Superheroes in suburbia

As mornings go, this one has been a little different.  I have been given strict instructions to acquire a collectable comic for my 7 year-old with his remaining birthday money.  Now that he has discovered Spider-Man, he is suddenly a Marvel Comic connoisseur.  This newfound hobby just so happens to coincide with a former colleague launching the first issue of his own comic, the dark, fantastical, exquisitely illustrated and wholly-inappropriate-for-7-year-olds “No Place Like Home.” 

I am a comic book virgin of sorts.  My very limited experience to date is adequately covered by a handful of Beano comics purchased by my father and a cursory glance at an old Eagle annual handed down by some distant relative.  The Beano comics in no time at all became landfill.  The Eagle annual remained on my bookcase, gathering dust until such time that I finally appreciated the merits of the genre.

This discovery of comics – aside from being attributable to parenthood, also stems from having worked for a time for a TV production company amongst artists, self-confessed geeks and creative types.  A few lasting friendships were formed at this company and we are all now hitting that difficult age where we are bidding goodbye to our youth and staring down the barrel of impending middle age.  But we are not going down without a fight.  This has been non more evident than in recent birthday and Christmas presents I have received, which have included DVDs I would hitherto not have elected to watch, but now relish, including Kick-Ass and X-Men.  In short, I am not so much revisiting my youth as reinventing it.

So, intent on bagging a first “investment” issue to stash in my loft (not to read by torchlight under the duvet like a guilty teen, you understand), I decided to further investigate the Spider-Man stories.  It’s a minefield out there!  I have never seen so many variations on a theme.  There are enough villains to ensure the simultaneous running of several world wars.  Also, aside from the copious volumes on Spider-Man, there is “The Amazing Spider-Girl.” There are Spider-Man “Revelations,” and stories where he teams up with other Marvel heroes, such as Wolverine.  I’m sure a lot of you are reading this and wondering whether I have been living under a rock for years, but it has opened up a whole new world to me.

I eventually opted for Spider-Man:  Origin of Species and feel very proud of myself for becoming notably cooler.  I know a little about these things now.  I also know where to find them.  OK, it’s a Southampton mega store, but it deals in cult entertainment.  Cult, you see?  There is a difference.  Already I am sounding like a comic book nerd.  Maybe I’ll be bitten by dust mites and will morph into some kind of leaping, flying super heroine, able to drain the blood of suburban baddies while they sleep.  Watch this space.

Perfect Pancake

This may be my shortest post yet, but it is no less significant.

It's not too late to share what could be the perfect pancake accompaniment.  Warning:  This is not for the dedicated gourmet cook.  It is not for the old at heart.  It is certainly not sophisticated or demanding of any culinary skill.  It will also only apply to those of you who can be bothered to venture out to the supermarket at this late hour.

So here goes.  My recommendation is as follows:-

Pancake mix and execution as per Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's Family Cookbook.
Cook until a little crispy.
Spoon out a generous helping of Ben & Jerry's Caramel Chew Chew ice cream and sprinkle with fresh raspberries.
Roll and devour.

Go on, do it.  You'll thank me for it!

Contended Cat

I wish I could be as content as my cat.  He is currently spread eagled on the bed - paws in the air - totally void of inhibitions and insecurities.  I think it would take an overweight pigeon flying into the Velux window to induce any change to his demeanour; such is his level of relaxation.  If I could bottle this, I would be an overnight sensation.

I meanwhile, am fretting about completing my blog, washing my hair, preparing pancake mix and making some semblance of a start on preparations for our evening meal in the two hours I have remaining before the school run.

Ideally and somewhat selfishly, I would also like to fit in some Internet research pertaining to holidays.  Do you know Easter is only around six weeks away?  These things take planning.  My husband is my polar opposite in many ways.  He is as laid back as I am uptight.  His approach is to “see what happens”.  Mine is to “make it happen.”

Ironically, the one thing holding me back on the holiday planning is our aforementioned cat, Mowzer.  We’ve only had him since October.  He is six months old and has yet to master using the cat flap.  Mowzer currently views said cat flap as simply another doorway to the house and one, which also requires human intervention to facilitate his entry.

In terms of stress relief, Mowzer the cat is not delivering either, preferring to occupy a chair, the top of a radiator or a bed as opposed to my lap.  I am viewed as a potential mate (yes, he has reached that age) at around 8.00 pm each evening, which technically, is my down time.  Watching Masterchef, whilst a maturing Tomcat grips my wrist with his teeth, all the time attempting to do something unspeakable to my arm is not conducive to relaxation I find.

However, all this will change tomorrow, when Mowzer the cat makes his scheduled visit to the vets.  My guilt is palpable.  I won’t relax tonight and tomorrow night I will be wrestling with the guilt of playing God.  No peace and all that…

Mixed messages and Pancake Mix

Before I begin, let me make one thing clear.  I respect our teachers and believe that on the whole, they do a great job.  I spent one day assisting on a school trip to Warwick Castle, chaperoning a gaggle of 6 year-olds and spent the best part of a week recovering.  Also, I still wince at the memory of my son, Caleb, in his year at nursery, deciding that the most effective way of communicating to the teaching staff his intention to go home earlier than scheduled was to deliberately wet himself in the middle of the classroom.  The ruddy complexion and slightly dishevelled appearance of the nursery teacher who greeted me at the end of the session spoke volumes.  She was the chosen one – the teacher to make Caleb realise that his plan was fundamentally flawed.  She was the one to introduce him to the bottomless lost property basket from which any number of alternative outfits can be assembled (although she was clearly no Gok Wan).  The haunted look in her eyes as she relayed the physical challenge of re-dressing my hysterical son in the oversized jogging bottoms and red Wellington boots is forever etched in my memory.  So whenever I feel like joining in the school gate banter and having a pop at the teaching staff, I recall this memory.

That said, I am struggling to suppress a rant today. 

From the outset, the teachers at my son’s school have been at pains to promote independence in pupils.  Within weeks of entering Reception, the children were encouraged to enter school unaided, laden with coats, PE bags, book bags, water bottles and lunch boxes and to locate their own pegs and carefully find homes for all their equipment.  We would receive reports of teachers refusing to assist the children in fastening the top buttons of their shirts after PE (I still struggle with this uniquely stiff button!)  They were also encouraged from the start to fasten their own coats.

Similarly, in Year 2, the quest for self-reliance continues and quite rightly so.  The children are responsible for transferring newsletters from their trays into their book bags at the end of the day.  They are expected to select their own reading books and remember to bring them home.  So far, so good.

So imagine my surprise when my son came home last night and told me that the zip-up fleece (standard uniform item, bearing the school logo) could only be worn at playtime and that he should wear a jumper.  Given that this fleece cost me £16.00, I decided to query this with the Head of Year.  I was advised that as it is warm in school, perhaps it would be better for him to wear a jumper as the classroom is quite warm, which means he would have to take it off and then again, the school hall can be quite cold, which means he would have to think to put it on again. 

Am I missing something?!  Would this not apply to all outer layers or is this just specific to the zip-up fleece?  More to the point, is my son incapable of appreciating when he is too hot or cold?

Now, he does have a jumper and a sweatshirt, which he also wears.  But in the spirit of independence and with the temperature in school being tropical and the temperature outside being somewhat variable, I thought it best to send him in a zip-up fleece in order that he could exercise free will and easily remove said item when he was too warm. 

Clearly I have a lot to learn about independence.  It’s perhaps too complicated for a 7 year-old to neatly and tidily unzip a fleece when feeling a little warm in class.  It is in fact much easier to remove a sweatshirt where the head hole is always a little too small, the action itself produces enough static in the hair to power a village and where the results are a skewiff tie and untucked shirt (definitely not regulation compliant).

This morning, I have therefore delivered my son to school in a jumper, standing little chance of ever coaxing him back into his pricey but practical fleece now that a teacher has turned it into such an issue.

OK, deep breaths.  Rant over. 

On the plus side, today is Pancake Day.  (See how I moved so smoothly from mixed messages to pancake mix?)

For once I am completely organised.  We have eggs.  We have flour.  We have milk and maple syrup.  We have sugar and lemons.  We have ice cream and berries.  We have all the components for a teatime taste sensation. 

However, we also have a wilful and independent child who will no doubt wish to take part in pancake preparations as well as their consumption.  It could get messy.  Best remove that jumper before we start, otherwise I’ll be forced to return to the forbidden fleece!

How to celebrate Valentine's Day when it's your son's birthday

In my experience, Valentine’s Day, far from being the most romantic day of the year, has always been tricky to negotiate.

From the moment I became a teenager, Valentine’s Day immediately became a calendar date of enormous significance.  The anticipation and let’s face it pure, unadulterated fear that I would be overlooked by the Valentine’s Day postman, took on monumental proportions.

I suffered from that affliction typically reserved for teenagers – awkward shyness.  If there had been a vote on the pupil(s) most likely to nab a cool boyfriend, I wouldn’t have even made it onto the list.  If anyone did take a liking to me, they would have to be pretty direct for me to notice.  I would dread the arrival of Valentine’s Day and wince at the thought of a whole day spent in the shadow of my friend Debbie and her hoard of Valentine’s Day cards and cuddly bears.

My teenage years occurred at a time when the post arrived at a set time of day and unfortunately for me, the postal delivery service in our village was way too efficient and pretty much guaranteed a delivery before I left for school in a morning.  Accordingly, there was no get-out clause.  If I didn’t receive a card, I could not simply blame the post (pity today’s teenagers who presumably send e-cards, which are instantaneous, affording the unloved no excuses).  The best my boy-repellent peers and I could hope for was a heavy snowfall, which might slow the postman down and provide us with some semblance of an excuse.

As it turned out, I need not have worried so, as I received two Valentine’s Day cards for all but one of my years at secondary school.  This was no mean feat given the lack of boyfriend material in my year (being awkward and shy does not make one less fussy).  I only ever identified one of the senders.  The other remains a mystery to this day. 

Even at the start of my career, my Valentine’s woes still did not disappear altogether.  Office politics promote competitiveness and this would extend to Valentine’s Day celebrations.  Everyone was at pains to upstage their colleagues with the most adventurous weekend break, the most lavish gift or dinner at the best restaurant.

My then boyfriend and I decided to buck this trend.  We would bemoan the fact that Valentine’s Day was nothing more than a commercial exercise and we would laugh behind closed doors at the suckers who spent a day’s salary on the obligatory and unimaginative bunch of roses.  However, as much as it pained me to be romantic just because it said so on my calendar, I still had expectations for Valentine’s Day and luckily my boyfriend did well to see through my mock disdain.  He would mark the occasion with an impressive home cooked meal and a bottle of fizz.  We would also exchange cards, although they were invariably home made and a little leftfield.

Eventually we became husband and wife and after a few more years of dropping out of the Valentine’s Day circus, I became pregnant and it somehow became fitting that our son was born on Valentine’s Day.  What better gift than a healthy baby boy?

So now, when our social life has been somewhat curtailed, is at the mercy of the availability of babysitters and Valentine’s Day happens to be centred around the birthday celebrations of one soon-to-be 7 year-old, we are even less likely to make a big splash about Valentine’s Day.   Add to the mix our son’s propensity to stay awake later than most, which is a true passion killer (it’s all there in my book, Diary of a Sleep Deprived Mum), we might just about manage a swift glass of something sparkling before our heads hit the pillow.

Yet none of this bothers me.  We have a happy and healthy son and for me it’s my husband’s smaller romantic gestures I appreciate, like remembering to chill my wine on a Friday evening, for bringing me a cup of coffee when I need it most, for the handmade Christmas card I received, inscribed with a message and opened by a metal clasp (how clever?!) and for his ability to rustle up a mouth watering meal when I would stake my life on there being nothing in the fridge.

However and whenever you celebrate your love for someone, enjoy!

Blog Obliteration

I will be brief.  I must be, otherwise I risk taking a large and heavy object to my computer or assuming the foetal position in the corner and silently crying.

I have spent the last few hours attempting to increase the profile of my blog.  I have trawled through the help pages of www.blogger.com and checked my settings to ensure that I am maximising my potential to reach as many complete strangers in cyberspace as is humanly possible.  I have achieved very little.  My settings, in the main, required no alteration from their default statuses. 

During this process however, I found that I had failed to attach labels to my posts, which I discovered would enable other users to be directed to my posts more speedily if the labels match their search criteria.  Accordingly, I set about labelling each and every one of my posts.

Feeling very pleased with myself, I reclined with a coffee and eagerly awaited the traffic I felt sure would magically flow towards my blog.  It was at this point that I noticed my posts were no longer in the correct order, my most recent effort having been relegated to third position.

An embarrassingly long period of time ensued as I attempted to find a way of remedying this.  I’ll spare you the details, but the resulting loss of two of my posts has left me bereft, particularly as one of the posts has also mysteriously vanished from my hard drive.  It is possible that I am now suffering from eyestrain and quite feasibly a form of temporary insanity, as it’s inexplicable that I should fail to save a blog post.

The only glimmer of hope in this sorry state of affairs is that I did successfully complete my Google+ profile.  But even this is somewhat tainted by the fact that no one I know is currently using the facility so I will be touting my wares to a handful of apathetic celebrities.  That is if I have managed to connect Google+ to my blog in the first place.  We shall see…

So, if the Dalai Lama, Caitlin Moran or The Guardian happen to be reading this, please could you just give me the heads up and save my poor, faithful scapegoat-of-a-computer from the scrap man?  Pretty please?

Women behaving badly

Warning, one of my favourite poems by Jenny Joseph, begins:

“When I am an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me.”

The predicted behaviour goes steadily downhill from here, but that is why I love it.  Who doesn’t find the idea of an old lady spitting in the street or stealing flowers from other people’s gardens amusing?

Admittedly, I don’t know many old ladies who behave like this, although my great-grandmother once consumed two thirds of a bunch of grapes for a solid twenty minutes before machine gunning the seeds around the living room of her residential home, much to the shock of the Matron and other residents (and to the stifled giggles of my eleven-year-old self).  But she was not well at the time and seedless grapes were scarce. 

Most old ladies I know are gentle, loving and respectful.  It’s lamentable, but they are largely fearful of today’s youth, not at pains to emulate the notorious members of the younger ASBO generation.

Having said that, there are a few women shaping up to become senior citizens of that ilk.  Denise Welch for one.  Her unapologetic flashing tendencies in this year’s Celebrity Big Brother show no sign of abating and she is coming under fire, interestingly not solely for the flesh baring, but for daring to do so at the age of 53!

So, is there a cut off point for risqué behaviour and does it only apply to women?  The mantra for women of a certain age seems to be less, less, less, not more, more, more.  Less make up, less jewellery, less wine, less cake, less….fun!  There’s nothing new in saying that our behaviour seems to come under greater scrutiny than our male counterparts.  As I’m writing, I can think of a number of fashion rules, which only serve to curtail women’s freedom of expression.  I know for a fact that women are expected to forego mini skirts after the age of 35, but I couldn’t tell you who made that rule.  Isn’t that strange?   There are others.  Only the other day, I was watching the new M.I.A. video for “Bad Girlz” and coveting her mint coloured leopard print skinny jeans, all the time reprimanding myself for thinking I could wear those at my age!  For the record, I am not yet 40.

I know, I know, we all like to look and feel good.  But we are also expected to modify our behaviour and maybe even stop doing the things we enjoy at a certain point in our lives.  I could take a feminist stance and argue that there are and always have been many men out there actively behaving badly and being revered for it – Jack Nicholson, Warren Beatty, Colin Farrell and Russell Brand to name but a few.  However, it strikes me that there is a key to behaving badly and getting away with it. 

Provided the perpetrator has intelligence, creativity, a sense of humour, an appreciation of irony and a rapier wit, they can pretty much do anything and still command respect.  Not fair perhaps, but true all the same.  Problems start to arise when an established pattern of behaviour quickly becomes a permanent fixture, with nothing else on the table so to speak.  Boob flashing, if you’re so inclined, is all well and good, but there are only so many times viewers, or anyone for that matter, will be shocked by this or moved to react. 

Dorothy Parker, notorious writer, poet and critic, is a good example of a woman we allowed to behave badly.  Her private life was complicated at best and certainly blighted by alcohol addiction.  Yet, when you realise that she was responsible for the infamous line: “One more drink and I’d have been under the host!” all is forgiven.  Likewise, notorious bad girl Tallulah Bankhead, acknowledging her own chequered history, stated defiantly:  “If I had my life again, I’d make the same mistakes, only sooner!”

Some would say that Madonna has done more than her fair share of flesh exposure in her time.  However, she has also covered up, written books, stage-managed and controlled her entire career and most recently directed a film.  Only last weekend, she has triumphed with a spectacular and athletic half time performance at the Superbowl.  Incidentally, she teamed up with the aforementioned M.I.A. for a live rendition of their musical collaboration “Gimme All your Luvin’.” However, this has not prevented Madonna’s detractors from questioning whether, at the same age as Denise Welch, she should be on stage performing at all! 

But fear not, bad girls.  Madonna is shrewd.  She has followed one of the golden rules of senior and guilt free bad behaviour.  She surrounds herself with people younger than herself, thereby keeping her finger firmly on the pulse whilst providing her fellow artists and collaborators with a platform for unrestricted expression.  One of the headline-grabbing stories resulting from Madonna’s Superbowl appearance was the “obscene” gesture courtesy, not of Madonna, but her younger protagonist, M.I.A.  No longer at the eye of the storm in press terms, Madonna is now merely guilty by association.

Madonna has worked hard to achieve longevity, which in turn has earned her the right to explain away any bad behaviour as “art.”  Poor Denise just likes, in her own words, “..getting them out for the lads.”

So there has to be another talent in evidence and preferably some younger, equally talented and naughty friends to help take the heat off.  Provided you have other strings to your bow, you have full permission to start wearing purple, flash and spit to your heart’s content.  Go on ladies, knock yourself out!