Finding The One

This weekend we were, once again, at a wedding.
It wasn't in an art gallery or a church, but in a barn, nestling in a West Sussex Valley, surrounded by wild flowers.

 And it wasn't full of young dreamers christening their future with layers of white lace.
It was a second-time-around marriage for both bride and groom. 
Full of a sense of calm completeness.
Full of the warmth and happiness of all weddings without the anxious edginess of your wedding having to be better than everyone else's.
This was a very important day for both of them but it wasn't their only important day .
The bride and groom both have families and successful careers, their lives have already been strewn with important days.
Their wedding was simply a celebration of the fact that, through all the chaos that life brings, they had found each other.

Strangely, or maybe not so strangely in these modern times, the groom's ex-wife was there, laughing and chatting and dancing the night away next to her ex-husband and his new wife..
I tried not to stare but a little part of me was desperate to walk over and ask them: 
" Does this not feel a bit weird? Are all of you really fine with this?"
But even by my fourth gin and tonic, I was still feeling too politely English to ask.
And anyway, as I stood watching the newly-weds, catching each other's eye, sharing a smile,  I realised that it didn't matter who else was there.
There was something so serenely complete in the intimacy of that shared smile, that for a moment, even I believed the rest of the world didn't exist.
And so I think maybe they have done it.  
Maybe this time they have found their other half, their perfect partner, the soul mate they have been searching for all their lives.
Maybe this time they have, each of them, found The One.

" Where are you going on honeymoon?" we ask as we catch up with them, standing in the doorway to the dance floor..
" Cycling in the Outer Hebrides," they say in unison.
" Really," I say, trying to work out if they are joking. " For your honeymoon?"
They grin, a " nelwy-married, we-don't-care-what-the-world-thinks," conspiratorial grin.
" It's so beautiful there," says the groom, " cycling will be amazing.  I've been training for ages."
" And how about you?" I ask, turning to the bride, " have you been training too."
" Oh," she says, " I cycled up the road by our house last week, it's quite steep. Anyway,I'll be fine, bought some padded knickers."
And arm- in -arm, the happy couple wander off to chat to other guests.
And perhaps that's why it was such a lovely wedding.
There was no trying to impress.
No trying to pretend this was some kind of whirlwind romance that had swept them both off their feet and knocked them sideways.  
Nothing to prove except that they love each other and want to quietly spend the rest of their lives together, padded knickers and all!

But it set me to thinking, pondering the question that Mia, our 16 year old daughter, often asks me.
" How do you know? How do you know if you've met the right person? How do you know when you've found The One? "
And I never know what to say.
Not really.
Because the truth is, the decision to share your life with someone, to marry them or stay with them for ever,  is always a bit of a gamble.
It's easy to get swept along with the excitement of a moment.
Easy to confuse passion with love and infatuation with the real thing.
Easy to believe that you can never feel this way again.
Easy to dream that you have fallen in love when you have really just fallen out of being alone.
Easy to hope that this is it.
Easy to get it wrong.
We've all been there : 
waiting heart-broken and hopeless for the phone to ring or a familiar footstep on the stair.
Wondering why or how or when it all went wrong.
Clinging onto to the shadow of a feeling that is no longer there because even the shadow of a feeling is better than no shadow at all.
Emotions are fickle and dreams all consuming.
But I don't want to tell my full-of-the-future-16 -year -old daughter, any of that.
I want to wrap her in a blanket of hopes and dreams and keep her warm with love and laughter.
" So?" she demands again, "How do you know when you've found The One?"
I try the simple answer: 
" you just do."
She gives me one of her disparaging looks.
 " That's not really an answer is it mum?" 
I laugh.
" I suppose not," I say, " but I think it's the truth. It's just that sometimes the truth is hidden under so many layers of emotion that it's hard to be sure."
" Great," says Mia, " so I will just have to guess.
Is that what you did, you and dad-guess?
 Did you give up your job and flat and your London life to go and be with him in California because you "guessed," it might be a good idea? "
I sense a note of slightly panicked cynicism creeping into her voice.
I hug her tight and stroke a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. 
" There was no guessing involved," I say comfortingly.
And suddenly I am transported back to LA airport, Ninesh and I sitting side by side on warm, plastic seats, cups of watery coffee in our hands, waiting for the last call for my flight home. 
We had spent just 2 weeks as a couple altogether, one week in England at Christmas and this last week at Easter in California.
And as we sat there, the cloud of separation hovering over us, Ninesh said:
" So I suppose this is it, we might as well get married."
And just then my flight was called and I stood up and spilt coffee all over my jeans and the floor.
And looking up at Ninesh I realised that I wasn't flying home, I was flying away from home.
And I nodded and said:
 " I suppose we might as well."

" I think Mia, "  I say, " that you truly do " just know." But there is a reason for why.
 It's about listening to your heart. 
Not the butterfly fluttering, breath-stopping, million-mile-an-hour beating part of your heart
But the so-far-down-you-hardly-notice-it - part.
The part of your heart that always feels a little bit empty.
Only when you meet the right person, it doesn't feel empty anymore.
It's like you've found the piece of the puzzle that you didn't even know was missing.
And that's how you know you've found The One."
I feel triumphant in my poeticness.
But Mia raises an eyebrow and glances at her phone.
" Puzzles are really boring," she says, " and they take ages to finish. Anyway, can I go to a party on Tuesday?  It'll probably be full of pieces from the wrong puzzle but it might have good music."

And I think of our friends cycling through the first weeks of their marriage.
I think of Mia dancing through the beginning of her search for The One.
I think of Ninesh and me, still fitting together the  pieces of our never-ending puzzle of togetherness.
And I know that whoever The One is and however long it takes you to find them, it will always have been worth the journey.
Even if you do have to buy a pair of padded knickers to get there.

Surviving teenage partying.

They're  the words all parents  dread hearing from their teenagers.
The words you know are coming but keep hoping it won't be yet.
Perhaps not until next year or maybe the year after that.
Those 5 small words:
" Can I have a party?."
And you stand, gazing at your tiny house, your shiny wooden floors, the clean surfaces in your kitchen and with every nerve in your body, you want to shout out
"NO."
But there is an inevitable, rite-of-passageness about teenage partying.
And probably, a bit like your first drink, your first day of work, your first time......It is best to get it over with.
I look dubiously at almost 15 year old Joss, with his high hair and his trendy Topman clothes. and suddenly I find myself missing the tiny version of him who used to toddle around the garden chasing butterflies. 

Joss in New York

And suddenly I find myself missing the tiny version of him who used to toddle around the garden chasing butterflies. 
Missing the time when the most exciting thing he wanted to do was pull the cat's tail.
Missing the days When teenager-hood was still a whole decade of sleepless nights away
" I'm not sure Joss," I say, playing for time, " when did you want to have it?" 
" This Saturday," he says, casually.
"But it's already Tuesday," I say, hearing the panic rising in my voice. " You won't have time to invite anyone."
" Oh, everyone can already come," he says, glancing at this phone.
" But we haven't said you can have a party yet.
" I know," says Joss, " but I invited everyone just in case. You said I might be able to have a party for my birthday and you know I can't have it on my actual birthday because everyone will be on holiday and next week there's already a party, so this Saturday is the only day left to have it."  
I am, as usual, floored by his certainty of his teenage logic.
Because it's true, we did say he might, just might, be able to have a birthday party. 
But we thought it would be in the holidays.
We thought we would have weeks to plan it all and mentally prepare ourselves.
Days to organise the best way for it to have no loud music, no alcohol, no cigarettes, 
" This Saturday's not really a good day," I say, " I'm out all day and dad's band has a gig and...."
But already I can hear my voice trailing into indecisiveness.. and at that moment all is lost.
That's the thing about conversations with teenagers - you must never, ever sound like you're not sure. 
Because while they might never listen to a word you say, they never miss the slightest hint of hesitation in your voice and  they will always pounce when they sense the chance of victory.
" It's fine," says Joss. "I'll get everything ready and I'll tell everyone not to be here until 7.30. You'll be back by then, won't you? Can you buy us some cider?"

" It was bound to happen?" say my mum and dad when I go round for a comforting cup of tea, " Remember your first party. Some of the guests stole all the pictures from the hall on their way out.?"
I make a mental note to take down all our pictures.
"Remember that party when people stole all the eggs from your mum and dad's fridge and had an egg fight in the garden," asks an old school friend when I tell him about the party. 
I make a mental note to take all the eggs out of the fridge and hide them in our bedroom.
" It was fine," says my sister, whose 16 year old daughter has just had a party, " the walls just needed a little bit of touching up afterwards." 
I make a mental note to cover the walls with bin liners.

Saturday morning arrives, bright and sunny.
Joss is lying, texting on the sofa, pyjamaed and bleary-eyed, as I get ready to go out.
" Right," I say, pulling on my jacket and trying hard not to sound like I am organising anything because, as Joss points out, that's very annoying  "Is there anything else I need to get?"
Joss looks up form his phone.
" Maybe some stuff for breakfast," he says. 
" I just offered to make you breakfast, " I say, glancing at the clock, " you said you didn't want any."
" Not for today," he says, " for tomorrow."
" We've got a packet of bagels," I say.
" Well one packet won't be enough," says Joss.
" What do you mean?" I ask, " is someone staying the night?"
" Everyone is," explains Joss, returning his eyes to his phone.
" Everyone," I say, swallowing hard and trying to sound calm. " About how many is everyone?"
" Oh not many," he says, "  only about 20, 25."
I gaze around our little house, that is just about big enough for a family of 4.
" Where is everyone going to sleep?" I ask.
Joss shrugs.
" In the garden or the shed or somewhere.  Could you get about 5 packets of bacon and lots of cereal."
And with that he goes up to his bedroom, closing his door firmly behind him in a non-negotiable sort of way.

And so it happened.
Saturday night arrived and the house and garden were full of raucous teenagers, drinking, shrieking, laughing, chatting, dancing and sometimes crying ( but that's a whole other blog ) with the music always being played just a little bit too loudly. 
And when the band all came back to ours for a drink in the early hours  after the gig, they found themselves clambering over the 20 or so teenagers bedded down for the night on our living room floor.
As it turns out, all our pictures were still here in the morning, the eggs remained whole and the walls were pretty much in tact.
As it turns out, our house is plenty big enough to sleep 20.
As it turns out, I  realise as I pick a stray beer bottle out of the bathtub, our house is quite a good size for teenage parties.
I only hope that Joss hasn't realised that too!

Partying in the garden

The absolutely, completely, perfectly right pair of shoes

We were at a wedding last weekend - seems to be the year for them.
Not a big meringue-dress, smart-car, complicated-seating-plan sort of wedding.
But a small, quiet celebration of two people's love for one another.
It was in Pallant House Art Gallery in Chichester and it felt very special.
A bit like Night in the Museum without the animals, dinosaurs and historic characters, we had a whole museum all to ourselves
After tea served from beautifully mismatched vintage cups and plates full of pastel iced cakes, we sat under the trees of the flagged courtyard, chatting and laughing until champagne and endless canapés were served in the gallery itself.
And as the notes of a gently strummed guitar wrapped themselves  around us, we wandered through the small, history infused rooms.
I am not usually good at art galleries or museums.
After one room, I find my thoughts drifting towards the cafe or the gift shop or...anywhere else.
But there is something magical when you are the only people there.
Suddenly you have a personal relationship with everything you are looking at. 

Shell - Sussie Macmurray

 I walked, alone and bare-footed  through the historical rooms full of antique furniture, old masterpieces and moder installations, or climbed the elegant, age old staircase made modern by a wall completely covered in mussel shells and velvet.
And  I couldn't  help thinking that everything I was looking at, knew I was there.
And since, without me, they would be completely unadmired, they must be pleased to  see me..
And as I left each empty room or hallway behind me, I wanted to turn and wave goodbye and say  how nice it was to meet  the picture in an old wooden frame or the piece of antique furniture........ or the ball dress made out of 10,000 balloons....

Balloon dress by Susie MacMurray

But despite being surrounded by priceless works of art and clichéd as it sounds, nothing could compare to the beauty of the  bride.
Because nothing can touch the beauty of happiness.
And as she stood, serene and beautiful in her simple 40's style dress, her sparkling eyes matching the deep blue of the the flowers she refused to put down ( hard to see in black and white! )

 I walked up to her.
" You look amazing," I said. " Your dress is perfect, the sun is shining and the food is delicious. Is it all as you dreamed it would be ?"
She smiled.
"Yes  it is, " she said,  "we just wanted to share today with our closest friends.
But can I tell you the story of my shoes."
I grinned.  
There is nothing I like more than collecting other people's stories.
" I would love to hear it," I said.
And so the bride began the story of " the absolutely, completely, perfectly right pair of shoes.
" You remember," she said, " how last time we met I was telling you that I had found everything, the dress, the flowers, the hair-do. And that the only thing I missing was the right pair of shoes?"
I nodded.
The search for the right pair of shoes had been long and, last time we met, fruitless.
" Well, in the end, I gave up.  I found some shoes that were OK, not perfect, but OK. And since there was only a week to go until the wedding and since I had hunted in every shoe shop in Chichester, Brighton and much of London, I figured they would just have to do.
It wasn't that I didn't like them.
It was just that they weren't quite right."
" Shoes are never easy," I said, supportively, " they are the glitch in every plan."
She laughed and carried on.
" So anyway, last week, with 2 days to go until the wedding, I was walking to the station from  a friend's house in Chichester, when I passed this tiny, very chaotic, second-hand shop.  Half the clothes were outside, hanging by the road.
And that's where I found them, on the pavement, the shoes I had been looking for, for all these weeks.
My perfect pair of shoes, waiting there beside the road.
They were the perfect colour, the perfect style and when I tried them on, they were the perfect fit."
We both looked down at her shoes and smiled.

" That's a lovely story," I said.
" But it's not finished yet," she said. " because when I took them off and went inside to pay, I noticed something else. The name inside the shoe, look."
And balancing on one leg, she pulled off a shoe.
Inside slightly worn but still clear was the word  " Candena."
" Is that your favourite shoe designer or something?" I asked.
" No," she said, " but it's an important name to me because it's my mum's name. I've never heard of anyone else called that. Who calls their daughter Candena!"  
Lovingly she slipped the shoe back on. 
" My mum's passed away," she said, her eyes glistening "and I know it sounds stupid and I know these shoes might not look special to anyone else, but it feels like they are her wedding present to me. Like somehow she is here , wishing me well."
I looked at the absolutely, completely, perfectly right pair of shoes. 
I looked at the absolutely, completely, perfectly beautiful bride.
" It doesn't sound stupid," I said, " it just sounds true."

And perhaps that's what made the artistic treasures of Pallant House so special that day.
It's not so much about how things look but about what they once meant or will mean to someone.
It's about the stories they are part of and the history they will still make.
Our past is what forms us.
And if life is about anything, it is about finding the absolutely, completely perfectly right pair of shoes when you least expect it.  

The unbearable heaviness of washing-up bowls

We were camping with my family last weekend when my sister suddenly held up  an old, red washing-up bowl.
" Remember this?" she said.
My brother grinned.
" The famous  washing-up bowl  How could I forget it.You remember, right?" he asked, turning to me,. 
I stared at the hard, round plastic bowl,  willing this obviously important shared childhood memory to emerge from the ever spreading mist of my forgotten moments..
" Of course you remember," said my sister, helping me " this bowl and the motorbike."
" Oh yes," I said,  trying to sound convincing, "the washing-up bowl and the motorbike..."
And suddenly I did remember it: a sunny day spent lounging on a camp site in the South of France many years ago. 

As was often the case, my mum was watching some fellow campers packing up.
 It was a complicated process with tent and sleeping bags and worldly possessions scattered all over the ground, waiting to be tightly rolled into tiny balls.
The luggage had to take up as little space as possible because these were not just your average, every day,  chuck-it-all in-the-boot-of-a-car campers.
These were cool, leather-jacketed, sun-glass-wearing, biker campers.

While we went to the swimming pool or played table-tennis, mum sat outside our tent. waiting.
She watched transfixed as the bikers reduced their week-long home to a few small bags

" What I want to know," she said, when I returned to fetch something we'd forgotten, 
" what I want to know, is how are they going to fit that washing-up bowl onto their bike."
She was pointing at a plain, red bowl, standing on the ground next to the tightly packed sleeping bags and the neatly rolled tent. 
It looked old-fashioned standing there- too solid, too unfoldable to be part of the bikers' modern, compact world.
I grabbed the table-tennis bats I had come to collect..
"They've probably got a special bag or something," I said, running off to join the others.
" See you at lunch?"
But when we returned, hot and hungry half an hour later, the bowl was still in the same place on the ground..
 "Perhaps they're keeping a special space underneath the rest of the luggage  just for the bowl," she said.
" Perhaps one of them is going to wear it instead of a helmet," suggested my brother, reaching for the bread and ham.
" Can we go to the beach this afternoon?" asked my sister, making a long, salami sandwich.
" Sure," said dad and turned to mum.
" Shall we take the lilo?"
" I don't think there's going to be room," said mum.
" What do you mean," said dad, confused, "It's tiny. It's not even blown-up yet."
Mum turned her eyes back to us.
" Why would you blow up a washing-up bowl?" she asked.
We all stared at her.
" Why would we take a washing-up bowl to the beach? asked dad.
But mum wasn't listening.
Her gaze had returned to our biker neighbours.
" Look," she said, " they're almost ready.  Everything is on the motorbike except for the washing-up bowl. Maybe one of them is going to carry it on their lap.
I watched doubtfully as the " biker-chick," now wearing leather trousers as well as her leather jacket, clicked her helmet into place and swung her leg over the bike behind her boyfriend.
" I think she's too cool for washing-up bowl holding mum," I said.
" Well what are they going to do then?" said mum disappointment and slight panic rising in her voice." Perhaps they've forgotten about it.  Maybe I should go and tell them." They'll miss it when they get to their next camp-site. How will they wash-up."
" Perhaps they don't need it anymore," I said.
" Of course they need it," said mum, " how will they wash-up without it?"
"Perhaps they're going out for dinner for the rest of their lives," I said.
Before mum could answer, the bike engine roared into life.
Glancing behind her, the biker-chic checked the empty space where their tent had been 
For a moment her eyes lingered on the lone, red bowl.
" She's seen it," sighed mum," thank goodness."
But instead of rescuing the bowl, she tapped her boyfriend on the shoulder and pulled down her visor.
He kicked away the stand and leaving a trail of dust and churned up grass, they roared, leather-clad into the  blue-skied, Southern French distance.

For a moment the silence echoed around us.
We sat in front of our heavy-framed, three-bedroomed tent eating our lunch. 
While next to us the dust settled on the lonely, unwanted red washing-up bowl, too solid and unbearably heavy to be part of a life full of adventure and freedom and motorbikes.
Putting down her baguette, mum stood up. 
" Well," she said, " if they don't want it, we might as well have it.  You can't have too many washing-up bowls."
And walking over, she picked it up and started filling it with our used cups.
And my sister has never stopped using it on their camping holidays since.

And between that French holida and now, we have all of us, travelled and had adventures. 
We have made new lives in new countries.
We have left behind unnecessary possessions and wandered the world.
But in the end, there has always been something comforting about coming home. Something reassuring about knowing that somewhere, on some forgotten campsite, there will always be a round, solid , unchanging, slightly too heavy washing-up bowl waiting to welcome us back.

.

How do you get to Sesame Street?

This weekend, driving to Dorset in our camper van, we listened to " Songs From The Street:Thirty Five Years of music from Sesame Street."

And even though  Ninesh and I are grey-haired parents and our van was full of pre-adult teenagers rather than the pre-schooler audience it's aimed at, we all of us, loved it.

Sesame Street was an integral part of my Saturday morning childhood. 
It was so incredibly ahead of its time in its inclusive, multi-cultural, bi-lingual, child-centred, " learning-should-be-fun," approach, that it's hard to believe it's 45 years old.
Who can forget the psychedelic, bodiless hand counting to 10,
.

the unfrightening, misunderstood, purple vampire The Count, who just wanted to be left alone to....count.

Or the straight-laced, long-faced Bert and the fun-loving, round-faced Ernie, who will  be forever " just good friends."








And who hasn't been as addicted to sugar as the Cookie Monster or felt as constantly unconfident and incongruous as enormous, yellow Big Bird?
And everyone can relate to the anxieties of " bundle -of-nerves," blue Grover.
Before you've even met them, the characters are your friends because somehow they represent a part of you.
Especially grumpy Oscar, the dustbin- dwelling Grouch.
My favourite song on the CD has to be Oscar singing Nasty Dan, the grouchiest song in the world, with Johnny Cash ( " Say isn't your name Johnny Trash?" )

However many times you hear it, however old you are, it will always make you laugh.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H75eQX006jA

The truth is, deep down inside, I have always longed to be invited to live on Sesame Street.
Who wouldn't want to live somewhere so friendly and caring and vibrant and full of fun.
If you're bored or sad or lonely, all you have to do is step onto the Street and immediately you will bump into a friend or a letter or a number or someone famous who just happens to be walking by.
And they will always know exactly what to do or say, or more often sing, to make you feel better.
I bet " For Sale," signs don't stay outside houses on Sesame Street for very long!
And can you imagine the street parties.
Not only would your favourite puppet friends be there, but all the other guests would be famous pop stars or actors or politicians.
Because everyone who is anyone has been on Sesame Street. 
From Kofi Annan and David Beckham to Robert De Niro and Zac Efron.
From Paul Simon to Michael Jackson
If you haven't been seen or sung with the cast of Sesame Street, you haven't really made it to the big time.
That's why the CD is so good. 
Think of a famous singer or group from the last 40 years and they are probably on it: R.E.M, The Black Crowes, Johnny Cash, Billy Joel, Lena Horne, Ladysmith Black Mambazo.
And behind the glamour and the songs and the celebrity laughter, lies the passion of the characters'  creator: Jim Henson.
He wanted to make learning fun and funny for all children whatever their ability, colour or language.
And he did it. 
Sesame Street led a blazing path across children's television giving it a status it had never had before and a creativity it has rarely seen again.

On the radio the other day, I heard a someone explaining that when they were ill and suffering from amnesia, they had suffered from hallucinations.
In one of the hallucinations he had seen God.
Only God took the form of a white-robed Jim Henson.
" Well, " said the patient philosophically, " if God is like anyone, it's most likely to be Jim Henson isn't it?" 
And I think he's right.
That Jim Henson should die so early and so suddenly from something so seemingly inconsequential as a sore throat, seems cruel.
But if I imagine him anywhere, it is sitting in a playground eating cookies with the Cookie Monster, trying to cheer up Oscar the Grouch and counting stars with The Count while Big Bird and Mr Snuffleupagus lollop slowly by.

And as I sit here, chaotically planning the party for our less famous street this weekend, I can't help listening out for the postman.
Because you never know.
Today might be the day my invitation arrives, the one with the map telling me exactly 
"how to get to Sesame Street."

 .

Teenage soaring

Mia's tortoise, Gaudi, has just crawled into her schoolbag and peed all over her books. 

 

Spot the peeing tortoise

Symbolic, 16 year old Mia feels, of the fact that, although she still has a few GCSEs' scattered over the next few weeks, her uniform-wearing school days are pretty much over.
And her future is glittering just in front of her, an ocean of unknown possibilities.
It's strange because I remember that feeling so clearly.
The feeling that you are standing on the edge of your tomorrow. 
That your wait is over.
That life can, at last, begin.
As a parent, it's not easy watching your children grow up and begin to walk away from you.
With every ounce of your being you want to reel them back in.
You want to hold them close and keep them safe.
You want to pull the thorns from any roses they may come across.
You want to kick away  the rocks and stones that they might stumble over.
You want to catch their pain before their hearts are broken.
That's what you want to do.
But you can't.
Not anymore.
Instead you have to stand in the shadows and watch them blossom and drift away from you.
It's their Spring, with a  perpetual Summer just around the corner, and they are ready to throw away their soggy books and take the world by storm  
Whatever that world may be.
Because it doesn't feel quite like our world anymore.
The world always belongs to the young.
What's hard, is admitting to ourselves that that is no longer us.

" Awks," says Mia if she ever catches Ninesh and I holding hands.
" Embarrassing," says 14 year old Joss, if he ever sees us dancing.

And you want to shout out:
" You're wrong.  We're not awkward or embarrassing. We're cool."
But the truth is, we're not.
At least not to them.
And anyway, who uses the word "cool," these days?!
"Useful," would be a better word to describe us.
We are chauffeurs and food-providers.
We are  hair-appointment makers and bed-linen changers.
We are on-demand-no-questions-asked-listeners and tissue-providing comforters.
We are personal bankers and uncomplaining mobile phone bill payers.
(How else can they phone us in the middle of the night to ask for a lift home?).
These are the terms and conditions that we unwittingly signed up to when we became parents of teenagers.
It 's the price we pay for unconditional love.
And the truth is, it's worth it.
Worth watching them spread their youth-tinged, unruffled wings.
Worth watching them take off and fly towards the stars.
Worth watching them soar far higher than we ever did.
And when they do, when we are merely specks on yesterdays horizon, it will still be worth it. 
They are the guardians of our hopes and the couriers of our dreams and, however old and un-cool we may be, they cannot help but carry a little part of us into their tomorrow. 

Hands off my mate- touche pas a mon pote...and other anti-racist rants

If you are a pro-European and an anti-racist, now is not a good time to be living in Europe. 
And it's a particularly bad time to be living in France.
French Jewish friends of my parents have recently to decided to leave Paris, where they have lived their whole lives, because the anti-semitism has become unbearable.
And somehow, I am not surprised.
When I was 18, three decades ago now ( how scary! ) I spent 8 months au-pairing in sun-drenched Provence in the South of France.

The family I was working for had 2 very young children, one born while I was there, the other 3 years old. 
And then there was the stormy teenage daughter from the husband's previous marriage, only a year or so younger than me and raging against the world. 
The wife was a young, vivacious, bronzed Madagascan Princess who had somehow ended up married to a " not-quite-as-successful-as-he-would-have-you-believe," car salesman, living in a tiny village surrounded by vineyards and conservatism.
It's a strange job, being an au-pair.
 For a while you become a member of a family you are not actually part of.
You become a surrogate parent, a temporary confidante and an expert cleaner. 
You have to learn to carve out a niche where there was never a hole. 
But once we all worked out how I fitted into the ups and downs of someone else's family life, we muddled along well enough together.
And if I sometimes heard things I wasn't meant to hear or they sometimes shared things I wasn't meant to know, they learnt to trust that their secrets were safe with me.
But there was one thing that was never a secret.
And that was the dad's racist views.
He wore them proudly, like a badge of honour.
" Es tu raciste Becky?" he asked me on one of my first days there.
I stared at him wondering if it was a trick question.
 Wrapping his arms proudly around his dark-haired Madagascan wife, he asked me again:   " Are you racist Becky....because I am."
Now, older and wiser and braver, I would probably have challenged him.
Then, a shy 18 year old in a strange, new home,  I just shook my head and carried on sweeping the kitchen floor.
The strange thing was, that apart from this one view, he was a kind, caring dad and an adoring husband  to his foreign- born bride.
It was just that being racist was " the new cool."
Le Pen was on the rise.
His anti-Arab message sweeping across the South of France like an infectious wave of discontent. 
To be pro-Le Pen and anti-Arab in that tiny, red-roofed village was the trendy, right thing to be. 
No foreigners were going to come and destroy their centuries old way of life.
Which was strange because, as far as I could see, no strangers were trying to!

In Paris anti-racist protesters were marching through the streets, wearing hand shaped badges with the words
 " touche pas a mon pote," ( hands off my mate ) 
written on their palms. 
But in the South of France no one seemed to be campaigning.
In the huge, multi-cultural, port city of Marseille where I sometimes spent my weekends, discontent and anger were bubbling on every hot, dusty street corner.
Walls were covered in racist slogans and pictures of Le Pen were pinned to every lamp-post.
Being racist in Marseille was not just a token topic that you tossed around the dinner-table before discussing where to buy the best cheese.
If you were racist in Marseille, you were pro-active with your prejudice.
And if you were anti-racist, being inactive was ceasing to be an option. 
Arriving one Friday afternoon from the station, visiting the family friends I always stayed with, the wife put her fingers to her lips.
" We need to be quiet," she whispered in her perfect English, " Pierre had a late night last night. He is sleeping."
I nodded and crept into the living-room wondering why her friendly, hard-working bank manager husband wasn't at work and why he had been out so late on a Thursday night without her.
At dinner, I found out.
Impeccably dressed as always, even when relaxing at home, he took a sip of his favourite local red wine  and told me what he had been doing until 4 a.m. the previous morning.
He had been out with a can of spray-paint, covering over every racist slogan he could find in his local neighbourhood.
He risked his job.
He risked being arrested.
A tiny act of rebellion against a flooding swell of racism.
But I have never forgotten it.
It is always the smallest, most measurable and unexpected acts of bravery, that give us the greatest amount of hope and courage.

This morning, in Calais, on the other side of the Channel, French riot police are trying to close down the migrant camps and send the unwanted foreigners back to where they came from.
And I am wondering why people would choose to leave their homes and family to sleep on the hard, cold ground.
I am wondering why they would choose to risk their freedom for nothing more than the  dream of a better life.  
And I am wondering if I would be brave enough to do it.

Many immigrants are desperate people prepared to do the jobs that no one else wants to do, for wages that no one else would accept.
Immigration is the result of injustice and prejudice and the unfair distribution of wealth.
It is the result of the devastation of war and the imbalance of power. 
Perhaps before we let UKIP brainwash us into believing that immigration is the cause of all our problems, we should look at the cause of immigration.
Perhaps before we follow in the footprints of the South of France and let being racist become "the new cool ," we should look at the bigger picture.
It's time to pick up our spray cans.
It's time to creep out of our homes in the middle of the night and cover every wall with just one word:  WELCOME. 

London dreaming and generational slipping

It happens to us all of us in the end.
And the truth is, I've  known the day would soon come.
But still, there is nothing that can quite prepare you for it..
We were sitting, pic-nicing with some of our best and oldest friends l and in Lincoln's Inn Field in the Centre of London when we found out.
The sun was shining, the beer was cold, the French bread and cheese were delicious.  
All was right with the world.
We were free of the responsibilities of parenthood, with a whole weekend of pure enjoyment ahead of us. 
We felt almost young again.
Just like the good old days.
And that's when it happened.
 One of our friends, turned to his wife and said: 
" Have you told them yet?"
I took another swig of beer and waited, expectantly.
" Told them what?" she asked.
'You know," he said, " about the...." and he folded his arms together and rocked them from side to side as though he was holding a baby.
" Oh that," said his wife .
And so she told us that one of our university friends ( not quite friend enough  to be part of our " meeting up once a year for the weekend," gang ) has just become a grandad.
For a moment none of us said anything.
And for a split second the sun seemed to lose its heat.
Because there's something about the words " grandma,' and " grandad," that make you feel, not so much old, as passé.  
Suddenly we are not just the last generation, but the generation before that.
And the problem is that, even though we are, most of us, parents of teenagers, inside we are still teenagers ourselves.
We haven't actually started doing all those things we meant to do, like changing the world and following our dreams and living the life we meant to live when the stressful part was over..
That was meant to happen tomorrow, when we had time.
And all of a sudden, we could be grandparents and there might not be enough time for us to actually be the difference we want to see in the world.
Because nobody listens to the generation before the last. .

" Well," said one of our friend's philosophically breaking the silence, " if it was going to be anyone,he's the best person to be a grandad.  He's been 50 since he was born."
We all laughed and went back to drinking and eating and lazing in the sun.
And we had the best weekend, as we always do, with friends whose company is familiar and easy and a constant pleasure.
We stood on the silver, Millennium Bridge watching Tower Bridge going up and down.

First time Ive ever seen Tower Bridge  up!

We went to the gift shop in the Tate Modern  so that we could pretend we were cultured and drank cocktails in the afternoon so that we could pretend we were decadent while Arsenal won the cup.
We  ate delicious Malaysian food in bustling  Soho  and wandered back drunkenly to our Lincoln's Inn apartment through the bright lights of a warm London night.

Bright light wanderings

And as we drank milkshakes in artist-filled, Brick Lane Market on Sunday morning we clung onto the dream that we were still young and trendy, or at least only just middle-aged and almost cool.

The sun didn't stop shining and we didn't stop laughing and we wished we didn't have to go home.
Weekends away with friends are like islands of pleasure in an ocean of exhausting  weeks.
But somewhere deep inside, I felt the flutterings of disquiet. 
If one our friends has already become a grandad,  perhaps we are running out of time.
Or perhaps it is just that we need to make more time to do the things we always meant to do.
Perhaps tomorrow has come and we should be spending more afternoons drinking cocktails and more weekends with friends and more hours dreaming of better things.
And that way, when we do become grandparents ( and I can't help hoping that it will be a little while yet! ) at least we will be ready to enter the generation before the last without regrets.

Which is why I have made my big decision ( only big to me ) to leave my job and begin to live my dream.
So here's to life and love and friendship and days of garden-shed dreaming.

Big decisions

The strange thing about decisions, is that usually it's not the big ones that are the hardest to make but the little, every day ones.

Deciding to move country, go travelling, change jobs, those decisions often seem easy.  

Deciding what to have for dinner, what to choose from a restaurant menu, what colour tiles would look good in the kitchen, what clothes to wear- those are the hard ones. 
Perhaps it's because big decisions have been hovering somewhere at the back of our mind for such a long time that when crunch time comes, we've actually already decided.
Or perhaps it's because big decisions tend to be emotive ones and it's easier to be governed by our emotions than the colour of a tile.
Or perhaps it's because those little decisions are the ones we have to live with every day and can make us feel perpetually  disappointed. 

"It doesn't matter what I order in  a restaurant," said one of my friends, " when the food arrives, I always wish I'd ordered what my friends have."

And that's how those little decisions can make us feel: perpetually disappointed. 

" My 2 year old has a tantrum every time we offer him a choice," said a parent to me yesterday.
" What do you mean?" I asked.
" Like, on Saturday we went to the park and we said: Do you want to feed the ducks at  the pond or go to the playground. She chose the pond but as soon as we got there, she started shouting and crying. I think it's because she was worried that the playground might have been more fun."

That's the trouble with little decisions....the playground might always have been more fun.

Whereas the big decisions have a " no turning back," exciting sense of destiny about them. And the strange thing about those big decisions is that, once you have made them, the rest is easy, however huge the consequences.
When, 9 years ago, Ninesh and I decided to give up our jobs, take the kids out of school, buy a camper van and go travelling, we thought the decision would be the easy part and everything we needed to do to make it happen, would be difficult.
And we were right about the decision, it took one evening of discussion, but we were wrong about the rest.
Once we were sure of our decision, the rest seemed easy.
The school supported us, the Theatre rented our house furnished - pans, Ninesh found a camper van on-line and before we knew it...we were off.
Waving goodbye to our home, to permanence,to indoor living, to our street and ( with a tear in our eye) to our neighbours, we drove off into the early morning mist in our slightly top-heavy camper van.

Living the camper van dream

And that big decision was the best decision we have ever made.
Not just because of all the amazing things we saw and the extraordinary things we did but because, for 6 months, we lived the unique adventure of just being a family.
No time-demanding, anxiety-causing strings attached.
Perhaps it was so easy to organise because once we had made the decision, Ninesh and I were driven by a shared dream, certain of what we both wanted.
And maybe that's the thing about big decisions, they give you a rare certainty, a definite purpose.
And even if the decisions are sad ones: leaving your family, leaving your home, giving up your job,  the consequences of making those decisions are so immediate, so all-consuming that for a while you forget your normal, irritating, every day worries. 
Big decisions free our minds, little ones clutter them.

So perhaps the thing to do, is to make a big decision every year.

I've just made mine for this year.
What will yours be?