The tragedy of data addiction

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

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

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

No, wait…... 
That's the real world.

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

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

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

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

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

The heart-warming coincidence of friendship

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

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

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

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

Butlins, Bognor, bumper cars and that cousin-thing

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

Cousins hippying it up at the Greenman Festival

Cousins hanging out in our living room

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

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

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

Fireman Sam at Butlins, Bognor

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

2p slot machines:

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

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

Life with a twist of homegrown lime and stolen oranges

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

Study of a lime in front of a chair

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

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

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

THE STOLEN ORANGE 

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

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

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

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

Brian Patten

Soggy devotion

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

All Hallows, Somerset

The view from the rugby pitch

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

Jimmy Carr, racism and the rudeness factor

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

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

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

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

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

Out of the Arsenal closet

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

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

Emirates Stadium, where the grass is always greener

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

The most popular back in Arsenal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Days off are too rare and too precious. 

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

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

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

It's about sharing a passion.

It's about having something to believe in. 

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

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

It's about never giving up hope.

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

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

" never walk alone."

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

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

Sweet Sixteen

Our daughter, Mia, turned 16 this week.
The celebrations flowed through the evening, her and her friends filling the house with giggling and instagram induced gasps.
And I spent the evening wondering if 16 years seems like forever or no time at all.
" It definitely feels as though she has been around for 16 years,' said Ninesh, "A bit longer actually."
And in lots of ways, he's right. As soon as your children arrive to unbalance your life, it is hard to remember a time when they weren't there crying and laughing and moaning and generally causing mayhem
As a parent your life is definitely divided into 2 parts: BC and AC- before children and after children. And however fulfilled the AC days make you feel, there are days when you just miss the freedom of the BC days.
And one of the strangest things about becoming a parent, is the effect it has on Time. 
The first few years are spent in a state of such complete exhaustion with so many sleepless nights and pre-dawn mornings that it is often hard to believe only a day and not a year,  has passed between waking up and going to bed. But now, looking back over the first 16 years of Mia's life, parts of it seem to have passed so quickly that it is hard to believe they are over.  Where did her years at primary school go?. This time next year she will be in the sixth form and won't have to wear school uniform.  But I'm sure it was only a few weeks ago I was buying her first school skirt and sweatshirt! 
All those nights I spent rocking the tiny bundle to sleep in my arms and now she has to bend down so that I can kiss her goodnight.
I am sure that time doesn't pass in regular intervals, but passes instead in intermittent spurts, like a fan that has been unevenly folded, sometimes with creases so close together that it feels you barely stop to breathe and sometimes with big, smooth gaps where life has no folds at all and memories are vague.
Once, when my brother and sister and I were on holiday with our grandma, Omi, a little boy came into our room.
" Hello," he said, " my name is Robert Lynch. I'm 4 and I was born when I was 3."
And now, all these years later, I understand exactly what he meant!

On the day she was born, Mia didn't sleep at all. 
She lay still next to me, her big, almost- black eyes, drinking in the newness of the world around her. 
And watching her, willing the world to be kind , NInesh and I realised that our lives had  just been shaken to the core. 
No more lie-ins ( or not for years!), no more responsibility-free drunken nights, only responsibility-ful ones. and no chance of ever, for the rest of our lives, putting ourselves first.
And 16 years (that sometimes seem like longer) later, was it worth it?
Of course it was.
The truth is, Mia and Joss make our lives worth living (except when they fight with me about breakfast, fight with Ninesh about chores and fight with each other about nothing). 
And it is impossible to imagine our lives without them.
It's a long time since we've missed our BC life. 
So Happy 16th Birthday Mia. 
We wrapped your presents in flowery paper and dreams.  
I hope they all come true.

Weddings, Currywurst and Headless Photos

We have just spent a weekend in Germany celebrating the wedding of 2 of our good friends.
It was the second marriage for both but watching them at the church and the wedding party afterwards ( and it truly was a party- complete with currywurst und pommels at 2 a.m.) it was impossible to believe that either of them could have been so happy with anyone else. It was one of those truly romantic stories where after many years without seeing each other, and without the help of the internet or friends reunited, two lost souls found each other again wandering through a street market in Germany.
Perhaps it was meant to be, perhaps it was just one of life's happier coincidences. But whether you are a believer in destiny or just someone who dares to dream of " happy-ever-afters," last Saturday, in front of 140 friends they made their love for each other official and celebrated in true German style!

And it made me wonder about weddings. 
Over the years we have been to lots of different weddings in lots of different countries.  Some religious, some not, some big and some small, some smart and some casual.
The average cost for a wedding in England is £22,000, in America $28,000.
That seems like an unholy amount of money for something that is simply meant to be a public declaration of ( hopefully) everlasting love between two people.
Sometimes it feels as though there is a new disease called weddingitis when, as soon as a couple get engaged, their wedding becomes the only thing that matters.
 Everything at their wedding must be better than everything at any wedding they have ever been to. The bride's dress must be more beautiful, the setting more perfect, the food more delicious.
And in the middle of all the weddingitis madness, it is easy to forget that the reason for it all is that two people have fallen in love and want to make a commitment to each other.
Perhaps I am biased.
When Ninesh and I got married we were living in America and simply flew to New York, booked an appointment at City Hall and asked one of our friends, Rich, living in New York at the time, to be our witness. 
We spent the night before in a gay bar where all the men tried to convince Ninesh that he was making the biggest mistake of his life marrying a woman. 
We woke up so late the next day that we missed our wedding slot and had to run to make it to City Hall before it closed.  

The whole ceremony took 2 minutes and when Rich took our picture on the steps of city hall with a borrowed instamatic, he forgot to include our heads!
Perhaps we just don't know what we missed out on, Ninesh and I, but just because it was private didn't stop it being important. In the end the promise we made to each other in front of Rich and a Justice of the Peace, was the same as the promise we would have made in front of friends and family.
I guess, in the end, like everything else, the way you get married is a lifestyle choice

The worrying thing about weddingitis though, is the speed at which it consumes the body and mind of all involved. Its symptons of unending wedding talk and obsessive wedding planning are untreatable. 
 And in the middle of weddingitis fever, it is easy to forget weddings always have  one long term side-effect: marriage 
But the truth is, it is never the wedding itself that I remember.
 It's not the venue or the cut of the bride's dress or the taste of the food.  
What I remember is the look in the groom's eye or the tremor in the bride's voice.  
What I remember is the laughter of friends and the sense that for just one night, we have shared in the warmth of someone else's dreams.
When the party is over and the dress packed away, all you are left with is two people who have made a life-long commitment to each other and are standing at the beginning of a journey they have promised to share. 
And however big or small the wedding, all you wish for them, is that their adventure will bring them happiness.
While a marriage is a private commitment, a promise between 2 people to stay together for better or worse, a wedding is a way of making that promise  public by sharing it with the people you care about the most.
Or then again, perhaps it's just the best excuse ever for a party and eating currywurst at 2 a.m.

Losing the fun-factor and bald-headed dads

It's too early to be up on a Sunday morning.  
I don't have a baby that has woken me up.
I'm not just coming back from an all night party- ( Mia and Joss always look slightly horrified that I could ever have been that young ! )
I haven't even been for an early morning run.
NO, I'm up this early on a should-be lazy Sunday morning because I have to go to work later and there's stuff I need to get ready.
So far I've cooked an enormous saucepanful of bright red spaghetti

 And made about a ton of blue play dough.

Not really hard, demanding or time-consuming jobs!
Mostly, when I tell people what I do, they look at me incredulously and say, 
"what, you mean you get paid to just, like, play with children and, you know, chat to their parents. Wow, I wish I had your job."
And in lots of ways it's true.
Except that years of playing with children take their toll.
And nothing is more exhausting than having fun all the time!
And I'm sitting here, listening to the rain pattering on the roof, watching the blanket of grey cloud moving slowly across the " was blue," sky, wondering what part of today's "Fun Day in the park," will be the most fun.
The getting intermittently soaked to the skin, the setting up and clearing away, the constantly reminding parents that we are not there to play with their children for them but to provide activities so that they can play with them. "
But it never really works.
" Oh," they say, " our kids love getting messy.  So glad that you do it, so we don't have to."
And I will be sitting there, on a Sunday afternoon playing with other people's children thinking about how my own children are at home without me..  
And even though they are teenagers and no longer like messy play ( however red the spaghetti ) I know that they still like it when I'm home. 
Who else can they shout at when they haven't done their homework or demand help from when they  can't find their make-up or hair gel. 
And the truth is, sad as it sounds, staying at home with Ninesh and the kids is my idea of fun these days.
Perhaps it's because I know the kids will soon be searching for their fun on further far from our living room.  
Perhaps it's because I spend so many weekends and evenings working that what I used to call relaxing, I now call fun.
Or perhaps it's just that I'm getting too old for the  real-deal, jumping in feet-first, truly infectious fun-factor.  
Give me an afternoon with a good book and a long walk on the beach any day.
I'm thinking about asking our tortoise  if he would consider a life-swap.

The other day my friend's 4 year old daughter was having an argument with her dad upstairs in her bedroom. After a little bit of shouting and grumpiness on both sides, she turned to him, sighed and said:
" It's ok dad, you can go downstairs now.  And take your bald head with you!"

Holding onto the dream

50 years after his death, it is still hard not to be moved by Martin Luther King's  " I have a dream," speech.
I listened to it on the radio this week, different parts of it read by different people.

Famous human rights activists,  famous politicians, nobel prize winners, poets,  popstars.
They came from all over the world, the readers, chosen because each of them has played a part in trying to make King's dream come true.
 But the voice that moved me the most was that of a mum: Doreen Lawrence, mother of Stephen Lawrence, murdered 20 years ago in South East London 
He was 18 years old, waiting for a bus, killed in a racist attack.

Stephen Lawrence

Since then his mum's voice has become familiar as a campaigner for justice and equality.
But in the end, she is a mum, who has lost her son because of the colour of his skin in a world that was meant to be colour-blind.
50 years on we are still struggling with Martin Luther King's dream.
50 years on every day, people are killed or injured because of their race or their religion or their gender.
50 years on- all over the world, ethnic groups battle to gain power and authority over each other.
50 years on if you are from an ethnic minority, you are still less likely to succeed and more likely to live in poverty or be in prison.
50 years on one man's dream has not been enough to change human nature.

It is not that nothing has changed.  
We have come a long, long way from segregation and apartheid.
Walking through the streets of London or New York, melting pots of culture and ethnic diversity.
Hopeful, that what matters now is not the colour of your skin nor your religious beliefs.
but that what matters now is who you are and what you bring to the world.
And it's ok that everyone looks different and speaks different languages and wears different clothes.
It's ok that everyone believes different things and dreams different dreams and hopes different hopes.
What's not ok is to believe that you are right and everyone else is wrong or that the colour of your skin makes you more important than or superior to someone with a different coloured skin.
" I'm worried that my 4 year old daughter is racist ," one of my friends said to me the other day." She always points at people with different coloured skin and says,"look they have brown skin," or" look, their skin is black."
" It's just a description," I say, comfortingly, "she's telling you what she sees. Just like she will tell you that a  flower is purple or a bus is red."
For a while my friend is silent.
" It's not just that," she says at last, " sometimes she says -they have black skin and that makes them ugly. Or they have brown skin, they don't come from our country. She's only 4. Where can she have heard that? Do you think racism can be innate? Do you think children can be born racist?"
 I  laugh and shake my head.
" I don't believe children can be born with  pre-conditioned prejudice," I say. "Their entrance into a cold, un-umbiblical chorded world must be shocking enough, without having to take on a whole new value system as they exit the uterus.  Prejudice is definitely something we  learn."
" But who has taught it to her?" sighs my friend, tears stinging her eyes " you know it isn't us."
"I know it isn't," I say, hugging her.
But inside my heart is sinking.
I don't believe that racism is innate, but I do believe it can be heard and learnt so early in our lives from friends or family or peers that, without knowing how, it becomes an integral part of what we believe.
And that is why, 50 years on, Martin Luther King's words still drift unanchored and unfulfilled through our imperfect world.
Because for his dream to come true it must be shared by everyone, everywhere, all the time.
Dreams do not come true while we sleep but only through what we do while we are awake. 
Doreen Lawrence showed us that when she turned her tears of loss into words of passion Nelson Mandela showed us that when he turned years of imprisonment into the end of apartheid.
Malala Yousafzai showed us that when she turned a bullet in the head into a fight for equality.

Malala Yousafzai

And I know I'm not as brave as they are.
And I know that what I do will never make the difference they have.
But I will always, always , always have a dream.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-23855375