Misguided kindness

Like most people, I spend much of my life feeling guilty.
 Feeling guilty that I am not a good enough mum, that I spend too much time at work, . that the house is messy, that dinner is late, that I've shouted at the kids. 
Once you start thinking about it, finding things to feel guilty about is the easiest thing in the world.
 But the one thing that is guaranteed to make you feel instantly guilty, is walking past someone selling " The Big Issue," in the street, especially when it is freezing and raining and they smile at you.

Giving homeless people a newspaper to sell is an amazing idea.
A job instead of begging. Selling something instead of being constantly humiliated. Dignity instead of shame. 
 But the trouble is, I'm not good at reading newspapers. 
When I read it's to escape from the real world, not fall deeper into it.
The last thing I want to do is buy another paper I don't want and won't read."  
 Sometimes I give the money anyway and say I don't want a paper - but that defeats the object.  The truth is that usually I just pass by with averted eyes or a smile and a shake of the head.
So when I came out of the tube  into the cold, damp, gusting snow of Covent Garden a few weeks ago, I was hoping that neither of my children would notice the shivering woman, hugging a bundle of papers on the nearest street corner.
I hoped wrong!
" I feel so sorry, for her," said Joss, zipping up his coat more tightly, " she must be freezing."
And there it was, my guilt button switched on, the option of just walking past- gone.
I walked up to her, holding out my £2 coin.
" I don't want a paper," I said, " but take this."
For a moment the woman just stared at me, wrapping her head scarf more securely around her head.
" Madam," she said, " I am not a beggar."
" I know," I smiled encouragingly, " you're selling papers but I don't really want one."
" Madam," she said again, " I am not a beggar.  I am paid to hand out these free papers. Please take one.  And put your money away!"
Turning my face to the snow, I skulked shamefully away.

 It is so often true, that good deeds are misguided.

Many years ago, when our son, Joss ,was a small baby and our daughter, Mia, just old enough to be left with grandparents, Ninesh and I were invited to a wedding in Rome.  Taking Joss with us, we chose our wedding outfits and stepped onto a plane. 
We arrived safely, but our clothes didn't.  Ninesh managed to buy himself a replacement shirt and tie but we didn't have enough time or money to hunt down a new dress for me.  So I walked into the beautiful church in the centre of Rome, surrounded by trendily dressed Italians, wearing an old denim pinafore.  
The service was beautiful but half way through, Joss had had enough. He started screaming, his cries echoing in waves around the church.
So I took him outside and stood in front of the church, bobbing gently up and down to calm him down. And perhaps my denim pinafore was shabbier than I thought, perhaps I just looked forlorn but immediately two passers- by came up smiled at me sorrowfully, patted Joss on the head and handed me some money.
I tried to give it back but the only Italian phrase I know means :
 " Is there a bar anywhere nearby?" 
And anyway, the moment they had handed me the money, they had hurried off. Embarrassed by their random act of kindness.
So I kept the money, left the church and waited for Ninesh in a nearby bar.

Even when it's misguided, kindness should never be wasted!

Going Live with Jools Holland and Later

There is something about the live music show "Later...with Jools Holland," that draws the TV audience in.  As Jools wanders around the studio introducing you to  new acts and already famous bands, you almost forget that you are sitting in your living room and believe, instead, that  you are in a trendy, semi-lit nightclub.  And I have always wondered what it would really be like to be there.  To be part of the shadowy, live audience.  
Each week 12,000 people apply for the  few hundred free tickets and last Tuesday, Ninesh and I were two of the lucky ones. The ticket doesn't guarantee you a place, just a chance to stand in the queue and hope. So as early as possible we donned our shades, slid into our " oh so cool and very second-hand," Mazda mx 5 and set off for the new home of " Later,": Maidstone. The ticket requested that we wear dark clothes, so by the time we got there, there was a snake of black clad live music fans, winding back from the studio door to the car park, a mixture of old and young and inbetweeners, standing hopefully in the English drizzle. 
And we all got in!
Dutifully we handed in our coats and clustered, shivering, around the heaters of a workshop/studio drinking beer out of plastic cups. Until, at last, we were herded into the real studio. 
And it was just like it looks on TV. 

The audience were packed into corners, squeezed between the 4 different stages and next to the piano where Jools Holland does his famous interviews. Bigger than a living room, the studio was small enough to  have that genuine club feel.  And from the beginning Jools was there, telling us we were making history, the first audience in the new studio, trying to get us to clap rhythmically as he introduced  the bands, the laid back host of a show that has become iconic.
And it was amazing.
Perhaps it was because it was the first one of a new series or because it was the first time it was being filmed in the Maidstone Studios or just because we were there, but each act seemed incredible to me.  
From 8.30 the 1 hour long Friday show is recorded and then at 10 pm, we went LIVE.
You could feel the tension building, the technical glitches being desperately smoothed, as we clapped, just like we'd been told.  And there we were, with Jools Holland, live on TV as he wandered around the studio, introducing  each singer and band.  In front of him, a woman dressed in black was running crouched down and backwards, holding his cue card, a camera following behind with a member of staff holding up the wire so no one could trip.
The line up was fantastic: headlining was cool and willowy Suede

Suede- looking further aways from us than they were

And then there was the pint-size ( literally! ) teenage, rhythm and blues band: The Strypes.  Dressed in Beatle type suits with Justin Beeber haircuts, wearing sunglasses, they were mind-blowingly good. It felt as though we were standing in front of the talent of tomorrow.
  

But my favourite was Laura Mvula. Not only is she beautiful, her voice, a mixture of rich velvet and defiant edginess, took my breath away.

Laura Mvula-

In the end, the audience stayed after the live show and "later," than Jools himself, while we listened and watched the rest of the recordings for Friday night . As people gradually left, Ninesh and I edged closer and closer to the stages, until we were almost shoulder to shoulder with Suede and so close to The Strypes, we could almost touch them.

So now, as I sit in my living room watching" Later," I will know.  Know what it feels like to be in the studio. Know what it feels like to be part of the audience. Know what it feels like to  listen to live, raw talent. Know that in front of Jools Holland someone is running backwards. 

And somehow that will always make me feel special.

If you want to watch, this episode of " Later....with Jools Holland," it's on tonight, Friday 12th April, 11.05 pm, BBC 2.  
Or follow the link below:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b006ml0l

  

Just being

I have just spent a weekend, hiding away from the world in Cobnor, near Chichester.  Surrounded by constantly changing views of sparkling water and the red and white sails of passing boats, it was impossible not to sit and dream. And for two whole days thats what we did. We dreamt and imagined and let ourselves....just be.

View from the window, Cobnor

 And it made me realise how rarely in our hectically frenzied and daily chore-filled lives we let ourselves  find the the time and space to do that:  just to be. 
It's something we talk about a lot in the Nursery and Children's Centre, how to create quiet, calm spaces where children can sit and think and watch and wonder. And it's hard. In this world full of 30 second sound-bites and the instant gratification of mouse-click computer games, 3 and 4 year olds often find it difficult to sit still and just be. There is always too much to see and do and want. 
And that's how it starts. 
As we get older, our lives seem to get fuller and busier and more complicated. 
There never seems to be enough time to do all the things we mean to do, to finish all the things we start, to hold onto all the moments we should be holding onto, to dream all the dreams we should be dreaming.
But the time is there, we just have to claim it. 
We need to remember how important it is.
Remind ourselves what a difference it can make. 
Remember how to take time out and re-charge our batteries.

William Henry Davies said it best:

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

We were lucky this weekend to such a beautiful place with such a perfectly peaceful view, far enough away from city life and the monotony of daily routine, to make us believe that for just a few hours, we had stopped the world.

But peaceful places can be nearer home if you let them be.  I sometimes creep away to the shed at the end of our garden. I sit for a while, trying to write but mostly I stare out of the window and day-dream.

And sometimes, early in the morning, before anyone else is awake,  I curl up in our high-sided, comfortable, red armchair and wrap myself in thoughts and memories and possibilities.

And although the day is about to begin, and there are jobs to be done and packed lunches to make, for those few minutes, I just " am. "

 "Just being," is the stuff dreams are made of and the moments we live for.

I am,
you are, 
let's be.

Musical fidelity and Amy Macdonald

I am usually a fickle music lover. I enjoy one song from a band and then move on- new song, new band. Not a good groupie . Which means, that I've never really enjoyed live bands, at least not famous ones.  I find myself listening out for the few songs that I know and spending the rest of the time lost in a faraway, quiet place where there are comfortable seats and no jostling crowds. And before I know it, the concert is over, the fans are buzzing with post-gig adrenaline and I am drifting home, thinking that the whole thing would have sounded better on CD.
  The best gigs I have ever been to are the ones in tiny venues  The smaller the venue, the closer you feel to the musicians. Sometimes it feels as though they are singing and playing just for you, like they are jamming in your living room.  Of course a small venue generally means a not-yet-famous band and perhaps that's what keeps me dancing.  A not-yet famous band in a small place has to cultivate its fans.  There is an energy and  to the playing, a sense of raw potential that is missing from world famous musicians playing to the impersonal thousands.
I was once lucky enough to hear Robert Cray playing in a small club in Paris.  The smoke was blue, the atmosphere magical, the audience mesmerised by the music .  A year or so later I heard him in a much bigger venue in London. He'd crossed the line from "almost," to "very," famous.The songs were the same songs, he sang them just as well but the atmosphere was missing, the fans less enchanted and my thoughts drifting.
So knowing all of this, I was worried yesterday night when Mia and I drove to the Dome in Brighton to hear Amy Macdonald. I'm as close to being a fan of hers as I ever get and I was really scared that even so, my thoughts would wander.
 I couldn't have been more wrong. 
From the moment Amy Macdonald stepped onto the stage, we were putty in her hands.

Amy Macdonald, Brighton Dome-not quite like being in our living room
http://vimeo.com/16399092 - One of my favourite songs

  For 2 songs we all sat politely,  our true British inhibited manners, stopping us from standing up and dancing in case the people behind us couldn't see and might be forced ot dance too.  Amy was having none of it. 
" There are only 2 explanations for you not dancing," she said: " too much Easter chocolate or laziness. Are you lazy Brighton? Sheffield last night was the most un-lazy audience we've ever played to. Do you want to be beaten by Sheffield" And there was the challenge. And even if the Dome is too big to feel like our living room, each one of us knew she was actually talking to us. We couldn't be beaten by Sheffield and we couldn't make Amy sad! 
So for the rest of the night we were on our feet dancing and stamping ( except when Amy told us to sit down so we could listen properly to the quiet songs! ). She sung all our favourite songs and even those that hadn't been our favourites, became our new favourites, with the haunting beauty and powerful gritty richness of her voice. 
And when we left, I was buzzing like a real fan. 
And I knew there was no way that what we had just heard could have felt or sounded better on CD.
So I think that maybe I have found musical fidelity with Amy Macdonald. 
Although I can't help wishing, that I had heard her in some tiny, unknown venue, when she was not-quite-famous.

Remembering Ceylan

There are some days in your life so sad that the remembering of them will never stop hurting. 
For our family, March 28th 2010 is one of those days.
It is the day our friend Ceylan died.  
She wasn't ill or weak. 
She wasn't old, she hadn't lived enough.
She wasn't ready to die and we weren't ready to say goodbye. 
Our friendship was still young. We'd only just begun to create the memories we were meant to share.
I remember the day she walked into the Children's Centre.  Dark haired and dark eyed, she hesitated at the door, her baby son Luis in her arms, her blue-eyed daughter clutching her leg. She murmered something in German and I, always keen to practice my German, walked over and said hello. We stood there facing each other amidst the chaos of children and families and prams and right then I knew, and I think she did too, that we would be friends. 
She and her husband Torsten had just arrived in England, uprooting their family from Hamburg in search of adventure and fluent English. Perhaps it was that love of travel, the excitement of not knowing exactly what is round the corner, that drew us together. Perhaps it was Ceylan's warm smile. Perhaps it was an understanding of the shared restlessness of world wanderers.  
But I believe it was fate. 
As we got to know each other, Ceylan and I realised that there had been many times in many different cities and countries where our paths had almost crossed, when we had been in places a few days before or after each other.
But it took her walking into a small Children's Centre in a tiny city in England for us to actually meet. 
We fitted together, our two families. 
 Even though their children were much younger than ours, we enjoyed being with each other and spent evenings and holidays together.  Sharing food and campfires and dreams. 
Until the Saturday in March when they dropped their keys off at our house.  They were going skiing and would be back in a week. 
Only Ceylan never came back. 
Sitting next to Torsten and her children on the plane, she collapsed. 
 The plane turned around and the Gatwick police phoned us. 
Could we come.
 Selma and Luis  ( 1year and 3years old) were sitting in the police station because Torsten was in hospital with Ceylan.
 It didn't look good, they said.
The police room had a dirty brown carpet and bare, stained walls. Even on a good day it would have drained the soul. Selma and Luis were sitting on a red plastic sofa, so small and young, clutching their teddy bears. 
 In the end the waiting was too painful. 
So I  brought them back to our house and tried to help them sleep.  We weren't allowed to bring any of their bags, the police had to keep them.
 Their clothes and toys and anything that might have comforted them had to be left behind.  
"Mama," whispered Selma as she sobbed herself to sleep.
I sat watching the stars on that long, long night, trying to hope.  
Just after 3 am Ninesh texted me from the hospital.
" Our good friend Ceylan rests in peace."
And the next morning NInesh, Mia, Joss and I watched, standing in our kitchen, while Torsten, numb with grief, told his son and daughter that their mum had died.
 All day his phone rang and again and again I heard him say: 
" 10 years training to be a doctor and I couldn't save my wife."
Selma and Luis played and cried and ate pancakes.
I took them outside because none of us could think what else to do. 
Selma stood on the doorstep and looked up at the sky.
" Becky. Is Mama up there now?" she asked me in German. " Is she behind those clouds? Do you think she's crying."
" I think she's smiling," I said, " I think she will always smile when she sees you." 
The weather stormed for the next days.
 Thunder and wind and rain.  Ceylan didn't go quietly. There was too much passion smouldering beneath  her dark eyes for that.
" I think maybe somewhere deep down inside she knew," her mother-in-law told me in the grey, grieving weeks that followed. " She seemed to live her life faster than anyone else. As though she knew there wouldn't last long enough.
" I'm a bit sad," Selma told her dad, sitting on our sofa one evening as he held her and Luis close.  " I'm a bit sad that Mama's died."
" We are all a bit sad," Torsten said, stroking her hair.  
And he's right. 
We are all a bit sad Ceylan.
 We always will be.

Fuer Ceylan                                                                  For Ceylan

Die dunklen Sterne deiner Augen                                    The dark stars of your eyes
Am nachthellen Himmel                                                 In the night light sky
Deine Finger auf meinem Ruecken                                  Your fingers on my back
Werden zu den Nebeln ueber den Wiesen                         Are turning to mist over the meadows
Wo bist du, wenn ich nachts nach dir suche?                    Where are you when I search for you at night?
Wieviel Leben passt auf die Seiten unserer Tage?             How many lives fit onto the pages of our days?
Und zwischen den Zeilen                                                 And between the lines                                                
Eine Traene                                                                   A tear
Und der Traum von der Zeit                                            And the dream of the time
als wir Koenige waren.                                                   when we were kings

By Torsten                                                                     By Torsten

RIP Ceylan
14.11.1971
28.03.2010

Searching for heroes and random acts of courage

Walking normally through the routine and grind of every day, I often find myself looking for heroes.

It started a long time ago when I was listening to my Austrian grandmother, Omi, talking about the 2nd World War.  Young, headstrong, half Jewish, unmarried and pregnant, she was forced to flee Vienna as the Nazis took control. Smuggled out by the Quakers, she was one of the lucky ones, ending up safely in England.  But what I remembered from her story was not the excitement of the adventure, nor the knife-edged fear of fleeing for your life, instead, it  was her telling of  the courage of others. The neighbours who hid Jews in their houses, knowing they would all be killed if they were caught. The Quakers and all the others who risked their lives to save complete strangers. There were so many ordinary people who were so brave and no one will ever know who they were. They didn't do it for glory or praise or recognition, they did it because, however dangerous it was, they believed it was the right thing to do.

And I remember thinking then- "that's what a true hero is." And wondering if I would ever be brave enough to be one. 

 And so I started collecting stories of random acts of courage ( perhaps you have some to add.)

There were the Singhalese neighbours in Sri Lanka who hid Ninesh's Tamil aunt in their bathroom while her family house was burnt to the ground, and then smuggled her to the airport in the boot of their car. There's the mum at the Nursery where I work, who lost a leg when she threw herself in front of a lorry to save her daughter from disappearing under its wheels. There's the dad, born with no arms, who has never let it stop him from doing anything. 

 And then there's Liam.

 I met him when I was having lunch with my friend in a cafe in Littlehampton. Like her, he is undergoing treatment for cancer and after ordering lunch for himself and a friend, he walked over to our table and put his arm around my friend's shoulders.

" Have you seen that film The Way?" he asked her.  "All those people  following a footpath through France and Spain. When we have beaten this illness, Claudia, we will walk it together, you and I." 

And leaving my friend wrapped in hope, he went back to his table to eat his lunch.. 

Turns out he has done many things for many people: he was in the cafe to fix the roof, he had come late at night on an SOS mission to fix something in my friend's house, he had heard that a local home for adults with learning difficulties was being closed down and single handedly and very quietly, raised much of the money to save it and then became so close to one of the residents that they now live with him and his wife. All of this he did, while being treated for cancer

" He has touched the lives of everyone here,"  my friend said.

I looked at him, eating his lunch and realised that in a tiny cafe, in a small part of Littlehampton I had found a hero.  

 

The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.”
― J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

It's  what Holden Caulfield says in The Catcher in the Rye. And if you change the words " "mature man,' to " true hero," it is a mantra to live by.  

So, I will keep walking through life, collecting stories of random acts of courage, looking for heroes, in the world around me, dreaming that if I ever had to do it, I could be one too.

My friend at work said that his wife had said goodnight to their 6 year old son and asked him if he wanted to have the light on for 10 more minutes so that he could read.

" Yes," he said, " I do want to keep the light on, but I don't want to read. Is it ok if I just stand in front of the mirror and look at myself?"

I'd like to think it was so that he could search for the hero within- but I think it was probably to admire  his new haircut!

Football, passions and conversions

There seems to have been a lot of football on TV lately. And I know, because Ninesh, watches them all, at home or in the pub.  It is a passion, not just for his own team, Arsenal, but for the game itself. He sees it as an art form. While others hang pictures on their walls of their living room, Ninesh hangs images of perfect goals and beautiful shots on the walls of his mind. Poor play angers him and our small house is constantly filled  with angry shouts of " what are you doing?" " Get up," " How could you have missed that." " What an idiot."  Sometimes our son watches with him, sometimes he watches by himself  but when the right team scores the right goal, it feels as though the whole street must be able to hear his cheers. Its odd because mostly Ninesh is quiet and self-contained. It's his passion for the game that brings him to life. And it has become part of the reason I love him.

The strange thing is, that I used to hate  football.  It seemed to be an excuse for racism, drunkenness and unnecessary tragedy. It gave people a reason to divide themselves into opposing teams and hate each other. I remember the shame I felt at being English after the Heysel disaster in Belgium. I remember the eery silence as a friend and I walked the streets of  Liverpool on the day of the Hillsborough disaster. And the pointlessness of it all made me angry. But now, after all these years of being married to a football lover, I see another side to football. To so many people football is: " not just a matter of life and death. It's so much more than that."

While we were travelling around Europe in our camper van 7 years ago, I learnt something about football.  It's an international language.  It breaks down barriers. It crosses class and culture. As we drifted from one tiny village to another in our dusty van or stood on empty platforms in forgotten railway stations, it would often be Ninesh's Arsenal T-shirt that saved us.
"2 adults and 2 children to the island with the volcano,' we would say hopelessly to a confused ticket master  somewhere in the middle of Sicily.  He would look blankly from Ninesh to me, smile helplessly down at the children and shrug.  Then suddenly, he'd see Ninesh's red T-shirt with the white canon logo and a grin of relief and understanding would spread across his face.
" Ah, Arsenal.  Thierry Henri. Manchester United. David Beckham." And coming out from behind the counter, he would shake Ninesh's hand, call over all the men  from the bar across the road and introduce them, as though he and Ninesh were long lost friends.
And somehow, we would always end up on the right train, with the right tickets, being waved off by a group of complete strangers who had nothing in common with us except a love of football.
And wherever we have travelled since, this has been true.   A love of football is an instantaneous, international bond that means you are never lost for words, even if you don't share a language. And however poor or unhappy a nation is, however ridiculous and unethical the huge salaries payed to the best players might be,for the 90 minutes of any football game, the world stands still and the only thing that matters in the whole universe, is that your team wins.
The truth is, much as it would have once pained me to write this, the world probably is a better place for having football in it. And if you are thinking of travelling the world and don't support a team, buy a T-shirt and pretend you do.

Mother's Day- the big con

I remember one of my friends a long time ago saying that in her house they didn't celebrate Mother's Day.  
She said her mum was of the opinion that since she and her dad had had their fun creating her and since my friend  hadn't asked to be born and since she had no say in who her mother was, she didn't need to say thank you. 
And that makes sense to me.
Like Valentines Day, Mother's Day has become so commercial that it's hard to remember what it's really about. 
 For weeks restaurants have been advertising special Mothers Day deals, flower shops have encouraged everyone to pre-order hugely expensive bunches of flowers and card companies have filled the television with images of emotional mums receiving their special, personalised messages through the post. 
And for one day out of 365, we mums feel valued and appreciated. 
But what about the other 364 days?
They're more like  The Mum Song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nem0bkErGVY


Mother's Day is a cop out.  
Our kids can be rude and lazy and unhelpful for all the rest of the year but as long as they buy us a bunch of flowers on Mother's Day, all will be forgiven.
I have a better idea.
How about instead of spending all that money on flowers and chocolates once a year, our kids save their money and show us how much they love us all year round by pulling their weight with the housework, the laundry, the washing-up or finding their own football boots or school uniform. 
How about they take time out from Facebook or Twitter or Snapchat to talk to us about what's going on in their lives.
 How about making every day a mini-Mothers Day.

And here's the other thing, Mother's Day can bring out the mean, competitive streak in all of us.
 If your bunch of flowers is bigger than your friend's, then your son must love you more.  Each year stakes are upped, as mums wait expectantly for higher and higher status gifts that they can boast about to anyone who will listen.
 Because obviously, the more your children spend on you, the more they must love you.
As the saying goes: you can't put a price on love- except if it's Mothers Day.

Glowing embers

It's March and Spring is sort of here at last.  Out of the window, if it wasn't for the rain, I'm sure I would be seeing sunshine and blue skies. It's amazing what one day of sunshine can do.  On Tuesday, only Tuesday, it was hotter here than in many Mediterranean countries and slowly people began to unfurl. Instead of scuttling down the road, heads bowed against the cold, concentrating on the quickest route to somewhere warm, people looked up at the blue skies, caught each other's eye and even smiled..There is something about lighter mornings and less cloudy skies, that fills you with hope. We all leave behind our Winter cocoon and step more happily into tomorrow. The only thing I miss about the cocoon, is the  afternoons and evenings spent " chillin," around the fire in the living room.  Sometimes it is hard to hold your children close. As they grow up, they move away from you and rarely choose to inhabit the same space. But lighting a fire is like lighting a beacon, within moments the floor in front of the fireplace is full of children and pets, vying for the warmest space. And usually it is the pets that win!  But as we draw the curtain to hide the darkness, it often feels like we are drawing a curtain around our small family, wrapping ourselves in a blanket of warmth in the orange glow.  We don't do anything special, mostly just watch television or eat dinner as we sit on the floor. Sometimes though, we chat. Watching the flickering flames we wander from subject to subject: school, friends, football, music, chocolate. And as I listen,  I realise, that it is not the special things we do that create memories but the embers of shared evenings spent round a fire that will glow inside us, however far from each other we drift.

And just in case we drift too far before next Winter, we have built a firepit in the garden!

Classroom racism and missed opportunities

Like many people in England this week, I have watched with horror as an anti-immigration party  almost won a by- election. Post election analysts can give you a million reasons why it happened: 

-UKIP  has a strong, clear message while the other parties appear wishy-washy and unfocused. 

-In times of recession we like to blame anyone who is a minority for stealing " our," jobs. We look to someone to stop this from happening.

 -With our benefits system about to collapse under the strain of increasing unemployment and life expectancies, everyone is panicking that another influx of immigrants will be the last straw.

I am not sure why people voted the way they did.   I am not a political analyst. But  I am scared. 

Scared that my mix-raced children will grow up in a country where they are not welcome.

Scared that a society, rich in ethnic diversity and constantly celebrating differences, is about to become divided and charged with hatred.

Scared that when a seed of racism or prejudice is planted in the classroom, it is left unchallenged.

Because often in England, at least, it is ignorance and lack of understanding rather than first hand experience that creates racism and prejudice.

Last week my 15 year old daughter was in a class where they were looking at photos of babies.  

" Eugh," said one of the girls, pulling a face, " Look at that ugly Pakki baby."

What I cannot forgive about  the incident, is not what was said, ignorant and unpleasant as it was, but how it was dealt with.  Or at least how my daughter perceived it to be dealt with.  According to her, the teacher said:

" Please don't say that, it's racist, now go and sit down."

The teacher has assured me since that she spoke to the girl afterwards and also to her parents and that what my daughter told me is not completely what was said.  And perhaps this is true, I will never know and nor will any of the girls in the class. In front of the class, the girl received a gentle reprimand for a holding a fundamentally racist view.  And instead of seizing the moment and using it as a learning opportunity for everyone, the teacher let it go almost unchallenged. 

Teaching is a hard job. It is target driven and result orientated and the pressure is immense.  All that you can truly do, as a teacher,  is hope to inspire a love of learning and open eyes so that children become hungry to know more.  Moments when you can truly help children to think about what they believe, question what they hear and become independent thinkers are few and far between. But if those moments are not seized upon the result is the perpetuation of ignorance and an unquestioning belief in whatever those around you, family or friends,  are telling you.

If views are not challenged in the classroom, what hope is there for the future?

When my daughter was maybe 3, she was sitting on my lap, in the kitchen, watching a group of her friends playing while us mums enjoyed a few minutes of shared adult conversation. Suddenly my daughter sat up straighter, the way she always did when she was going to say something.

" You're all the odd ones out," she announced, " because I'm brown and you're all white!"

And I remember thinking, all those years ago, " I hope you never stop believing that."

Rose-tinted friendship

Last weekend one of my best friends, Christine, from Switzerland came for a 24 hour flying visit. We met in Paddington Station and wandered the freezing streets of London, chatting  and laughing.  

It was one of those rare, perfect days when everything you wish for happens.

" What shall we have for lunch?" I asked. " Chips would be good," she said, " Fried halloumi would be nice," I said.  And there it was, in front of us, a diner selling chips and fried halloumi and a burger or two if you fancied it. 

" What else would you like to do?" I asked.

Christine looked thoughtful. 

" Well," she said, " I'd really like to get my hair cut."

I looked doubtful.

" You can try," I said, " but it might be hard. A Saturday afternoon in the centre of London without an appointment."

She shrugged and bundled her beautiful curls behind her head. 

" We'll see," she said.

So we walked towards Soho and there it was, a sign outside a hairdressing salon.

25% off walk-in appointments today..

" Could I get my hair cut?" asked Christine.

"Of course," smiled the girl behind the counter, offering us coffee and biscuits

" would now be ok?"

Perhaps it was  the evening cocktails  in Skylon that gave the day an extra rose tint. 

But I don't think so. 

 I think it was being with my friend. We don't get to see each other often anymore. 

 When we lived in Switzerland she was working 18 hours a day running her own bar and I was spending lonely days pushing a mostly crying, newborn Mia around the  unfamiliar, cobbled streets of Winterthur, our new home. Our lives couldn't have been more different, Christine and mine.  The only thing we shared was exhaustion. But true friendship is not based on what you have in common, only on how you make each other feel. Like a  favourite coat, it wraps you in a  feeling  of safety and warmth  and happiness. And even if you can't wear it all the time, you know it is always there, hanging in your cupboard for when you need it.

Looking for comfort and a friendly face, all those years ago, I walked into Dimensione, Christine's cafe/bar in Winterthur. She looked up and smiled:  a warm, welcoming smile. Since then we have shared tears and laughter and many cocktails.  

But our friendship has never stopped being rose-tinted.

The dreaded C word

Cancer. 
It's the word you dread hearing from your doctor.
It lies in silent wait , like a coiled snake, fangs at the ready.
 And deep down inside, you know that if it doesn't bite you, it will sink its fangs into someone you love or care about.
 And that's what has  happened to one of my friends. 
The doctors hope it just a shallow bite.  
Very early stages that have hopefully been cut out and will never return... but you can't be sure. 
And that's the thing, suddenly you can't be sure of anything anymore. 
My friend is being amazing.
 Calm, dignified and so brave it makes my heart ache. 
She will not let this beat her.  
And we, who care about her so much, flock to her, seeking courage from her determination. 
" It's strange," she says, " how you can get used to waiting." 
Waiting for appointments, waiting for scans, waiting for results, waiting. 
And everything that used to seem important, isn't anymore.  
All those things that needed such immediate attention, no longer need it so immediately.  Those things on your mental " to do,' from the moment you wake up, never get crossed off. 
Because for now, at least, life is about waiting.
And the strange thing about waiting to find out if your friend's life is to become limited, is that each day you wait seems limitless. 
And all you want to do is fill it with shared moments.  
And strangely, we are all suddenly able to step out of our manic lives and make time.
 We sit in my friend's living room, groups of us, hands clasped around cups of steaming tea or coffee and we chat.
 Chat about the shortfalls of men,  about the constant exhaustion of motherhood, about the never-endingness of housework.
We laugh at ourselves, complain about our politicians, gossip about our friends and we all of us remember, that this is what life is about.
My friend is neither melodramatic nor resigned. 
 Like everything that has happened in her life so far, she will tackle it calmly and head-on and she will not let it beat her.
So the strange truth about my friend being told she has cancer, is that the diagnosis has somehow brought us all back to life. 
It has reminded us that nothing is more important than love and friendship, that time is something precious that should not be wasted on things we don't want to do, when there are so many things that we haven't yet done.
Not all C words are bad.
When my thoughts wander to my friend today ( as I know they will ) it is not cancer that I will think of but cake, conversation, coffee and most of all courage.

Let's ban Valentines Day

So here it is again.  
The 14th February.  
Valentine's Day.  
The day when people who are feeling  sad and lonely are made to feel even sadder and more lonely. 
The day when the postman walking straight past your door can break your heart.
The day when thousands of long stalked roses are cut and left to wilt in vases. 
The day when anyone who is allergic to flowers is exhausted by sneezing.
The day when over-the-top schmolz earns card shops a fortune.
The day when it's impossible to book a table if you are not booking a romantic table for two.
The day when red and pink are everywhere you look, even when blue is your favourite colour.
The day when the pressure of romantic expectation often ends in tears and broken hearts.
The day when how you feel about each other is no longer as important as how much money you have spent on a card or present.
Valentines Day.
Lets ban it.
Because loving yourself is as important as loving someone else.
And if your truly  do love someone, you shouldn't need a special day to tell them.

The wonder of running and operating-table racism

" So," said my brother-in-law, Ben, when we were in Bristol last weekend,         " whatever happened with your running?  I read on your blog that it was one of your New Year's Resolutions to start running but you have been strangely silent on the subject since then!"

And although he didn't say it, i could feel the question he really wanted to ask: 

" did you wimp out?"

So here it is.

Time to own up:

I am a complete running convert. After all these years I now understand why Ninesh, a long-time dedicated runner, does it.  So 2 or 3 mornings a week, as the sun rises, you can see me running, or rather clomping, through the centre of Chichester in my immorally expensive and still quite clean, running shoes. And I think, to begin with, it was the shoes that did it!  

" If you really are going to run without damaging anything," said Ninesh, " you have to get proper shoes."

So on the 2nd of January he took me to a tiny shop, hidden on a Portsmouth street corner. Inside, it was packed with dauntingly sporty looking people standing in line . People who looked like they were born running.

" How long have you been running?" asked the assistant when I finally reached the front of the queue. He beckoned to a seat in front of him.  

" I haven't started yet," I whispered, glancing furtively around me.

For a while he didn't say anything, just stared, critically at my feet. 

" it's alright," he said at last, " We have shoes for everyone here, even.....beginners.  Just take your shoes and socks off, roll up your jeans and walk to the door over there."

I have walked barefoot through much of my life but when a stranger tells you to do it in front of lots of other strangers, walking normally, barefoot on a cold, unfamiliar floor suddenly becomes almost impossible. I felt eyes boring into my heels and toes as I walked barefoot to the door and back again before returning to my seat in front of the assistant.
He sighed slowly.

"Can I just ask," he said, " have you ever had to wear orthoptics?'

" No," I said, " should I have?"

He looked at me sadly.

" Well," he said, " we have shoes with different levels of support here.  1 is the least amount of support and 5 is the most.  But I'm not sure that 5 is going to be enough for you!"

In the end I bought a pair of level 5's and we all hoped for the best. And so far so good. My feet have never felt so supported! It's the rest of my body that has been left to its own devices.. But I had no idea running shoes cost so much.  They are now the most expensive thing I own. Which is why, on that damp  evening when Ninesh suggested we go for our first run, I couldn't say no.  Not when I had just spent so much money on a pair of shoes!

And here they are.My pride and joy.  Less  " diamonds in the sole of your shoes," than " hole in the bottom of your wallet!" 

My sister-in-law Anusha, like Ninesh, has the smooth, dark skin and meltingly dark eyes of many Sri-Lankans.  She is an acclaimed and successful kidney-transplant  surgeon who recently became a consultant. She often receives thanks from her patients for her kind and caring bedside manner and her ability to explain a complicated procedure in a way that everyone can understand. Yet recently a patient made it very clear that he did not wish for someone of her colour to operate on him.

" Well," replied Anusha calmly, " If I don't operate, you don't get a kidney. 
Over to you!"

I hope he made the right decision.

Travels in our campervan and that Monday morning feeling

It's strange how quickly Monday comes around.  It often feels as though you have only just stopped looking forward to Friday when it is time to get up for work on Monday morning! Sometimes it feels like the more you pack into a weekend the shorter it is.  Mia and I have just spent the weekend in Bristol with  my sister-in-law and her young family.  Filled with eating an amazing buffet  at ZaZa's Bazaar ( apparently the largest restaurant in England and definitely the most delicious and family-friendly one ) and very muddy walks through woods and up rivers, the weekend flew by.  And now, here I sit and it is Monday already. I've already crossed the starting line of the day and the finish line seems like a long way off. And a little part of me is wondering why we do it.  Why we go to work, filling our days with other people's stress and deadlines when life is so short and there are so many things that we forget to treasure in the freneticism of each day.

7 years ago Ninesh and I gave up our jobs, bought a battered old campervan, took the children out of school, rented out of the house and spent 6 months travelling around Europe. It was the best and bravest thing we have ever done.  We saw amazing sights: chased dolphins, climbed to the top of a volcano, rescued a hedgehog from the bottom of a cattle grid, sat on the Rialto in Venice, watched wild Flamenco dancing in Spain, let the Atlantic waves wash over us in Portugal, saw bright pink flamingos bathing in volcanic pools in Sardinia and tasted bread made from chestnuts in Corsica. We climbed the Eiffel Tower, looked at the Leaning Tower of Pisa and paced the pavements of Las Ramblas. Joss learnt to swim, Mia fell in love with tortoises.  The kids played " tourtist information," at every campsite. Each day was an adventure, a blank page waiting to be turned.  But the most amazing thing was spending 6 months being a family. We had no deadlines, no appointments to make or meetings to plan for. Nobody judged us on what we had  achieved or inspected the impact of our actions. We were free just to be. Two adults, two young children and a world reaching to the horizon, waiting to be explored. 

Coming back was hard.  Reality really did bite although the kids were very excited to see our house. 
" Look Mia," shouted Joss, " our stairs!" 
" Look Joss," shouted Mia " our plates. They're just the same!"
And it made our hearts sink, Ninesh and mine, because they were right everything was just the same.  We tried to cling on to the sense of awe and wonder of our travels.  We tried to hold onto to the sense of timelessness and  the belief that each day belonged to you. We tried to remember how it felt to be just us,  travelling like a tiny family island through the world.  But life always intrudes in the end.  Ninesh and I found new jobs, Mia and Joss went back to school and started growing up without us.  
But we didn't sell our van.  
We still have it parked outside our house. 
 Waiting. 
Reminding us of a time when each day was a big adventure and that Monday morning feeling was a distant memory.