Pearl-Searching and Sock-Matching

I have to say, I'm not enjoying this working-very-hard-again thing.
I'm not enjoying spending my nights and weekends at the computer, head in work.
Not enjoying never being fully in the full moment with my family but instead, filling my life with an ocean of incomplete and unfinished moments that just make everyone grumpy.
The year that I spent writing and being a mum seems like a long-ago dream, fading into the that-was-so-nice-puddle of "things that used to be fun".
And it's a shame because I think I was particularly talented at not working.
Waking to the knowledge that my days were endless sea of beckoning potential. 
Without practicing or panicking in any way, I drifted happily  from working too much, for too long, far too often...... to not working at all.
It was a seamless transition.
At 50 I feel it should be time to start working less, not more.
"But what did you do all day?" friends ask me, when I explain that I feel a return to joblessness is definitely a day dream of mine.
And I try to remember.
Our house was definitely tidier than it ever has been before or since.
We had more pairs of matching socks.
I was always here when the kids got home from school.
I had time to sit down and really talk to them if they wanted me to or, at the very least, provide them with an unending supply of almost healthy snacks.
Dinners were unburnt and mostly ready in time. 
I caught up with friends -not just a rushed meeting but with time to talk and, more importantly, to listen.
I wrote and wrote...and laughed and laughed..
I did things because I wanted to, not because I had to.
I did what I thought to be right, not what I knew to be wrong because the powers-that-be told me I had to.
I said what I knew to be true, instead of conveying a twisted version of the truth.
I felt complete and in control of all that matters to me.
"Ok, ok," my friends say, backing away from the wave of almost desperate determination that they can feel washing towards them. " We were only asking. Stop working then....if it's so important. Don't explain it to us anymore.  We believe you."
And so I stop talking.
But I can feel them still.
Those dreamy days so full of possibility.
I do know how lucky I am.
I know there are people forced to stay at home through illness or redundancy or injustice.
I can imagine how they must long to be part of something bigger than themselves, how they must feel that their four walls have become a prison., that they are losing their identity in a career-oriented world, that what they do has no value. .
I understand that it is easy to feel that you have been forgotten.
But what is important, is that we do not let our jobs define us.
What is important, is not what we do but who we are.
What matters is not whether we get promoted or follow a career trajectory that was planned by someone else but that we care enough about each other to make the world a better place.
We are, each of us, the carriers of a hidden pearl.
They are our certainty and our hope.
They are all that we believe in and know to be true.
They are what makes life worth fighting for.
In these times of swirling confusion and fear, when all that was certain yesterday seems uncertain today, those pearls are the potential we have been reaching for.
And we don't need to wear suits or ties  or high heels to find it, we just have to let go of our vulnerability and open our protective shells.

Whatever we do, whoever we are:  worker, dreamer or just be-er, all that matters is that we find our hidden pearl and make it glow.
And if you can do it, so can your partner or your children or your neighbour
One glowing pearl might not be enough, but a whole string of them.....that might just be indestructible.
So, perhaps today, instead of sitting in front of my computer, I will start the search for my inner pearl- I wonder if I can find it while I am matching socks!

Sun burnished friendship

So...we have just returned from a hot, humid and magical holiday in Singapore and Malaysia.

An escape from the Brexit trauma and the disheartening fogginess of lack-lustre leadership. 

Instead we wandered through the futuristic Marina Bay in Singapore, floated in a rooftop pool above the Kuala Lumpur skyline.

And watched the sun setting over the warn sea of Penang 

We drank the water from fresh coconuts and ate more delicious food  than most people get to eat in a lifetime 

The sun didn't stop shining and our spirits didn't stop soaring.

And that made the holiday fantastic.

We stayed with very special friends who have  a fish-filled pond in their living -room and an enormous swimming pool on its doorstep. 

And that made our holiday amazing.

But we met up too with some friends  from so long ago that it seemed almost as though I had dreamt them.

And that made our holiday truly magical.

The last time we spent a whole evening  together, whole weeks of wandering through Malaysia, was 31 years ago.  

A year after we left school.

31 years that seem to evaporate into no time at all, the moment we saw each other again.

Like treasure,  buried so long ago, its burnished beauty has almost been forgotten.

We brushed off the dust of time and found that friendship doesn't tarnish or waste away.  Instead we carried on where we had left off 31 years ago.  

Time seem to collapse into itself until we were almost sure that the things we remembered must only have happened yesterday.

Perhaps we were high on rose-tinted nostalgia.

Perhaps remembering made us feel young again.

Perhaps the glow of almost forgotten friendship made our hearts sing.

But I don't think it was just that

.

There is something about the friendships of our youth that always remain a part of us.

That have helped to form the very fabric of our being.

They are a piece of who we are and what we have become.

And finding that friendship again is like finding a part of yourself that you had thought was lost.

Suddenly the music of forgotten laughter is ringing in your ears.

You find yourself reaching out for those distant dreams  buried by the decisions you have made and the paths you followed.

And for just an instant, all things seem possible again.

While we were away, our son, Joss turned 17.

I look at him with pride and wonder at the young man he has become.

He is kind, caring, warm-hearted, determined and much wittier and more capable than I ever was.

But suddenly I remember being 17 again.

Because that's the age I was when I first met these friends.

Probably we were full of teenage angst.

Probably the future stretched before us, as full of fears and worries as glowing potential.

But all I remember, so many years on, is the pleasure we found in each other's company, and the knowledge that what we had was something special. 

I remember staying up all night talking earnestly about things that seemed so incredibly important that we could not let sleep get in the way.

I remember dancing at parties and pic-nicing in parks.

i remember laughing and crying and holding tightly onto every moment

And I remember so clearly thinking: "this is what it means to be alive."

I think perhaps you never experience again the intensity of the friendships you form as teenagers.

I see it with Joss and his friends now, the joy they find in simply being together.

The hedonistic afternoons spent on the beach or lying in the park.

They are growing up together, supporting each other as they dip their toes into the unforgiving ocean of adulthood.

" Is there more past or more future," the voice asks us over the microphone as we visit the " cloud mountain," that only Singapore could think of creating in a huge green house.

I ponder the question.

Obviously, environmentally, they are trying to show us that the future of the world is at stake unless we humans stop destroying it.

But I couldn't help taking the question more personally.

Obviously, at 50, I am most likely to have more past than future.

But somehow re-finding old friends makes the divide less clear.

Like an ever-growing patchwork quilt, our life lies all around us.

Sometimes the patches you find in front of you are bright and new and unexpected.

Sometimes they are delicate and transparent and as transient as mist.

And sometimes they are the  patches you started sewing so long ago that you are shocked at  how familiarly beautiful they are, how the patterns have not faded over time.

I look at our 17 year old son and hope that his life will be full of dreams-come-true and the music of laugher 

I hope that he finds what he is looking for and touches his dreams.

I hope that he never feels lost or alone.

But if he ever does, I hope his life has created a quilt , so bright and beautiful, that when he wraps it around himself the strength and  colour of love and never-ending friendship will keep him warm.

With an only-slightly-regretful wave, I say goodbye to my younger self.

It's time to weave old friendships into new patterns....all I need to do now, is learn how to sew.

August 1985

August 2016

The Hen Party Phenomenon

Hen Party, River Cottage HQ

Strangely, although I have been to many weddings over the years, I have been to very few hen parties.
I think, maybe, when I was young and my peers began to get married, hen parties were not such grand, important affairs. 
Maybe I just got too drunk to remember 
Or maybe I just wasn't invited.
Whatever the reason, today the hen and stag "do," seem to have become an integral part of the total wedding experience.
Hen nights seem to have evolved into " hen weekends, " and stag nights into "stag weeks."

Whereas in the past the bride or groom-to-be would meet a couple of friends in the pub and have a few pre-marital drinks, now the whole thing is an event which needs to be carefully planned, precisely organised and riotously enjoyed. 

It must be an experience uniquely tailored to the hobbies and interests of the future bride or groom.

It must include games involving varying degrees of drunkenness and either physical challenge or creative stimulation.

And definitely there must be lots of unhealthy snacks, delicious food, more drunkenness and the potential for long nights of wild abandon.

Knowing all of this, I wasn't sure what to expect when I set off at 7 a.m last Saturday morning, bottle of Prosecco in rucksack, for my friend's hen party weekend. 

She had requested a cooking lesson and meal at the River Cottage HQ in Axminster.

And so it was, that yesterday afternoon, 12 of us, friends and family, arrived at the beautiful, too-big-to-be-called-a-cottage, "Trill Cottage," just a bumpy tractor ride away from the famous River Cottage Cafe HQ.

We filled the table with snacks, the fridge with alcohol and settled down to write " what makes a good marriage," on wooden spoons.

Turns out, that the essence of a good marriage fits easily onto a wooden spoon. 

 Perhaps the hardest thing is to stir it into your married life.

The strange thing about a hen party, is that while all of us know someone, only the bride-to-be knows everyone.

But gradually, as the hours drifted by and the Prosecco flowed, the polite conversations of strangers, began to change into something else.

Outside the rain hammered on the windows, while inside we carved fragile bridges of trust and spun silken webs of friendship and ate lots of crisps and chocolate.

So that by the time we emerged, muddy and damp, from our tractor ride to River Cottage HQ, we felt somehow bonded, perhaps by words, perhaps by familiarity or perhaps by the shared anticipation of the evening ahead of us.

And it was magical.

We walked into a simple flagged stone room with a table laid ready just for us, a wood burning stove flickering in the corner and a delicious brandy and apple juice aperitif waiting for us on a comfortingly solid sideboard. 

We wandered between our private dining room and a rustic kitchen hung with shining pans. a fire crackling in the open fireplace and our very own sous-chef enthusiastically teaching us how to create the perfect souffle and the crispiest pakora.

" All the ingredients come from our very own garden and farm," he explained,  as he expertly chopped the garlic and onion with a very sharp knife and without looking because he was just slightly flirting with the youngest and most attractive of us. 

" All our eggs are from our very own chickens," he added, whisking the whites into perfect peaks and  holding the bowl over his head with a cheeky grin,to prove they wouldn't fall out.

Souffles exquisitely risen, pakoras crisped to perfection, our feasting began.

We sat at the table, our "hen" occasionally remembering to wear her tastefully flashing 

"bride-to-be" sash as course after delicious course arrived on our plates.

With each course our sous chef arrived to explain what the ingredients were.

Souffle, pakora, egg and spiced cauliflower, freshly caught fish in a reduced leek sauce, 

(halloumi for me), crackers and badger-bean humous, barbecued lamb, (homemade pasta for me), honeycomb, beetroot threads tossed in citrus juice and sugar, marscapone and fruit

It felt as though we were standing in a river of never-ending deliciousness.

And the fire burned, and the laughter danced around the table and our every wish was fulfilled by the staff.

For just a few hours we forgot about the rain and the mud and the real world outside.

Until, at last, satiated and almost comatosed by the huge amount of food we had consumed, we collapsed back into the tractor and were hauled back towards our oversized cottage.

We had meant to play some more games, we had meant to carry on drinking, we had meant to be raucous and wild.

But we were much too full.

So instead we all hugged each other good night and collapsed into bed.

Through the rain-dropped windows I could almost see the little seaside town of Seaton, nestling in the next valley.

During the Second World War, its holiday village had been an internment camp for those who were fleeing from the horror of Hitler.,

One of those internees was my Austrian grandad.

Seton was the last place he ever set foot on this earth.

He stepped from the camp onto a ship that was torpedoed, leaving his Ausrian wife and tiny baby daughter behind in an alien and unfamiliar world.

He had married my grandmother in England and held his daughter in his arms for a few short days.

He loved people and friendship and parties and good food and playing his mandolin.

And I'm sure, if his world had not been turned upside-down by the destructive and agonising heartbreak and hatred of war, he would have had the biggest stag do ever.

As I lay in my very comfortable bed, chatting and laughing with friends,

 I imagined him watching us from the beach, so strangely close.

I saw him smiling and waving.

And I know what he was telling me to do: to cling on tightly to every moment and to wrap them softly with my dreams. 

Because love and friendship are the greatest treasure we have.

And in the beauty of the memories we create together, lies the strength and courage of our future..

In the end, however drunkenly, loudly or deliciously, isn't that what a hen party should be celebrating?

 

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.