adulthood?
So hard to say " come walk and talk with me a while?"
So hard to share each other's dreams?
Meeting up, just the two of you, is rare in this social- media, risk averse age.
 Instead of spending time together, relationships are lived out through texts and Snapchats with the occasional coupling at drunken parties.
" How horrible," says my friend when I talk to her about it.  " How sad not to date anymore, not to look into a boy's eyes and feel your stomach flipping over."
And she's right, how sad and how horrible.
" You don't understand," says our 17 year old daughter "  that's not how it works.."
" Then how does it work?" I wonder.
How will you ever get to know each other, if you never talk?
How will you ever begin to fall in love if you never sit opposite each other and sense the warmth of a smile or feel the shiver of a touch? 
How will you ever share the tears and laughter that make life worth living?
And how will you ever learn what it means to really be there for someone else?
I'm not sure that writing LOL or Hahaha in a text or ending a message with a sad faced emoji, are quite the same thing.

" In my day," I tell our daughter, " we didn't have mobile phones.  If a boy asked for your number, you had to spend days hanging around at home just in case he phoned.  And you couldn't even move far from the room with the phone in because the phone was attached to the wall."
She looks at me, horrified.
" But what if the phone rang  and somebody else answered it?"
" Well," I explain, "  they would say hello and maybe chat for a bit and then come and get me and tell me someone was on the phone for me.."
" How embarrassing," she says.
Was it embarrassing?
 I try to remember.
Was it so terrible that my parents and brother and sister recognised the voices of some of my friends and every now and again managed a short conversation with them?
Was it so terrible that teenagers sometimes had to talk adults?
Was it so terrible that our lives weren't separated by the shimmeringly impassable wall of  a cyber-bubble?.
The strange thing about social networking is that it makes everything in your life more public and everything that you actually feel more private.
But maybe that's the point.
What's scary is the personal, 
Being impersonal and flippant is what keeps your heart safe.
What's important in a text is not what is actually being said but how good your comebacks are.
What's important when you snapchat is not the words but how best to capture the moment with an image showing your best side.
There's no quiet place to sit and talk in the social media universe.
No end to the constant stream of trivial information that can fill a quiet moment.
No time to sit and wonder how you really feel-the next text could arrive at any moment.
Was it so awful to have hours each day when you couldn't communicate with each other and instead daydreamed about the things you would say the next time you spoke.
It's strange, but the year that my husband, Ninesh, and I, spent apart, he in America and me in England, is probably the year that we talked the most.
All we had were our phone calls.
We talked about everything and nothing, about how we felt about each other and what we had for breakfast, about politics and partying, about work and love.
" Talking to each other is really important," I say to our kids.
Our two teenagers sigh and for just a moment raise their eyes from their screens to give me a sympathetic look. 
" We are talking mum," they say, " what do you think texting is. We're talking to everyone all the time."
" But what about talking to just one person some of the time?" I ask. " And how do you know what someone is really thinking if you can't see or hear them?"
" You have to stop asking so many questions mum." they say, fingers flying across their phone keys. " We're just teenagers and this is what we do.  Stop making everything such a big deal."
And unwillingly I have to admit, they have a point.. 
I need to stop living my life vicariously.
I need to stop feeling that they are missing out on something. 
Because I think perhaps the truth is, that it is me who is missing out.
That perhaps  what makes me sad is that as a curious parent wanting to be over-involved in my children's social-life, their texting, snap-chatting universe excludes me.
" I'm writing a blog about being 17" I say, walking into the living room where our daughter and her friends are huddled together on the sofa under a duvet, passing around phones to make sure no message or image is missed.
" Cool," they say, " can you take a photo of us so we can be in it? It's about us, right?"
And that's when I remember the good part about being 17.
The part where the world revolves around you, where " right now," is all that matters and where you can eat as much chocolate and ice cream as you want. 
" Good idea," I say "Remind me how to take a photo with my phone."

Ollie, Charlie and Mia

And they are compassionately patient as they explain yet again what buttons I need to press.
And I don't think it's that I can't learn, I think it is that with every bone in my body I resist it.
Perhaps they are right, our teenagers, that just like my parents before me,  I don't understand how modern relationships work.
And sometimes it's cold out here in the land of yesteryear where phones were attached to walls and the only way to communicate was by talking.
But I can't help remembering that heart-melting feeling when you stared into the eyes of someone you cared about and, reaching out to each other, walked hand-in-hand into the perfectly setting sun.

The most precious of things.

 One moning ( in the days when I was still working )  one of my friends came into our office looking pale and completely exhausted.
" Are you alright?" i asked.
She nodded.
" I've just been awake a long time," she said, "I went running on the beach at 5 o'clock this morning."
" Was it even light enough to see the beach that early?" I asked.
" I couldn't sleep," she said. " I kept thinking about my niece's naynee. She dropped it when we were on the beach yesterday."
" You'v got to be careful with those naynees," I said, " they're easy to drop." 
My friend laughed.
" Sorry," she said, " I'm always forgetting  that no one else knows what her naynee is. It's a scuzzy old, blanket. She's had it since she was born and she can't sleep or eat or go anywhere without it. Losing it is like losing part of herself.It's the most precious thing in her whole world.
 So at 5 o'clock this morning I thought I would get up and go and see if I could find it on the beach."
" And did you find it?" I asked, my heart sinking. 
 The tide had already washed  in and out at least once since naynee was lost, even something much heavier would have been swept away. There was almost no chance it could still be there.
" Well," said my friend, ' I ran all the way along the beach and I couldn't see it.
 So I turned back and started checking in all the bins.
 It's so old and tatty,  I thought someone might have thrown it away. 
It's lucky no one saw me, I must have looked like a crazy person rummaging through the bins at dawn. 
Anyway, I was just giving up when I saw this thing that looked like a soggy lump of seaweed, covered in sand and mud lying in the pebbles.
I went over and picked it up. 
And there it was: her naynee.  I found it. Dripping with slime and dirty seawater, but definitely naynee.
 I ran straight home and washed it.
 It still looks a bit the worse for wear, but my niece never did care about that. Can you believe I actually found it?"  

naynee drying out

And it was amazing that she had actually found it on the unending mile of sand..
But what was even more amazing was the amount of time and trouble she had taken to find an old, falling-apart-at-the-seams-blanket. 
But when something is that precious you will do anything to get it back.  

Because what makes it precious is not how much it costs or what it's financially worth, but what it means to us.
The things we truly treasure are rarely our most expensive or valuable possessions.
Usually the  most precious things in life are valuable because of the person who gave them to us or the memories they evoke.




When our children were still very young, Ninesh ( my husband) escaped for a rare  weekend away 
It was our first weekend away since  moving to Chichester.  
Leaving my mum and dad in charge, we were walking through the drizzling rain towards the car when we noticed that all along our road people were putting sandbags in front to their doors.
" What are you doing that for?" asked Ninesh worriedly.
" To stop water getting in," said our neighbour cheerfully, " Chichester floods every year.  Didn't you know that? " 
An expression of panic spread across Ninesh's face..
" It's OK," I said, comfortingly. " I'm sure mum and dad will cope. The kids will be fine."
But Ninesh wasn't listening, he was already sprinting back across the road into the house.
He found my mum in the kitchen making tea.
"If it floods," he was explaining to her, "Save  my records. Take them upstairs, starting from the bottom shelf."
"What about the children?" asked my mum.
" They'll be fine said Ninesh, " they can nearly swim."

Ninesh's record collection has travelled with us wherever we have been living in the world.. 
 Over the years it has grown to 5 shelves worth.

Ever growing record collection

Individually the records are mostly worth very little.  
Most of them are car- boot -sale -finds or unwanted hand-me-downs.
What makes them precious, is what they represent to him. 
" This one was an amazing bargain," he says, pulling one off a shelf and allowing his eyes to linger lovingly on the cover, " I don't think the guy who sold it to me knew what a classic it is."
Or carefully arranging them in genre specific, alphabetical order he will pick one up and say: 
" Remember where I found this?"
" Is it a test?" I ask, I find it hard to keep track of where and when he has uncovered his added to his trove of vinyl treasures. 
He laughs.
" We were at that flea-market in Switzerland. It was a really sunny day and and afterwards we walked all the way along the path by Lake Zurich."
And suddenly I do remember.
 I remember the blue, blue sky and the boats drifting slowly across the sparkling lake.
" And this one," he will say, " I can't believe I've found it after all these years. There it was, just lying on the groundl at the car boot sale. And it's in perfect condition, look."
And carefully he eases the sleek, shiny disc out of its sleeve.
And while I sit eyeing the ever-growing tower of records, wondering where we can build another shelf, he turns up the volume and air-drums  to the intro.
To Ninesh, each one of those records means something. 
Like the naynee, his record collection is a part of him.
It's his passion, priceless, irreplaceable and of no tangible value, but more precious to him than anything else he owns.
" Why does dad like his records so much," asks Joss, our 15 year old son. " Half the time  they're scratched.  He should just download the songs onto his laptop, then they,d always work properly." 
I am, as usual, floored by the force of his logic.
How can I explain that it is not the perfect sound that makes the records special but everything else about them.
When you are young, it's hard to define what makes something precious.
Hard to know what you will treasure when you are independent and free.
Hard to understand that value and cost are not the same thing.
Once comfort blankets and favourite toys have stopped being the most precious things in the world, there's often a superficiality to what we treasure: designer clothes, expensive shoes, the newest phone, the thinnest television.
In this materialistic, consumer-driven world, it's easy to lose sight of what's truly precious or to really value what you already have.

A while ago, I was running a story writing workshop in a school. 
 The children were all 9 and 10 years old and I was trying to get them to start using their no-limits, anything-goes imagination to write a story
So I took out a golden box.

" Inside this box," I said, " is the most precious thing in the whole world. Because it's a magic box,it can change it's shape and size so what's inside can be as big or as small as you want it to be."
I passed the box to one of the boys.
He stared at it hard for a minute and then said:
" I think It's got the newest XBox inside."
Most of the other boys clapped.
" I think it's got the most expensive football boots you can buy inside," said another boy.
" I think it's full of as much money as you will ever need," said one of the girls.
" I think it's a magic wand," said another.
And so the box was passed around the circle until everyone who wanted to had had a turn.
There were a few who were too shy to try.
One of them was a small, thin boy with unbrushed hair and a jumper two sizes too big.
He'd sat the whole time, shoulders hunched, eyes down, staring at the floor. 
Just as I was putting the box away, he held out his hands without looking at me
" Can I have a turn?" he asked quietly.
I handed him the box.
He took  a deep breath and looked up.
But the words seem to stick in his throat. 
I smiled encouragingly, willing his hands to stop shaking.
" So," I said, " what do you think is inside this golden box? What do you think is the most precious thing in the whole world?"
He hesitated for just a moment, clutching the box to him.
" I think," he whispered, "that  inside this box is ..love." 

It's easy to misplace the golden boxes in our lives.
Easy to forget about them and let them lie gathering dust somewhere.
It's easy to replace them with prettier, more expensive versions.
But in the end, they always come back to us, full of the simplicity and beauty of what we truly treasure.