The importance of holiday dreaming

I am sitting here enjoying the early morning peace that comes with holidays and sleeping teenagers.  
No groaning about having to get up so early.
No last minute searches for PE kits that should have been washed.
No panicked realisation that there is forgotten-about homework to hand in today.
No battles over uneaten breakfasts.
No packed lunches to prepare.
No reproachful rushing out of the door with cries of " I'm late now. Why didn't you wake me up earlier!"

Holidays are great.

Not just school holidays but all holidays. 
And not only if you are lucky enough to spend them on sunny beaches or in exotic countries.  
What's special about holidays is that your days belong to you. 
 They are not defined by lessons or meetings or deadlines. Instead they are filled with the things that are really important in life: relaxing, laughter, friends and of course, Facebook, Twitter and re-watching sit coms. 
Like islands surrounded by weeks, holidays are what we are always sailing towards.  
The thought of being away from work or school is what keeps us going. 
Even if it is simply  staying with friends for a few days, or relaxing at home.
 The break from routine helps us re-charge our batteries, reclaim our lives and put things in perspective.
When we lived in America, I was horrified by how little " vacation," people were allowed to take.  
Working life there does not begin with a certain number of vacation days already allotted.  Instead you have to earn them: a day a month.
 If you work for 6 months you get 6 days holiday and if you use them all up on a six day vacation, you start again from zero.
 The trouble with that is (or the benefit if you are an employer ) the longer you work, the more holiday you accrue, so better to just keep working and save the vacation time. 
And in the end work becomes what is safe and familiar.
 People start to believe that they are indispensable, that if they take a holiday everything will fall apart.  
The thought of taking a vacation becomes more stressful than the thought of staying at work.  
And so holidays are put on hold, days off spent in the office.
 Enjoying life with your family becomes something you wait to do when you are retired - if your family is still together and remembers who you are by then. 
When we moved from sunny, work-driven California to the lush green pastures of family-centred Switzerland, the change in work ethos was extraordinary. 

Swiss pastures

People begin their working life with 5 weeks holiday and if you are still at work at 5.35 pm, your boss asks you if you have a home to go to or if you are experiencing family problems. 
On bank holidays and Sundays offices and shops are closed completely. The only places open in town are cafes -  packed with families and friends and laughter. 
And everyone, everyone takes all their annual leave. 
The strange thing is that the work still gets done. the deadlines are still met and Switzerland, for all its natural beauty, is a famous international business centre.

Switzerland-interanational business centre.

The hardest thing to do in life is prioritise.  
There is always a reason to believe that what you are doing now is more important than what you should be doing next. 
But if you never take a break, never take time out to re-assess, relax and re-charge, how will you ever know what is truly important - even if it is just the peace of early morning and the knowledge that the rest of the day belongs to you.


    Leisure by W H Davies

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 if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

Brighton-ing up the weekend with friends

Ninesh and I have just come back from a weekend away in Brighton.
We were with friends from our student days.  
Friends who we have known for so long that our lives have become interwoven, held together by the threads of warm memories, shared dreams, dashed hopes, drunken evenings and the simple pleasure of each other's company.

When we first met, the 6 of us,  we were all young, free and single.  More than two decades later we are middle-aged, tied down and coupled. 
We have swapped gossip about last night's party and which pub to meet up in later, for talk about our children's GCSE options and our plans for retirement.
But there is something about Brighton that helps you to forget all that. 
Something about wandering along the sea front, browsing The Laines, watching through coffee shop windows or from cocktail bars as musicians, transvestites, old hippy dreamers and young trendy would-be-ers pass by.
 Something about it's bohemian vibrancy and colourful energy that pulls you in. 
You never know what street performers or artists you will bump into round the corner.

 Or what every day object or body part will suddenly become a work of art. 
Wandering through a tiny alleyway, we came across Jamie McCartney's body casting shop. There is not a single part of the body he won't cast for you. 
In the window he has a panel from his installation: " The Great Wall of Vagina." 

Some of The Great Wall of Vagina

It made us women blanche and our men pull out their cameras, while we chatted to the friendly artist, who almost convinced us that a group casting would make the perfect family Christmas present. ( You can even have it as a mug! )
" You'd be amazed how many people get it done," he said. 
" Are they waxed?" we asked, voices quavering.
" Mostly," he said, sipping thoughtfully from his mug of tea " but not always." 
That was enough for us. 
 We left the men chatting and went shopping. 
Consumer therapy and a bar of Montezuma chocolate is what you need when you feel faint! 
And that's Brighton. 
Even when it tries to shock you, it's done with a friendly chat over a cup of tea.  Everything is acceptable and nothing is impossible. 
And after a while you begin to believe it too. 
As the weekend wore on, we stopped talking about our children's exams or the woes of work or the daily grind that defines our lives.  
Instead we talked about the dream houses we would one day live in, the canal barges we would buy, the camper vans we would go travelling in.
 Because slowly, very slowly we realised that while we no longer believe we can change the world, there is, at least, still time for some of our dreams to come true.
As we sat over our very last cup of coffee together, we planned where we would meet up next year. London, Birmingham, Liverpool- but I have a feeling, it just might be Brighton.

Brighton Beach and the disappearing old pier

Street Partying

There's something about a street party that breathes life back into a community. 
Last year the country was full of them. Streets closed and lined with tables piled high with cakes and sandwiches getting soggier and soggier in the torrential rain that marked the Queen's diamond jubilee.

 Yet despite the rain, everyone who went to a street party will  tell you that it was the best day of the year.
One of my friend's at work told me that when they had their street party, one of their oldest residents came. He spent most of his days by himself and didn't really know anyone in their close.  But he motored around the party on his mobility scooter, balancing a beer on the handlebars.  And at the end of the evening, he wheeled his way home grinning, telling his newly familiar neighbours it had been the best day of his life.
He died a week later, not lonely and forgotten but part of a community.
I'm not sure why it is that, as a nation, we seem to spend very little time getting to know our neighbours
Perhaps it's because of the weather. 
When it's cold and wet, it's easier to stay inside huddled around the television than to brave the elements and pop next door.
Perhaps it's because none of us stay in one place anymore.  
In the past, generations of families would live on the same street, parents, grandparents and great-grandparents all living next door to each other with the grand children and great-grandchildren constantly drifting through the always open doors. Your street and local community were based around your family.
Perhaps it's because we are all so busy balancing work and family, living such hectic lives that there is not enough time and it is just too tiring to make the effort.
Perhaps it's because computer games and on-demand television can keep children entertained for hour upon hour,  without needing to find peers on their street to play with.
Making time to meet neighbours who you know nothing about, who might come from a different country, a different culture, a different generation, is not easy. 
But it's definitely worth the effort.
And street parties make it much easier because, you suddenly have something in common: a  shared memory.  
And shared memories are often the place where friendship begins.   

Like many other roads, we had a street party last year, full of Union Jacks and snail races and drunken half-renditions of God Save the Queen. It was only a few hours,  but in that afternoon we stopped being just a street and became a community.
Our road is not a long road.  It has about a hundred houses. We have lived here for most of the past 13 years and yet, last year, I met people I didn't recognise. 
This year we knew almost everyone.
The Diamond Jubilee was a good excuse to close the road and dance on the street. 
This year we didn't have an excuse or a reason.  When people asked why we were having another street party, the only thing we could think to say was: "Why not?"  
And that seemed to be reason enough for everyone.

So on last week's sunny, blue-skied May Day Bank Holiday, we put up official "Road Closed," signs,  emptied the street of cars ( the hardest part, but in the end there was only one left ) set up covered tables down the middle of the road, put an urn in the front garden, a cool box full of beer on the pavement, speakers in our neighbour's garden .....and waited.

                                And gradually the tables filled with delicious food.

                                And the road filled with people. Old....

                                 
                                  and young....

                                   
                                    and teenagers ...

                            

                                 and everybody in-between.

  

And instead of cars accelerating up the road, all you could hear was music and chatter and laughter. The kids - big and little -covered the street with chalked pictures, glue and play dough.  And while the" street seniors," helped us judge our newly traditional May Day hat competition, teenagers lounged on chairs and secretly sipped Pimms, while people from opposite ends of the street met and smiled and became friends.

And when, at 8 pm we had to take away the " Road Closed," signs, no one wanted the party to end. So we moved it onto the pavement.
And children didn't go to bed and neighbours didn't stop talking and cars driving up the road again, didn't stop us feeling that old and young and in-between, we were all part of this place.  And small as our road is, we all belonged to it. 
And that sense of belonging leaves you feeling warm inside, long after the sun has gone down.

It's a simple thing, a street party.  
But it made me wonder.
Wonder what would happen if we all spent more time getting to know each other.
Wonder what would happen if we all felt part of a community, even a community as small as a street.
Wonder what would happen if, instead of building walls between ourselves and our  neighbours,we built bridges.
We live such scattered, isolated, separate lives that it is easy to forget how important it is to sit and talk and laugh. And maybe even dance.....


  

The terrible UKIP triumph - we are all to blame

Today is not a good day to be British.
The shocking United Kingdom Indpendent Party result from Thursday's local elections should have left us all reeling.
The complete apathy of the more than 60% of our voting population who stayed at home  should make us all feel ashamed.
The complete lack of belief in the trustworthiness of MPs or in their ability to represent and truly understand the views of the people, should make Whitehall wince.
And the fact that a quarter of the people who did vote, voted for a nationalistic, racist, policy-less party, should be a wake-up call to everyone.
But the truth is, no one cares.  
If they did, they would have voted. 
Instead poling stations were empty, ballot boxes left unfilled and a minority party was able to win the day.

Our local poling station most of the day, 2nd May 2013

For the first time, I am pleased that we don't have proportional representation because if we did, our local government would now be led by Nigel Farage and his crazy UKIP gang. 

Nigel Farage

And that would be a day to dread.

And it is not ok to say you didn't vote because none of the politicians have anything to say to you.  

And it is wrong to say you stayed at home because your vote wouldn't have made a difference anyway. 

Every vote makes a difference, even if it is just to protest.

Your vote is your political voice. If you can't be bothered to speak, don't expect anyone to listen.
In the constituencies where the most people voted ( still only 39%)  UKIP did worst.
If more people had voted in the places where UKIP did best, the result could have been different. 
Your vote could have been that difference.
Edmund Burke once said:

" The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."


And on May 2nd 2013, too many good men and women in Britain, did nothing.

1 million people vote for the X Factor.
Why do people believe their vote can make a difference on a TV show and not in an election?.
The simple truth is that we care more about who will be the next big celebrity star, than  what is happening to our country.
Today is a sad day to be British.
And it is easy to blame the politicians, the system, the weather, the day. 
Much easier than it is to blame ourselves. . 
There is much that is unfair and wrong in Britain today. But we live in a democracy. 
And as voters we have the power, it is up to us to use it.
I know It is easy to be melodramatic about Thursday's result. And it is too easy to define UKIP as a purely racist party.  But it is a platform for racist views and it is frightening.
When our mixed race 15 year old daughter heard the local election results on Friday, she turned to me, her deep brown eyes full of panic.
" I'm frightened mum,: she said, " Are they going to throw us out of our country?" 
And I know it doesn't and I hugged her tight and told her so.
But somewhere, deep inside, I'm frightened too.
Because a seed has been planted and it doesn't need much for roots to take hold.

First they came for the Jews and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for the Communists and I did not speak out because I was not a Communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak out for me.

 Martin Niemöller

When they do come, let's hope we are not all too busy sitting at home, watching "The X Factor," to notice.

Burning away the birthday blues

The thing about birthdays is, the older you get, the less you look forward to them! 
Instead of being something to celebrate, they become a symbol of time passing.
 A reminder that another year has gone by and you still haven't written your masterpiece, saved the planet or even kept your house tidy. 
Another year has gone by and mostly everything is exactly the same and somehow that's a bit disappointing!

At work I watch kids bursting through the door when it's their birthday. They are so excited that walking through the day is impossible, they have to run or skip or shout through it.
Mostly they have been telling you for months, in loud whispers, that it is their birthday tomorrow.  Because when you are 3 or 4, tomorrow is the rest of your life and the rest of your life is exploding with potential and unexplored dreams.  
And I wonder when it is, that we lose that sense of uncontainable excitement, lose the belief that tomorrow will always be better than today, stop believing that all things are possible. 
Birthdays do that to you when you are little.  
For a whole day you truly are the centre of the universe.
  Presents are poured upon you,  you have a party where all your friends are there just because of you and a cake with candles that only you can  blow out ( although your friends will always try!)

A cake made for Joss when we celebrated his birthday in Portugal

When you are little, birthdays confirm everything that you have always believed about the world: you are at it's centre.
And even as you get older, there is still something magical about birthdays.
 The mystery of unwrapped gifts, the planning of how to celebrate, the angst of what to wear. 
As a teenager, each birthday is a step towards adulthood, an excuse to celebrate and party and ask for  the latest phone as a present.
And even as you take your first steps into adulthood, there is usually something special about birthdays, proving to yourself how your life has moved on, how in just a year you have achieved so much or so much has changed. 
And then you hit 40.  
And after that you lose count and the years blend together.
And it is hard to believe that another year has passed!
 And instead of making you feel excited, birthdays make you feel blue.
Usually I hibernate for the day.
But this year my birthday was on the weekend and it seemed wrong to do nothing. 
And something has changed this year. 
We have built a fire-pit in our garden.

So on Saturday night, we invited friends to sit round our fire.
Not a party, not really a celebration, just an evening sharing food and drink and laughter with friends. 
And I was lucky, because throughout the day, long-ago friends phoned to wish me happy birthday.  
And even though it's a very long time since I believed that I was the centre of the universe, for just a day, I did feel special.
And the fire blazed and the conversation bubbled and as I sat staring into the flames, I realised that there truly is no greater gift than friendship ( cliched,-can't do accents!- I know, but true ).
And that perhaps birthdays aren't so bad after all. 
Perhaps you don't have to see them as marking the passage of time but simply as a way to celebrate all that you have. 
And who knows, perhaps this really will be the year when all our dreams  come true!

Mrs Thatcher and the love-to-hate hole

There has been so much talk of Maggie Thatcher in the last few weeks. that it is hard to believe there is anything more to say.  
In England, until the bombings in Boston, there has been no other news.  
A few more Afghanis dead, so what! 
Problems growing in Syria- that's not us.
But Mrs Thatcher's funeral- now that is news! 10 million pounds worth of news apparently.

It's hard though, not to get caught up in the memories. 
The truth is, any child growing up in the Thatcher era, remembers her. She changed the whole education system, she destroyed whole communities in the North, she de-socialised council houses, she didn't seem to care about the poor and she loved the rich.  But before all of that, before she even became Prime minister:

SHE SNATCHED OUR MILK!

I remember those bottles of luke warm milk at school. Every morning we would have to drink them.  Pushing a straw through the silver top and through the layer of coagulated fat that had formed while they stood in the playground. We had to sip the grey, watery milk until it was all gone.  We were jealous of the lucky kids whose parents had written notes saying they didn't have to drink it. We would plan ways of tipping it down the drain without being caught.  
We hated the stuff.  
But the day that Maggie Thatcher, Minister for Education,  took it away from us, we hated her more!
And that was the thing about Maggie Thatcher:

We all loved to hate her. 

There are few things that can unite a classroom.  From the moment you walk through the door you become part of a group: the trendy group, the boring group, the annoying group, the-not-sure-where- I-belong-but-there-must-be-more-to-life-than-this group. 
But where Mrs Thatcher was concerned, there was no division.  
We all hated her.
We stood together on the place in the playground where the milk crates used to stand and chanted in unison:
 " Mrs Thatcher, Mrs Thatcher milk snatcher."
And we knew we were right.
Because that's what Maggie Thatcher did: she made it easy to know what was right and what was wrong.  
Obviously, Mrs Thatcher was evil. Everything she did was evil. 
Therefore everything everyone else did was good and right.
Life was black and white.
And it was such a relief. 

In the grey wishy-washiness of politics today, it is hard to know what to believe.  There is little to differentiate between the policies of the different political parties.
 A vote for one could just as easily be a vote for another.  
So why bother!

I remember the day when Mrs Thatcher resigned. 
November 22nd 1990. 
I was living in Providence, Rhode Island and was woken by a phone call from some American friends living in a tiny town called Tiverton, a little bit further down the coast.
"Becky," said my friend, " your Thanksgiving has come early. Mrs Thatcher has resigned.   Do you want to come over to celebrate?"
And we did celebrate, in true American style with donuts and coffee. And later with Tequila shots.
 But I can't help wondering what would happen if I was living so far from home today.
If David Cameron resigned, would anyone actually notice? Would people living in Tiverton, Rhode Island even know who he was?
And that is Thatcher's legacy.
She has left us with a big " love-to-hate," hole.
There is no one left in politics who we care about enough to hate.
Mrs Thatcher did terrible, terrible things but she had a vision. 
And if her vision was opposed to yours, she forced you to act, to do something about it, to stand up and fight.
Today it is hard to trust our politicians, hard to believe anything they have to say. They are so busy pleasing the media, worrying about their image, being popular, not offending anyone, that it is hard to know what they really have to say.
They themselves don't seem to believe there is anything worth fighting for.
So how are we, the voters meant to care?
When Mrs Thatcher resigned, she seemed to have lost all grasp on reality. She seemed to believe that she was a god, that she alone could change the world, ignoring all advice, uncaring about the misery she was causing.
It was time for her to leave.
But when she stepped down, she took our hatred and our motivation and our passion with her.
And I am still waiting.
Waiting to find someone I truly love to hate.
Waiting to find someone who will re-snatch our milk!

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.