There's something about the words " tax return," that turn my heart to stone and cause the life to seep from my soul
Words like capital gains allowance float incomprehensibly in front of my eyes and I try desperately to cling onto their meaning.
Ninesh sits patiently by my side, trying to control his frustration.
" What do you mean, you didn't keep the receipt for that?," he says.
"it's not that I didn't keep it," I say defensively, " it's just that I don't know where it is."
Every year, as April 5th arrives, I vow that this year will be the year I start filling in my tax return early, saving everything in an orderly way, remembering how much you can claim per mile, knowing exactly how much the mortgage interest was.
Every year I make that vow.
And every year it gets to January 20th, with 11 days to go before my return must be filed and I haven't even started.
I'm not sure why.
Once you start filling it in, it's never as bad as you think it's going to be.
Especially now that you can do it virtually, on line and there's that reassuring percentage marker across the top showing you exactly how much of your form you have completed.
It's amazingly comforting.
" Yay," I shout triumphantly, "1% complete."
Which means I've filled in my name and address.
I know it's churlish, this resistance to filling in a form, to adding and multiplying and percentaging, to totalling up my last year's life and slicing off a third.
But with every fibre of my being, I fight the moment when I have to sit down and do it.
I think maybe I struggle with the concept that parts of your life have to be defined purely by their monetary value.
Our flat in London, the lovely flat I used to live in, right in the heart of London next to the canal where I was woken every morning by the quacking of ducks, becomes a taxable asset with allowable expenditure.
The stories that I sit and write dreamily in the shed and living room, become a loss making business.
The long hours that I work at the Children's Centre, optimistically believing that they might really make a difference, are reduced to nothing more than a disappointing income.
And I can't help finding it all depressing.
I can't stop myself from believing that what you do, should be so much greater than a balance between profit and loss.
Life should mean so much more than the gap between taxable assets and disposable income.
I fill in my National Insurance Number and the details of my employer- 8% complete.
I'm making progress.
Most of the things we do, can't be quantified or valued: the cleaning, the smiling, the listening, the dreaming.
Yet those untaxable, non- profit making moments are what define us
I hate to see everything I have done over the last year divided up into sections and fitted into tickable boxes.
I like to believe I'm so much too mysterious and enigmatic to fit into a box
!
Self-employment done- 47% complete.
But if I am honest, there is a simpler reason why I spend so much time resisting filling in my tax return.
The truth is, it highlights my lack of organisation and the chaotic way I think and live.
Those are not things to be proud of.
If I had kept all my receipts in the same place, if I could remember where I had put my P60, if I had put all my invoices in the right file on my computer, then filling in a tax return would be easy.
But I haven't done any of that, so filling in my tax return highlights my failings- and that's never a nice thing to see on paper.
All the sections are done, 90% complete.
All that's left to do is to submit and pay.
Then it will be 100% complete.
The pain over for another year.
But somehow, even that seems wrong.
Recently my mum and dad were on holiday in the Canary Islands.
As my dad struggled to lift his foot onto the curb, leaning on his stick, a voice behind him asked if he needed help.
Dad declined and the owner of the voice, an elderly German man, walked past him and stood in front of him, waiting patiently.
" It's over for us," he said to my dad sympathetically as he finally made it onto the curb.
Taken aback, dad thought for a minute and said:
" But I still eat a lot! "
And he's right.
The world is full of delicious food, still waiting to be eaten.
Until we breathe our last breath, nothing is over, nothing in life should be 100% complete.
Not even a tax return.
With my finger hovering over the "pay now," button, I watch the percentage marker: 97% complete.
For a moment I let my chaotic thoughts wander into 2014, a new year, still only 0.83% complete. I imagine it full of hopes and dreams and laughter and love ( I only ever imagine the good parts ) and all that untaxable potential gives me strength.
My resistance melts, I press the button.
My taxes are returned for another year.
My future is 0% complete.
Sunday, 26 January 2014
Tuesday, 14 January 2014
That mother-son thing
One of the hardest things about being a mum, is the day you wake up and your son has outgrown you.
I don't mean that he's suddenly taller than you ( although that happens too ) but that he suddenly feels that it's no longer cool to be seen anywhere in public with his mum.
No more shopping together for his clothes - " you always choose ugly things! "
No more meeting in town for a milkshake- " I'm meeting my friends! "
No more sitting together at the cinema- " why would I want to see that film with you? "
No more family days on the beach- " there's a whole group of us going later."
And if you do pass him in the street with his friends, you must absolutely not ever wave or show that you recognise him- " why did you do that mum? You're so embarrassing."
It's not that daughters don't do it too. It's just that their desire to be independent and free themselves from parental control doesn't seem to need such a complete disconnect.
Often our daughter will still let me meet her in town for a coffee ( if I'm paying ) or to go shopping ( if I'm paying ) and she will even still sit next to me at the cinema ( if I'm paying ).
Girls seem to be able to mix family and friends more easily than boys.
And the hard thing with boys, is the suddenness with which it all happens.
Boys seem to lurch up the hill of adolescence in zig-zagging, unpredictable strides, while girls take it more slowly and long-sufferingly.
Our son, Joss, seemed to go to bed one night a sweet little boy, still wanting a goodnight kiss and a bedtime story, and woke up the next morning a grunting teenager.
As his mum, I found the speed at which it happened confusing and complicated and
(dare I say it ) just a little bit sad.
Overnight I had to rethink a relationship that had been based on that special " mother-son thing,":
knowing the things that made him grumpy,
understanding, without words, when he was tired or hungry or out of his comfort zone, knowing when he just needed a hug or a few words of encouragement.
All of that was gone.
It felt as though during the night an alien had landed in my son's body and it was making him speak a language that I couldn't understand.
Whatever I said was wrong.
However I said it was irritating.
Whatever I wanted to know was none of my business.
" What would you like for breakfast?" " Not hungry.
" What time will you be back?" " Why?"
" Will you be home for lunch?" " Dunno."
" You should wear a coat, it's freezing." " It's not. Stop talking so much."
Ninesh, his dad, seemed completely unphased by the sudden change.
He seemed almost relieved that someone in the house was, at last, speaking his language.
No more having to analyse emotions and discuss for hours how to deal with a situation.
" Leave him alone," he'd say, " he's told you he's not hungry." " If he gets cold, that's his problem."
And I know he's right.
But silently watching your son walking away from you is very hard.
Accepting that he will no longer be the little boy, holding your hand as he skips along the pavement next to me, is hard.
To keep him close, I have had to learn a different way of being.
I have had to learn to bite my tongue, to listen not speak, to wait until information is offered rather than to request it, to cross the road when I see him and his friends in town, to interpret grunts, to keep the fridge full, to let him get cold and wet, to trust this stranger that is my son.
Finding things that we can do together, has been hard.
He can go to football matches with his dad.
He can discuss fashion and music with his sister.
He has little in common with me.
But last weekend we flew together to Berlin, taking his cousin, Toby, with us.
And perhaps because it is rare that we spend so much time together, perhaps because I have learnt to value moments that we share, we had a magical time.
We stayed with my cousin, surprised her son for his 10th birthday, go-karted at his party (not me!) cycled around the Brandenburg Gate on a six-seater bike (including me) and ate Bratwurst in the " Mauerpark," drifting across the no man's land of old East-West days.
And as we sat in the plane on the way home, Joss leant his head on my shoulder and fell asleep.
Very gently, I leant my head against his.
And for just a moment, he was skipping along the pavement next to me, holding my hand.
I don't mean that he's suddenly taller than you ( although that happens too ) but that he suddenly feels that it's no longer cool to be seen anywhere in public with his mum.
No more shopping together for his clothes - " you always choose ugly things! "
No more meeting in town for a milkshake- " I'm meeting my friends! "
No more sitting together at the cinema- " why would I want to see that film with you? "
No more family days on the beach- " there's a whole group of us going later."
And if you do pass him in the street with his friends, you must absolutely not ever wave or show that you recognise him- " why did you do that mum? You're so embarrassing."
It's not that daughters don't do it too. It's just that their desire to be independent and free themselves from parental control doesn't seem to need such a complete disconnect.
Often our daughter will still let me meet her in town for a coffee ( if I'm paying ) or to go shopping ( if I'm paying ) and she will even still sit next to me at the cinema ( if I'm paying ).
Girls seem to be able to mix family and friends more easily than boys.
And the hard thing with boys, is the suddenness with which it all happens.
Boys seem to lurch up the hill of adolescence in zig-zagging, unpredictable strides, while girls take it more slowly and long-sufferingly.
Our son, Joss, seemed to go to bed one night a sweet little boy, still wanting a goodnight kiss and a bedtime story, and woke up the next morning a grunting teenager.
As his mum, I found the speed at which it happened confusing and complicated and
(dare I say it ) just a little bit sad.
Overnight I had to rethink a relationship that had been based on that special " mother-son thing,":
knowing the things that made him grumpy,
understanding, without words, when he was tired or hungry or out of his comfort zone, knowing when he just needed a hug or a few words of encouragement.
All of that was gone.
It felt as though during the night an alien had landed in my son's body and it was making him speak a language that I couldn't understand.
Whatever I said was wrong.
However I said it was irritating.
Whatever I wanted to know was none of my business.
" What would you like for breakfast?" " Not hungry.
" What time will you be back?" " Why?"
" Will you be home for lunch?" " Dunno."
" You should wear a coat, it's freezing." " It's not. Stop talking so much."
Ninesh, his dad, seemed completely unphased by the sudden change.
He seemed almost relieved that someone in the house was, at last, speaking his language.
No more having to analyse emotions and discuss for hours how to deal with a situation.
" Leave him alone," he'd say, " he's told you he's not hungry." " If he gets cold, that's his problem."
And I know he's right.
But silently watching your son walking away from you is very hard.
Accepting that he will no longer be the little boy, holding your hand as he skips along the pavement next to me, is hard.
To keep him close, I have had to learn a different way of being.
I have had to learn to bite my tongue, to listen not speak, to wait until information is offered rather than to request it, to cross the road when I see him and his friends in town, to interpret grunts, to keep the fridge full, to let him get cold and wet, to trust this stranger that is my son.
Finding things that we can do together, has been hard.
He can go to football matches with his dad.
He can discuss fashion and music with his sister.
He has little in common with me.
But last weekend we flew together to Berlin, taking his cousin, Toby, with us.
And perhaps because it is rare that we spend so much time together, perhaps because I have learnt to value moments that we share, we had a magical time.
We stayed with my cousin, surprised her son for his 10th birthday, go-karted at his party (not me!) cycled around the Brandenburg Gate on a six-seater bike (including me) and ate Bratwurst in the " Mauerpark," drifting across the no man's land of old East-West days.
And as we sat in the plane on the way home, Joss leant his head on my shoulder and fell asleep.
Very gently, I leant my head against his.
And for just a moment, he was skipping along the pavement next to me, holding my hand.
 |
| 3 cousins waiting to go-kart in Berlin |
Thursday, 2 January 2014
Elvish Resolutions
So 2014 is here.
And I'm glad
2013 has had too much of the "13," in it for my liking.
To welcome in the new year, we spent yesterday celebrating in true Sri Lankan style, making " short eats," to share with our friends and neighbours
For the day our house was full of chatter, laughter, the smell of spices and the vague sense of hope that always comes with the dawning of a new year.
Teenagers lounged on the sofa, recovering from their New Year's Eve partying, little children fought over who should sit on the beanbag and grown ups chatted idly about nothing in particular.
But somehow, somewhere in the conversation, someone mentioned New Years resolutions.
" I'm going to start running," said one of our friend's confidently.
" I'm definitely going to start worrying less," said another.
" I'm going to stop drinking in January," said one of our newest friends, waving around her glass of mulled wine.
"But today is the 1st of January," someone pointed out.
Our new friend paused, drink half way to her mouth, " yes, but today's a bank holiday,so it doesn't count ," she explained, draining the glass.
" We're going to have more friends round for dinner in 2014," chimed in some others.
" I'm going to finish my website," said out free-lance graphic designer friend.
" I'm going to eat less," said one of our neighbours, reaching for another vadai.
I sat listening, eating kiri-bath with my fingers, dreaming I was sitting on a sun drenched, silver-white beach in Sri Lanka.
Outside it started to get dark and rain pattered on the window.
" How about you Becky?" someone asked, calling me out of my day dream. " Have you made any New Years resolutions?"
I glanced at the kids. They were lying, staring glassy eyed at the TV, surrounded by biscuits and crisp packets.
" I'm going to get the children to tidy up more often," I said.
" I think the idea of New Year's resolutions is that they are meant to be possible," said one of my friends, " that one's impossible. Choose a realistic one."
" You're right," I said, passing around a plate of fish cutlets, " since seeing the Hobbit, my real resolution for 2014 is to become an elf."
" But your ears aren't pointy, your hair isn't long and you can't speak elvish," pointed out one of our guests.
" True," I said, " but those are all obstacles that can be easily overcome. I think the hardest about being an elf will be believing that I can always thwart my enemies at the speed of lightening while spending the rest of my very long life drifting around writing songs and poems and being aesthetically pleasing. That part will definitely be a challenge."
" No point in making resolutions that are too easy though is there?" said someone supportively, " What's in this coconut stuff? It's really nice."
And so the conversation turned to recipes and dinners and the most delicious meals people had eaten in 2013.
And slowly people began to drift home, leaving a trail of paper plates, empty glasses, hopes for a happy 2014 and the warmth of friendship behind them.
" Your ears are a little bit pointy," said one of my friends, hugging me goodbye.
" Thanks, " I said, hugging her back.
But chances are I won't become an elf in 2014.
Most likely I won't even get the kids to tidy up more.
Still, I can keep hoping.
Because the best thing about the beginning of a new year, is that there is always the chance it will be better the old one.
And that's worth celebrating.
So here's to hoping that 2014 is full of dreams and happiness... and just a little bit of elvish magic.
Happy New Year!
And I'm glad
2013 has had too much of the "13," in it for my liking.
To welcome in the new year, we spent yesterday celebrating in true Sri Lankan style, making " short eats," to share with our friends and neighbours
 |
| pol sambol- spicey coconut |
 |
| vadai- spicey, fried doughballs |
 |
| kiribath- diamond- shaped , coconut rice |
For the day our house was full of chatter, laughter, the smell of spices and the vague sense of hope that always comes with the dawning of a new year.
Teenagers lounged on the sofa, recovering from their New Year's Eve partying, little children fought over who should sit on the beanbag and grown ups chatted idly about nothing in particular.
But somehow, somewhere in the conversation, someone mentioned New Years resolutions.
" I'm going to start running," said one of our friend's confidently.
" I'm definitely going to start worrying less," said another.
" I'm going to stop drinking in January," said one of our newest friends, waving around her glass of mulled wine.
"But today is the 1st of January," someone pointed out.
Our new friend paused, drink half way to her mouth, " yes, but today's a bank holiday,so it doesn't count ," she explained, draining the glass.
" We're going to have more friends round for dinner in 2014," chimed in some others.
" I'm going to finish my website," said out free-lance graphic designer friend.
" I'm going to eat less," said one of our neighbours, reaching for another vadai.
I sat listening, eating kiri-bath with my fingers, dreaming I was sitting on a sun drenched, silver-white beach in Sri Lanka.
Outside it started to get dark and rain pattered on the window.
" How about you Becky?" someone asked, calling me out of my day dream. " Have you made any New Years resolutions?"
I glanced at the kids. They were lying, staring glassy eyed at the TV, surrounded by biscuits and crisp packets.
" I'm going to get the children to tidy up more often," I said.
" I think the idea of New Year's resolutions is that they are meant to be possible," said one of my friends, " that one's impossible. Choose a realistic one."
" You're right," I said, passing around a plate of fish cutlets, " since seeing the Hobbit, my real resolution for 2014 is to become an elf."
" But your ears aren't pointy, your hair isn't long and you can't speak elvish," pointed out one of our guests.
" True," I said, " but those are all obstacles that can be easily overcome. I think the hardest about being an elf will be believing that I can always thwart my enemies at the speed of lightening while spending the rest of my very long life drifting around writing songs and poems and being aesthetically pleasing. That part will definitely be a challenge."
" No point in making resolutions that are too easy though is there?" said someone supportively, " What's in this coconut stuff? It's really nice."
And so the conversation turned to recipes and dinners and the most delicious meals people had eaten in 2013.
And slowly people began to drift home, leaving a trail of paper plates, empty glasses, hopes for a happy 2014 and the warmth of friendship behind them.
" Your ears are a little bit pointy," said one of my friends, hugging me goodbye.
" Thanks, " I said, hugging her back.
But chances are I won't become an elf in 2014.
Most likely I won't even get the kids to tidy up more.
Still, I can keep hoping.
Because the best thing about the beginning of a new year, is that there is always the chance it will be better the old one.
And that's worth celebrating.
So here's to hoping that 2014 is full of dreams and happiness... and just a little bit of elvish magic.
Happy New Year!
Wednesday, 25 December 2013
Grinch empathy and friendly hedge trimmings
As it happens, I am not a big fan of Christmas.
At this time of year, on this day, I find myself siding with The Grinch in almost every way.
I hate the crazy present buying, the unnecessary wrapping, the endless mince-pie eating. I want to scream as I squeeze into packed supermarkets full of people panic buying because the shops will all be closed for one day and we might all starve or dehydrate or run out of alcohol.
I get embarrassed pretending to love unwanted gifts while secretly planning to drop them off at a Charity shop on the way home.
I groan as the big day gets closer and Mia and Joss remind me that we still haven't put up our tree.
" Perhaps we don't need one this year," I suggest tentatively.
" What! " shout Mia and Joss in unison.
" Just because you don't like Christmas mum," says Joss, " doesn't mean that we don't. And we want a tree."
" He's right," agrees Mia, siding with her brother for once. " Just because you don't like Christmas, doesn't mean you have to ruin it for us."
Grumbling I drag our fake, black tinsel tree out of the cupboard under the stairs.
After being folded up for a year its branches are bent and the tinsel looks a bit scraggy.
Half-heartedly we hang a few baubles from the branches.
" It looks like its been run over," says Mia, standing back and critically assessing our handiwork..
" Why is there wire instead of branches?" asks Joss.
I shrug.
" Perhaps its deciduous," I say. " At least we can put all the presents underneath it now, so we don't lose them."
But I know Mia and Joss are right.
I'm definitely not a good mum at Christmas.
I find it hard to overcome my abhorrence of the overt consumerism and the fact that Christmas is now, more than anything else, about presents.
Everything has to be the most up to date, the fastest, the trendiest, the coolest, the best.
I shudder to think of the number of Play Station 4 games, laptops, mobile phones and DVDs that have been given as gifts.
Whatever happened to a new pair socks and a bar of chocolate?
And the closer December 25th gets, the more I rant and moan and the more Mia and Joss roll their eyes indignantly and disown me.
Except for Christmas Eve.
The24th December is the one evening that we all look forward to all year.
It's true that the "eve," of most important days is usually more exciting than the day itself. The day before something happens is generally full of anticipation and excitement without any of the disappointment that reality often brings.
But that's not the reason everyone in our family looks forward to Christmas Eve so much, it's because it's the day we have dinner with the Medways.
The Medways are our next -but -one neighbours and they have been our friends since the moment we moved in.
Mia was not quite 2 and Joss not quite born the day I met Gill Medway.
We had just moved in and I was walking along our new road, holding Mia's hand, feeling Joss kicking inside me.
And there was Gill, standing on the pavement trimming her hedge.
" When's your baby due," she asked,pulling a stray leaf out of her hair and smiling.
" Next week," I said.
Joss kicked again,
" But I think it might be sooner. "
" Let me know if you need a lift to the hospital then," said Gill, calmingly. " My daughter Emily is in Holland at the moment. She'll be back next week. She's going to be so excited when she hears there are two little ones living next door. I'll send her round when she's back."
And there was something about the welcoming warmth of Gill's smile that day, that made me realise that, even though we had no fridge, no unpacked furniture, no proper beds, everything was going to be alright.
And Emily did come round when she came back from Holland and she's never really left, not our hearts anyway.
The thought of her not being a part of Joss and Mia's life, is unimaginable to them and us. Her love and friendship is the branch that has let them grow away from us, knowing that they will always be safe.
So it's probably not strange that we started spending our Christmas Eves together,
There's no planning involved, we're none of us good at that.
We only decide a few hours before whose house we will have dinner at.
Everyone cooks something, children and grown ups and in-betweens.
And every year we create the perfect feast: starters and main courses and puddings.
And every year we eat and laugh and put the world to rights.
And every year, for one whole Christmas evening, I forget about presents and wrapping paper and overcrowded supermarkets.
And instead I remember what Christmas really is: a time to share what you have and be together.
But then again, isn't that exactly what happened to the Grinch?
Happy Christmas!
At this time of year, on this day, I find myself siding with The Grinch in almost every way.
I hate the crazy present buying, the unnecessary wrapping, the endless mince-pie eating. I want to scream as I squeeze into packed supermarkets full of people panic buying because the shops will all be closed for one day and we might all starve or dehydrate or run out of alcohol.
I get embarrassed pretending to love unwanted gifts while secretly planning to drop them off at a Charity shop on the way home.
I groan as the big day gets closer and Mia and Joss remind me that we still haven't put up our tree.
" Perhaps we don't need one this year," I suggest tentatively.
" What! " shout Mia and Joss in unison.
" Just because you don't like Christmas mum," says Joss, " doesn't mean that we don't. And we want a tree."
" He's right," agrees Mia, siding with her brother for once. " Just because you don't like Christmas, doesn't mean you have to ruin it for us."
Grumbling I drag our fake, black tinsel tree out of the cupboard under the stairs.
After being folded up for a year its branches are bent and the tinsel looks a bit scraggy.
Half-heartedly we hang a few baubles from the branches.
" It looks like its been run over," says Mia, standing back and critically assessing our handiwork..
" Why is there wire instead of branches?" asks Joss.
I shrug.
" Perhaps its deciduous," I say. " At least we can put all the presents underneath it now, so we don't lose them."
But I know Mia and Joss are right.
I'm definitely not a good mum at Christmas.
I find it hard to overcome my abhorrence of the overt consumerism and the fact that Christmas is now, more than anything else, about presents.
Everything has to be the most up to date, the fastest, the trendiest, the coolest, the best.
I shudder to think of the number of Play Station 4 games, laptops, mobile phones and DVDs that have been given as gifts.
Whatever happened to a new pair socks and a bar of chocolate?
And the closer December 25th gets, the more I rant and moan and the more Mia and Joss roll their eyes indignantly and disown me.
Except for Christmas Eve.
The24th December is the one evening that we all look forward to all year.
It's true that the "eve," of most important days is usually more exciting than the day itself. The day before something happens is generally full of anticipation and excitement without any of the disappointment that reality often brings.
But that's not the reason everyone in our family looks forward to Christmas Eve so much, it's because it's the day we have dinner with the Medways.
The Medways are our next -but -one neighbours and they have been our friends since the moment we moved in.
Mia was not quite 2 and Joss not quite born the day I met Gill Medway.
We had just moved in and I was walking along our new road, holding Mia's hand, feeling Joss kicking inside me.
And there was Gill, standing on the pavement trimming her hedge.
" When's your baby due," she asked,pulling a stray leaf out of her hair and smiling.
" Next week," I said.
Joss kicked again,
" But I think it might be sooner. "
" Let me know if you need a lift to the hospital then," said Gill, calmingly. " My daughter Emily is in Holland at the moment. She'll be back next week. She's going to be so excited when she hears there are two little ones living next door. I'll send her round when she's back."
And there was something about the welcoming warmth of Gill's smile that day, that made me realise that, even though we had no fridge, no unpacked furniture, no proper beds, everything was going to be alright.
And Emily did come round when she came back from Holland and she's never really left, not our hearts anyway.
The thought of her not being a part of Joss and Mia's life, is unimaginable to them and us. Her love and friendship is the branch that has let them grow away from us, knowing that they will always be safe.
So it's probably not strange that we started spending our Christmas Eves together,
There's no planning involved, we're none of us good at that.
We only decide a few hours before whose house we will have dinner at.
Everyone cooks something, children and grown ups and in-betweens.
And every year we create the perfect feast: starters and main courses and puddings.
And every year we eat and laugh and put the world to rights.
And every year, for one whole Christmas evening, I forget about presents and wrapping paper and overcrowded supermarkets.
And instead I remember what Christmas really is: a time to share what you have and be together.
But then again, isn't that exactly what happened to the Grinch?
Happy Christmas!
 |
| Patrick, Jonny, Gill, Joss, Emily, Mia and Ninesh- Christmas as it should be. |
Wednesday, 18 December 2013
Impact measuring, Jude Law and four "sisters," from the fourth floor
I have spent a lot of the last week self-evaluating.
Nor myself but our Children"s Centre.
Which means I have spent a lot of the last week drowning in stats and data
How many families from our reach area attend our centre.
How many of those families are targeted families.
How many of the children of the targeted families go to a nursery, a health visitor, eat healthily, weigh the right amount…….the questions are endless, the statistics screwy and our ability to change the world, limited.
But the worst part of all is when it comes to measuring impact.
How can we show that, by doing what we do, we can truly make a difference.
How has your centre changed lives for the better.
And that's where stats and data fall apart.
You can get statistics to prove almost anything.
You can turn them into graphs or charts or percentages.
You can even get them to predict what might happen in the future..but you can't get them to tell you what that future holds.
Impact doesn't fit into a tickable box because impact is about something immeasurable. It's about changing an attitude, altering an aspiration, planting a dream.
And how do you measure that?
How do you quantify what might happen tomorrow or in a week or in a decade as the result of something you have done today?
And the more time I try to spend analysing data, the more I find myself daydreaming.
Wondering what it would be like to impact measure ourselves.
To assess the difference we have or haven't made.
As it happens, I have been thinking about the past a lot lately. A few weeks ago I met up with 3 long-ago friends in Dusseldorf, Germany. We have known each other since we all met on the second floor of C block at university in Liverpool more than two decades ago. Over the years we have fallen in and out of touch and our lives have travelled in very different directs. But somehow across oceans and countries and years, we have always found each other again. Because there was something immeasurably special about that year when we lived on the same floor and the next, when we shared a student house ( so cold that we had to burn most of the furniture to keep warm! )
It's hard to say what it was.
Perhaps it is because student days are the only time in your life when you spend every waking hour with your friends and friendships that can survive drunken nights, hungover mornings, love, heart-ache, exam pressure, shared cooking and the contentious splitting of electricity bills- can survive anything .
Perhaps it is because, living so far from home, we had to grow up and become independent. And to do that we were, for a time, dependent on each other.
We sat round the psychologically warming fake fire in the hotel, drinking champagne from ice cube filled pint glasses discussing Jude Law and whether or not he had ever been in our garden, reading glasses, Christmas markets, the situation in the Lebanon and what to have for dinner.
And as we got out of the lift, chatting and laughing and made our way back to our rooms, someone from the lift called after us:
" Four sisters from the fourth floor."
And I thought: from the 2nd floor of C Block to the 4th floor of a hotel. We have definitely gone up in the world!
And the truth is, that we have all gone up in the world and perhaps none of us would be where we are today if we hadn't met each other.
But then again, perhaps we would.
And that's the trouble with measuring impact.
It is not finite or definite.
It is the possibility that because you met someone, their lives are now different.
All that I know for certain is that all these years on with all that has happened my life is richer and slightly crazier for knowing them.But all these years on, for me at least, it is easy to measure the impact my 3 friends from the fourth floor have had: my life is richer and a little bit crazier for knowing them.
Fit that into a tick box if you can!
Nor myself but our Children"s Centre.
Which means I have spent a lot of the last week drowning in stats and data
How many families from our reach area attend our centre.
How many of those families are targeted families.
How many of the children of the targeted families go to a nursery, a health visitor, eat healthily, weigh the right amount…….the questions are endless, the statistics screwy and our ability to change the world, limited.
But the worst part of all is when it comes to measuring impact.
How can we show that, by doing what we do, we can truly make a difference.
How has your centre changed lives for the better.
And that's where stats and data fall apart.
You can get statistics to prove almost anything.
You can turn them into graphs or charts or percentages.
You can even get them to predict what might happen in the future..but you can't get them to tell you what that future holds.
Impact doesn't fit into a tickable box because impact is about something immeasurable. It's about changing an attitude, altering an aspiration, planting a dream.
And how do you measure that?
How do you quantify what might happen tomorrow or in a week or in a decade as the result of something you have done today?
And the more time I try to spend analysing data, the more I find myself daydreaming.
Wondering what it would be like to impact measure ourselves.
To assess the difference we have or haven't made.
As it happens, I have been thinking about the past a lot lately. A few weeks ago I met up with 3 long-ago friends in Dusseldorf, Germany. We have known each other since we all met on the second floor of C block at university in Liverpool more than two decades ago. Over the years we have fallen in and out of touch and our lives have travelled in very different directs. But somehow across oceans and countries and years, we have always found each other again. Because there was something immeasurably special about that year when we lived on the same floor and the next, when we shared a student house ( so cold that we had to burn most of the furniture to keep warm! )
It's hard to say what it was.
Perhaps it is because student days are the only time in your life when you spend every waking hour with your friends and friendships that can survive drunken nights, hungover mornings, love, heart-ache, exam pressure, shared cooking and the contentious splitting of electricity bills- can survive anything .
Perhaps it is because, living so far from home, we had to grow up and become independent. And to do that we were, for a time, dependent on each other.
We sat round the psychologically warming fake fire in the hotel, drinking champagne from ice cube filled pint glasses discussing Jude Law and whether or not he had ever been in our garden, reading glasses, Christmas markets, the situation in the Lebanon and what to have for dinner.
And as we got out of the lift, chatting and laughing and made our way back to our rooms, someone from the lift called after us:
" Four sisters from the fourth floor."
And I thought: from the 2nd floor of C Block to the 4th floor of a hotel. We have definitely gone up in the world!
And the truth is, that we have all gone up in the world and perhaps none of us would be where we are today if we hadn't met each other.
But then again, perhaps we would.
And that's the trouble with measuring impact.
It is not finite or definite.
It is the possibility that because you met someone, their lives are now different.
All that I know for certain is that all these years on with all that has happened my life is richer and slightly crazier for knowing them.But all these years on, for me at least, it is easy to measure the impact my 3 friends from the fourth floor have had: my life is richer and a little bit crazier for knowing them.
Fit that into a tick box if you can!
 |
| Four friends from the fourth floor |
Thursday, 5 December 2013
Breakfast cocktails and perfect Sunday mornings
Last weekend I met some friends for breakfast at Canary Wharf in London.
Canary Wharf is an eerily quiet place to be on a Sunday morning.
I'm sure Monday to Friday it's full of the buzz and bustle of smartly suited business people manically buying, selling and generally being very important.
I'm sure Monday to Friday it's full of the buzz and bustle of smartly suited business people manically buying, selling and generally being very important.
But the weekend is a different story.
The London Underground doors slid open automatically, revealing a completely empty platform. And as we wandered through the metalic, shiny station, we didn't see a single human being, just sign posts and big glass doors and long, silver escalators.
And outside was just the same.
Wide empty roads.
Tall empty tower blocks.
And a big, empty cafe, where we were meant to be meeting our friends.
" I've reserved a table for 4," I said unnecessarily to the waitress.
" Well," she said, pointing to a table with a sofa and basket chairs, " I'd reserved this one for you, but…… basically, you can choose any table you want."
There's something about an empty cafe which makes you feel that you have made the wrong decision.
So, pretending that we hadn't noticed that we were the only people there, we flixkws through a menu while we waited for our friends.
And that's when I discovered something that made the reservation worthwhile and the empty cafe, the best breakfast joint in the world.
Because after the coffees, teas and hot chocolates on the drinks list, was the list for
" Naughty and Nice BREAKFAST COCKTAILS."
And suddenly Sunday morning stretched before us in a haze of poached eggs, toast, bacon and perfectly blended alcohol.
Parlour Bloody Mary, Breakfast in Bloom Martini and Morning Fruit Sparkles.
Our friends arrived and we ordered the Sparkles and Martinis ( a surprisingly delicious mix of alcohol an marmalade! ) and the morning melted into the afternoon.
And the waitress came and asked if we wanted to look at the dessert menu.
" Does breakfast usually come with dessert?" I asked.
The waitress looked confused and glanced around the no longer empty cafe at the customers ordering lunch
" Does breakfast usually come with cocktails?," asked one of our friends.
" It should do," I said.
And ordering another round of toast and jam and breakfast cocktails, we raised our glasses to perfect Sunday mornings and almost empty cafes.
And if we had been there today, we would have raised our glasses to Nelson Mandela:
an "almost saint," in an almost hero-less world.
RIP Nelson Mandela
The London Underground doors slid open automatically, revealing a completely empty platform. And as we wandered through the metalic, shiny station, we didn't see a single human being, just sign posts and big glass doors and long, silver escalators.
And outside was just the same.
Wide empty roads.
Tall empty tower blocks.
And a big, empty cafe, where we were meant to be meeting our friends.
" I've reserved a table for 4," I said unnecessarily to the waitress.
" Well," she said, pointing to a table with a sofa and basket chairs, " I'd reserved this one for you, but…… basically, you can choose any table you want."
There's something about an empty cafe which makes you feel that you have made the wrong decision.
So, pretending that we hadn't noticed that we were the only people there, we flixkws through a menu while we waited for our friends.
And that's when I discovered something that made the reservation worthwhile and the empty cafe, the best breakfast joint in the world.
Because after the coffees, teas and hot chocolates on the drinks list, was the list for
" Naughty and Nice BREAKFAST COCKTAILS."
And suddenly Sunday morning stretched before us in a haze of poached eggs, toast, bacon and perfectly blended alcohol.
Parlour Bloody Mary, Breakfast in Bloom Martini and Morning Fruit Sparkles.
 |
| Breakfast in Bloom Martini and Morning Fruit Sparkles, The Parlour, Canary Wharf |
Our friends arrived and we ordered the Sparkles and Martinis ( a surprisingly delicious mix of alcohol an marmalade! ) and the morning melted into the afternoon.
And the waitress came and asked if we wanted to look at the dessert menu.
" Does breakfast usually come with dessert?" I asked.
The waitress looked confused and glanced around the no longer empty cafe at the customers ordering lunch
" Does breakfast usually come with cocktails?," asked one of our friends.
" It should do," I said.
And ordering another round of toast and jam and breakfast cocktails, we raised our glasses to perfect Sunday mornings and almost empty cafes.
And if we had been there today, we would have raised our glasses to Nelson Mandela:
an "almost saint," in an almost hero-less world.
RIP Nelson Mandela
Wednesday, 27 November 2013
The wordless Snapchat universe
I was sitting in a cafe with my daughter, Mia, and her friend last Sunday.
Like all 16 year olds, they were discussing how awful their friends were, and of those awful friends, who did what to who at last night's party.
And like all mums allowed to go to a cafe with their 16 year old daughter,I tried to look
"acceptably cool,'" by sitting quietly, drinking my coffee and pretending not to listen to their conversation.
The strange thing about their chatter, though (making it very hard to keep track of when you are pretending not to listen ) was that it in the end, it didn't seem to involve using many words.
" You won't believe what they sent me from the party last night?" Mia was telling her friend, " this Snapchat, with a picture of two of them smiling, doing a thumbs up with the word PT underneath."
I was itching to ask what PT meant and desperate to explain that PT wasn't a word, but bit my tongue, repeating
" acceptably cool, acceptably cool," in my head.
" OMG," said Mia's friend ( "you could use the actual words," I wanted to say ).
" I know," said Mia, " it made me so angry. I mean why can't they just go to a party without having to tell the whole world how cra..they are." ( " I think you will find the word is crazy," I want to say ).
Since Mia had seemed to include me in the last comment, I took my cue to speak.
" Perhaps they were just taking a photo because they were having a really good time and wanted to remember it?" I suggested weakly, feeling my comment taper off into a question under the fierce gaze of incredulity that Mia and her friend turned on me.
" If they wanted to do that they wouldn't have done it as a Snapchat would they?" said Mia, " it disappears after like 20 seconds. And why would they be smile-pouting if it was because they were having such a good time. "
Cowed into silence at this logic, I carried on pretending not to listen.
" I know what we need to do," shouted Mia gleefully to her friend, " we need to Snapchat them exactly the same picture from here, you and me with our thumbs up, just like their photo and write AB underneath ( Attibassi is the name of the cafe we were in, best coffee in Chichester! ).
Enthusiastically they set to work.
Posed, clicked and sent.
Two girls, thumbs up, the gold and black Attibassi wallpaper in the background.
There was a few minutes of expectant silence and then Mia's phone buzzed.
" Look," groaned Mia, showing the phone to her friend and me." i knew that would happen. Now everyone is going to be bitching about me all weekend.I knew she'd be angry. Why doesn't she get that it was just a joke."
" How can you tell she's angry?" I dared to ask, looking at the photo before it disappeared:
A tired girl, lips arching downwards making a weary thumbs-up.
Mia gave me another one of her withering looks.
" Obviously she's angry. Look at her."
But before I could look anymore, the picture was gone.
The trouble with conversations without words, is that they are constantly open to misunderstanding … .and understanding each other is hard enough, even when we are talking.
But where's the fun in words when you can spend the whole day misinterpreting pictures!
"I know what we can do," said Mia," we can go to all the shops in town and take the same photo in all of them…."
"Yeah," said her friend excitedly, " we could go to Top Shop,take the photo and put TS underneath."
" Or just take a photo of everyone around you Snapchatting and write BS underneath," I suggested..
Fortunately, Mia and her friend didn't hear me. They were too busy trying to get their smile-pouting poses exactly right.
Hugging my hands around my steaming cup of coffee, I glanced around the cafe.
Sitting comfortably on the red, leather sofas or perched on high stools in front of the floor to ceiling windows, almost everyone was holding their phones up in front of them, taking perfectly posed pictures.
Dads with their kids, so that without words, they could show the world what perfect dads they are.
Mums holding glasses of steaming coffee: "look at me," the image would say, " even though I'm a busy mum, I'm still so trendy, I have time to drink coffee from a glass."
Teenagers leaning their heads together, hair gleaming or time-consumingly sculpted, perfect smiles on their perfect faces " look at the fun we are having while we are young and beautiful," the image would say.
" We've got to go now mum," Mia said, " Thanks for the coffee ( Nutella Mocha )
" Yeah, thanks for the hot chocolate," said her friend ( a whole bar of Montezuma chocolate melted in frothy milk) " it was delicious. Where shall we Snapchat first Mia?"
I watched them drift youthfully out of the cafe, feeling grateful that for now, at least, they were still using words instead of temporary photos to communicate with each other.
Perhaps I am just a conservative purist but I have struggled with text speak.
I find the LOL's and sos's and cra's and wht tme?s hard to take.
Our 14 year old son, who has never been particularly interested in spelling things correctly, no longer needs to try. With his 30,000 followers on Twitter, spelling correctly is obviously a thing of the past. The important thing is to say everything in as few characters as possible,so vowels are definitely a complete waste of space.
But even textspeak must be better than the "no speak," of Snapchat or Instagram.
I finished my coffee, carefully hid my very old-fashioned phone ( only letters and numbers, no camera ) in the deepest pocket of my coat, paid and left.
And walking through the busy pre-Christmas streets of Chichester, I watched the wordless couples, staring down at their phones, the teenagers giggling as they shared photos. the kids pointing out the latest mobiles in shop windows to their parents who were busy sending Instagrams on their own.
And if anyone had snapchatted a photo of me just then, it would have shown a picture of a middle-aged woman wandering through a phone-filled world and the caption underneath would have read:
" Lost for words."
Like all 16 year olds, they were discussing how awful their friends were, and of those awful friends, who did what to who at last night's party.
And like all mums allowed to go to a cafe with their 16 year old daughter,I tried to look
"acceptably cool,'" by sitting quietly, drinking my coffee and pretending not to listen to their conversation.
 |
| Best coffee in Chichester, Attibassi |
The strange thing about their chatter, though (making it very hard to keep track of when you are pretending not to listen ) was that it in the end, it didn't seem to involve using many words.
" You won't believe what they sent me from the party last night?" Mia was telling her friend, " this Snapchat, with a picture of two of them smiling, doing a thumbs up with the word PT underneath."
I was itching to ask what PT meant and desperate to explain that PT wasn't a word, but bit my tongue, repeating
" acceptably cool, acceptably cool," in my head.
" OMG," said Mia's friend ( "you could use the actual words," I wanted to say ).
" I know," said Mia, " it made me so angry. I mean why can't they just go to a party without having to tell the whole world how cra..they are." ( " I think you will find the word is crazy," I want to say ).
Since Mia had seemed to include me in the last comment, I took my cue to speak.
" Perhaps they were just taking a photo because they were having a really good time and wanted to remember it?" I suggested weakly, feeling my comment taper off into a question under the fierce gaze of incredulity that Mia and her friend turned on me.
" If they wanted to do that they wouldn't have done it as a Snapchat would they?" said Mia, " it disappears after like 20 seconds. And why would they be smile-pouting if it was because they were having such a good time. "
Cowed into silence at this logic, I carried on pretending not to listen.
" I know what we need to do," shouted Mia gleefully to her friend, " we need to Snapchat them exactly the same picture from here, you and me with our thumbs up, just like their photo and write AB underneath ( Attibassi is the name of the cafe we were in, best coffee in Chichester! ).
 |
| Attibassi, coolest hangout in Chichester |
Enthusiastically they set to work.
Posed, clicked and sent.
Two girls, thumbs up, the gold and black Attibassi wallpaper in the background.
There was a few minutes of expectant silence and then Mia's phone buzzed.
" Look," groaned Mia, showing the phone to her friend and me." i knew that would happen. Now everyone is going to be bitching about me all weekend.I knew she'd be angry. Why doesn't she get that it was just a joke."
" How can you tell she's angry?" I dared to ask, looking at the photo before it disappeared:
A tired girl, lips arching downwards making a weary thumbs-up.
Mia gave me another one of her withering looks.
" Obviously she's angry. Look at her."
But before I could look anymore, the picture was gone.
The trouble with conversations without words, is that they are constantly open to misunderstanding … .and understanding each other is hard enough, even when we are talking.
But where's the fun in words when you can spend the whole day misinterpreting pictures!
"I know what we can do," said Mia," we can go to all the shops in town and take the same photo in all of them…."
"Yeah," said her friend excitedly, " we could go to Top Shop,take the photo and put TS underneath."
" Or just take a photo of everyone around you Snapchatting and write BS underneath," I suggested..
Fortunately, Mia and her friend didn't hear me. They were too busy trying to get their smile-pouting poses exactly right.
Hugging my hands around my steaming cup of coffee, I glanced around the cafe.
Sitting comfortably on the red, leather sofas or perched on high stools in front of the floor to ceiling windows, almost everyone was holding their phones up in front of them, taking perfectly posed pictures.
Dads with their kids, so that without words, they could show the world what perfect dads they are.
Mums holding glasses of steaming coffee: "look at me," the image would say, " even though I'm a busy mum, I'm still so trendy, I have time to drink coffee from a glass."
Teenagers leaning their heads together, hair gleaming or time-consumingly sculpted, perfect smiles on their perfect faces " look at the fun we are having while we are young and beautiful," the image would say.
" We've got to go now mum," Mia said, " Thanks for the coffee ( Nutella Mocha )
" Yeah, thanks for the hot chocolate," said her friend ( a whole bar of Montezuma chocolate melted in frothy milk) " it was delicious. Where shall we Snapchat first Mia?"
I watched them drift youthfully out of the cafe, feeling grateful that for now, at least, they were still using words instead of temporary photos to communicate with each other.
Perhaps I am just a conservative purist but I have struggled with text speak.
I find the LOL's and sos's and cra's and wht tme?s hard to take.
Our 14 year old son, who has never been particularly interested in spelling things correctly, no longer needs to try. With his 30,000 followers on Twitter, spelling correctly is obviously a thing of the past. The important thing is to say everything in as few characters as possible,so vowels are definitely a complete waste of space.
But even textspeak must be better than the "no speak," of Snapchat or Instagram.
I finished my coffee, carefully hid my very old-fashioned phone ( only letters and numbers, no camera ) in the deepest pocket of my coat, paid and left.
And walking through the busy pre-Christmas streets of Chichester, I watched the wordless couples, staring down at their phones, the teenagers giggling as they shared photos. the kids pointing out the latest mobiles in shop windows to their parents who were busy sending Instagrams on their own.
And if anyone had snapchatted a photo of me just then, it would have shown a picture of a middle-aged woman wandering through a phone-filled world and the caption underneath would have read:
" Lost for words."
Tuesday, 19 November 2013
The " 5- minutes- before -school," daily crisis
There's something about the 5 minutes before leaving for school that induces a daily crisis in our home. It doesn't matter how calm the hour before has been, how friendly the teenage grunts or how willingly the kids have been woken from their dreams, the hand on the clock reaches 8.25 ( late for some I know ! ) and pandemonium sets in.
" Mum," shouts Joss from his bedroom, " where are my green PE socks? The ones I put by the washing machine last night before I went to bed.
" Probably still by the washing machine," I suggest.
" What,' shouts Joss, horrified, " you mean you haven't washed them yet?. They're covered in mud."
" Mum," moans Mia, " where's my French book? I left it on the sofa last Tuesday and have you seen my…..nooo."
Her questions die off as Joss dashes past and darts into the bathroom before her.
"Joss," yells Mia, " that's not fair, you've already had a shower for about an hour and I haven't even cleaned my teeth yet."
" Tell mum and dad to build another bathroom then," says Joss helpfully through the bathroom door, his words accompanied by the clicking open of a jar of hair gel.
By the time he emerges, each strand of hair perfectly positioned, Mia has found her French book but lost her geography homework and her compass.
" I left my compass on the floor by the table. Why do you always have to clear everything away," she complains, striding angrily into the bathroom.
"Mum," calls Joss from the hall, as he struggles into the blazer he has left in a crumpled heap on the floor, the button has just come off my trousers. Can you fix it? I have to go in like 2 minutes."
I walk into the kitchen to try and find a safety pin.
Mia is doing her hair in the mirror over the kitchen sink.
" Why does my hair always look like THIS," she cries, " grabbing fiercely at one of her perfect curls. " It's not fair, why is my hair so horrible."
Joss stands still so that I can pin his trousers back together.
" Did you make me a hair appointment?" he asks. " my hair's getting so long."
I stare at his skin-hugging, side-buzzed hair and wonder what short hair would look like.
" And I need £2.50 for geography. If I don't have it by today, I'm going to get a detention."
" Have you signed my letter for the theatre trip," shouts Mia from the living room, " If you don't do it today, I can't go."
She tips the contents of her schoolbag onto the floor and hands me a crumpled note. " I told you about it ages ago. Why do you always leave everything until the last minute."
And I stand there, biting my tongue.
I could say, if you had both got everything ready last night, none of this would be happening.
I could say, if you got up 5 minutes earlier there would be enough time for everyone to use the bathroom.
I could say, Mia if you put your things away instead of leaving them scattered around the house, you would know where everything was.
I could say, Joss, you must have known your trouser button had fallen off, why didn't you put on your other pair.
I could say, Mia your hair is beautiful, Joss your hair is short enough and neither of you told me about money that needs to be paid or letters that need to be signed.
But after a decade of experiencing the " 5 -minutes -before -school crisis point," I have learnt it is best to say nothing.
Nagging only causes rows.
Telling your teenagers that they should be better organised is as pointless as telling your Sat Nav it has got the directions wrong.
The truth is, just before leaving for school, your kids don't want solutions, they want stress.
The thought of spending a whole day sitting, listening to teachers, getting in trouble for breaking rules and generally doing things you would rather not be doing, is not something that fills most children with joy.
A day at school is rarely something kids look forward to, even if it is not so bad once they get there.
So of course they need to begin their day with a " crisis."
It just reflects how they feel about school.
If mornings were calm and cheerful, we might think they like going to school.
How else can they remind us parents how hard their lives are.
So I sign Mia's letter and find £2.50 for Joss from the change scattered around the kitchen.
The doorbell rings.
" Holly's here," shouts Mia, " Have you seen my phone? Never mind, got it.
Bye mum. See you later."
I listen to the giggles and chatter as they wander down the road.
" Bye mum," shouts Joss, texting his friend as he strolls cooly through the door.
And I am left, standing in a quiet house, surfaces covered in safety pins and Mia's make-up. I find Mia's compass in the fruit bowl and wonder if she would find it, if I just put it back on the floor by the table.
But it's 5 minutes before I need to leave for work….and I can feel my stress levels rising!
" Mum," shouts Joss from his bedroom, " where are my green PE socks? The ones I put by the washing machine last night before I went to bed.
" Probably still by the washing machine," I suggest.
" What,' shouts Joss, horrified, " you mean you haven't washed them yet?. They're covered in mud."
" Mum," moans Mia, " where's my French book? I left it on the sofa last Tuesday and have you seen my…..nooo."
 |
| Looking for a Frenchbook in a haystack, I mean sofa! |
Her questions die off as Joss dashes past and darts into the bathroom before her.
"Joss," yells Mia, " that's not fair, you've already had a shower for about an hour and I haven't even cleaned my teeth yet."
" Tell mum and dad to build another bathroom then," says Joss helpfully through the bathroom door, his words accompanied by the clicking open of a jar of hair gel.
By the time he emerges, each strand of hair perfectly positioned, Mia has found her French book but lost her geography homework and her compass.
" I left my compass on the floor by the table. Why do you always have to clear everything away," she complains, striding angrily into the bathroom.
"Mum," calls Joss from the hall, as he struggles into the blazer he has left in a crumpled heap on the floor, the button has just come off my trousers. Can you fix it? I have to go in like 2 minutes."
I walk into the kitchen to try and find a safety pin.
Mia is doing her hair in the mirror over the kitchen sink.
" Why does my hair always look like THIS," she cries, " grabbing fiercely at one of her perfect curls. " It's not fair, why is my hair so horrible."
Joss stands still so that I can pin his trousers back together.
" Did you make me a hair appointment?" he asks. " my hair's getting so long."
I stare at his skin-hugging, side-buzzed hair and wonder what short hair would look like.
" And I need £2.50 for geography. If I don't have it by today, I'm going to get a detention."
" Have you signed my letter for the theatre trip," shouts Mia from the living room, " If you don't do it today, I can't go."
She tips the contents of her schoolbag onto the floor and hands me a crumpled note. " I told you about it ages ago. Why do you always leave everything until the last minute."
And I stand there, biting my tongue.
I could say, if you had both got everything ready last night, none of this would be happening.
I could say, if you got up 5 minutes earlier there would be enough time for everyone to use the bathroom.
I could say, Mia if you put your things away instead of leaving them scattered around the house, you would know where everything was.
I could say, Joss, you must have known your trouser button had fallen off, why didn't you put on your other pair.
I could say, Mia your hair is beautiful, Joss your hair is short enough and neither of you told me about money that needs to be paid or letters that need to be signed.
But after a decade of experiencing the " 5 -minutes -before -school crisis point," I have learnt it is best to say nothing.
Nagging only causes rows.
Telling your teenagers that they should be better organised is as pointless as telling your Sat Nav it has got the directions wrong.
The truth is, just before leaving for school, your kids don't want solutions, they want stress.
The thought of spending a whole day sitting, listening to teachers, getting in trouble for breaking rules and generally doing things you would rather not be doing, is not something that fills most children with joy.
A day at school is rarely something kids look forward to, even if it is not so bad once they get there.
So of course they need to begin their day with a " crisis."
It just reflects how they feel about school.
If mornings were calm and cheerful, we might think they like going to school.
How else can they remind us parents how hard their lives are.
So I sign Mia's letter and find £2.50 for Joss from the change scattered around the kitchen.
The doorbell rings.
" Holly's here," shouts Mia, " Have you seen my phone? Never mind, got it.
Bye mum. See you later."
I listen to the giggles and chatter as they wander down the road.
" Bye mum," shouts Joss, texting his friend as he strolls cooly through the door.
And I am left, standing in a quiet house, surfaces covered in safety pins and Mia's make-up. I find Mia's compass in the fruit bowl and wonder if she would find it, if I just put it back on the floor by the table.
But it's 5 minutes before I need to leave for work….and I can feel my stress levels rising!
Sunday, 10 November 2013
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.
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!
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!
Sunday, 3 November 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, 31 October 2013
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.
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)