UP AGAINST IT

If I had the time, I would write about my new found love of Spanish cuisine.

If I had the time, I would write about how concerned I am at the staggering difference a week's lack of exercise and over-indulgence has made to the texture of my thighs.

If I had the time, I would write about how sad I feel that we won't hear Amy's sweet voice again.

If I had the time, I would write about the ever increasing pile of books I really want to read.

If I had the time, I would write how, for the first time, I am eagerly anticipating the arrival of Autumn and whether or not that correlates to my age.

If I had the time, I would write about my cunning shortcut to familiarising myself with certain of Shakespeare's plays - a selection of "written for children" volumes acquired from my local charity shop - my six year old providing a perfect excuse.

If I had the time, I would write about how I long to go wild swimming before the water temperature dips low enough to guarantee hypothermia.

If I had the time, I would write about my quest to perfect the silent movie star arched brow before my face falls so far south the whole concept is futile.

If I had the time, I would.  But I don't because I am toiling over my book and you lot are distracting me!

PLANES, BANES AND EXTORTIONATE MEALS

In high spirits and with even higher expectations for our mini break to Ireland, we arrived at the airport with our single allotted piece of hand luggage per person.  Prior to leaving and already several hours down on sleep, courtesy of my son, C’s persistent night- time cough, I had bowed to pressure and allowed him to pack his own bag.  Having already squeezed enough socks, pants and T-shirts into my own hand luggage to clothe a small African school, I did not fuss too much over C’s choice of accoutrements.  Little did I know at this stage, that C had packed a particularly authentic looking toy replica sword, which inexplicably made it through security.

None too keen on flying myself, I headed for Boots to buy some drugs.  Thanks to the Al Qaeda chemists, gone are the days when I could board a flight with a plastic water bottle full of home measured G&T.  Anyway it’s far from seemly to accompany one’s six year old onto a plane and attempt to coax the airline stewards into hosting a karaoke contest in the middle of their delivery of the in flight safety instructions.  Or, for that matter, to shout drunkenly: “Thank fuck for that!” upon landing.

This time, I opted for some herbal pastilles purported to calm nerves.  The instructions suggested consuming one, as required.  Once on the plane, I crammed a fistful into my mouth, which, within minutes, had amalgamated into one large and highly adhesive mass of jelly.  This made it difficult for me to talk, the mass having stuck fast to the roof of my mouth.  Unfortunately, C took this as a sign of high anxiety on my part and promptly burst into tears.  I managed to prize the goo from the roof of my mouth and explained to C that everything was fine and that he should, "Look out of the window with Daddy".

Caroline and family provided a healthy distraction.  I watched as she busily force-fed a variety of dried snacks into her infant daughter Charlotte’s mouth so that she couldn’t scream or cry.  At one stage, I became a little concerned that Charlotte might sneeze and block the air vents with congealed flour based products, but this passed.

Once in the air, I felt the pastilles taking effect.  My hands were placed neatly and semi-relaxed in my lap throughout the journey, as opposed to clenching the armrests or repeatedly adjusting my seatbelt to the point of cutting off my blood supply.  I also accepted my husband’s explanations of the various noises I could detect as opposed to convincing myself that an announcement of terminal engine failure was imminent.  However, I still allowed myself an expression of relief upon landing, although this took the form of a little cheer, rather than the usual profanities.

The remainder of the journey passed without incident and I was feeling optimistic about the B&B I had discovered on line and booked with the curt, but professional Morgan.  I felt qualified to describe to Morgan as “curt” despite the fact that we had until now only communicated by email, because her responses were, shall we say, without frills.  I put this down to running a busy B&B and not having time at her disposal to lavish on linguistic flourishes when confirming bookings.  However, on arrival, I realised that first impressions often prove to be accurate.

Morgan was immediately christened “Mrs Tweedy” by our party; Mrs Tweedy being the psychotic farmer’s wife in the film “Chicken Run”.  The uncanny resemblance was acknowledged by us all and was made all the more disturbing as a result of her take on hospitality (or should I say hostility?)

Even though the property had polished floorboards throughout, save for the occasional rug, Mrs Tweedy was able to approach from behind without making a sound.  This was most disconcerting, particularly given that on those occasions, we were usually talking about her.

Caroline and Bob were most freaked out about Mrs Tweedy, convinced that she had taken an instant dislike to them.  This belief manifested itself within 12 hours of our arrival as a result of Mrs Tweedy’s failure to a) shake their hands on arrival and b) offer tomato sauce at breakfast.  Bob, who dislikes eggs (the only moist foodstuff on his plate), therefore tucked into a breakfast as dry as a desert with only limited tea to wash it down.

Mrs Tweedy had an economic approach to table laying and portion control.  At breakfast, we each received one knife, which performed doubly as an eating iron and butter knife.  The watered down orange juice was served in glasses from a doll’s house.  Toast was issued by hand, two slices at a time.  For some reason, the brown bread was never toasted - only the white - and Mrs Tweedy seemed to appear on cue when the last slice had been consumed in order to dole out our ration of two more slices.  There was a resulting frisson of excitement over whether the toast would be brown, white or a combination.  On at least one occasion, I found myself checking the portraits hanging on the walls, suspecting that the subjects had moving eyes.  

No one dared to make a specific request for white or brown bread or coffee or tea.  I vaguely recall being given a choice of coffee or tea on the first morning, but we were then committed to that choice ad infinitum.  We took what we were given and asked for no more.  Only my husband, (who was bullied into doing so by his cowardly companions), had the audacity to ask for anything over and above what appeared onto the table.  He tentatively approached Mrs Tweedy for a glass of milk for C.  His wish was granted, but only after an awkward moment during which a handful of miniature cartons were thrust into his hand, thereby forcing him to expand on his definition of “a glass of milk”, to which Mrs Tweedy responded:  “We are only a B&B!”

On the first night, we ensured that our children were fed and watered early in the evening.  Taking no chances, we provided them with the standard fare guaranteed not to provoke discord in ninety per cent of children – sausages.  However, when we had settled our children and were able to think about our own evening meal, it occurred to us that we were somewhat stuck, given that Caroline’s youngest was in bed.

I remain convinced that Mrs Tweedy read my thoughts as she appeared without warning in the doorway, armed with a leaflet on local eateries.  At this point I seized the moment and muttered something along the lines of, “We haven’t eaten yet, but the children have and I don’t suppose it’s possible to get a takeaway as we are in a B&B…?” thus leaving the door open for Mrs Tweedy to protest loudly at my negative train of thought and insist that we purchase a takeaway forthwith and bring it back to our digs.  Instead, there was a classic tumbleweed moment.  A different approach was required.

This time Caroline came to the fore and asked if it would be possible to bring back a selection of “nibbles” and eat them in the dining room.  Morgan managed a clipped and disingenuous, “Of course.” 

Our version of “nibbles” it transpired, differed greatly to our respective husbands, who spent a grand total of 50 Euros on continental cheeses, meats, bread, crisps, dips and wine at the local supermarket.  Our nibbles filled the dining table and we devoured them with gusto.  Naturally, Mrs Tweedy appeared at the precise point we were busy scattering crumbs all over her tablecloth and said:  “Oh, you’re still here”, should we remain in any doubt as to her disapproval.

Strangely, as the weekend wore on, Mrs Tweedy seemed to warm to us, even venturing to ask what brought us to Ireland.  But by now, we were under no illusions that the thawing of her attitude towards us was due to the fact that in less than 24 hours, she would be rid of us.

We parted company on Sunday morning and Mrs Tweedy said – genuinely through gritted teeth – “Maybe see you again next time you’re over.”

Our return journey was a little more eventful.  Derry security detected C’s sword in record time and promptly confiscated it.  C took this better than I expected, probably because he seems to have convinced himself that a replacement sword will be delivered to him any day now, courtesy of Ryan air. 

As the airport gates opened, C’s lip began to wobble and for a moment or two I feared that he had inherited my fear of flying after all.  Yet somehow he was enchanted by the whole night flight experience.  The things that I find daunting (the lights being turned off, the fact that we are so far off the ground), C found mesmerising.  He even swapped seats with G and stared in awe out of the window throughout.  As I read and re-read a particularly boring article on a boutique hotel in some far flung destination I am unlikely to ever visit, I couldn’t help but feel proud that C had proved himself a free thinker.  It would be impossible for him not to have detected my anxiety and he was old enough to work out that those illustrations on the back of the headrests have nothing to do with inflatable toys.  He had decided all by himself that being elevated above the clouds and gazing at the twinkling lights below, were nothing short of thrilling.  Either that, or he mistook the light on the wing for the control tower light! 

Until next time…

Paranoid Parent

With all the negative press stories recently concerning the use and abuse of technology - from the Twitter storm over that footballer, to the ongoing tabloid newspapers/phone hacking scandal - it is wise to be vigilant and dare I venture, a little more economic with the personal information we share with the rest of the world.

I say this only days after finally getting round to setting up a Twitter account, starting a blog and almost throwing my smart phone against the wall in frustration for repeatedly failing to upload to Facebook a photo the world really needs to see: my son with green beans hanging out of his nose!  I am clearly not practising what I preach.  After years of pouring scorn over the obsession with inflicting mundane daily life updates on our friends via the web, I could no more commit Facebook suicide now than give up chocolate.

That's not to say that I don't secretly harbour a fear that my information could fall into the hands of the insane and I could find myself landed with a stalker, who will somehow track me down to my home address and take up residence in an empty neighbouring house in order to track my movements with all the usual psycho equipment:  binoculars, heat seeking equipment etc.

Only this morning, I was idly leafing through the TV guide, when I spotted a review of Jo Frost's new show.  I have dipped in and out of her shows over the years, mostly deriving voyeuristic pleasure from some of the extreme cases she has handled and congratulating myself that however bad I sometimes think my parental control is, it is truly something to behold compared to the dramas played out on screen.

However, this morning, my blood froze as the review described the individual cases featured in tonight's episode.  It cannot be mere coincidence that the show includes a boy who fervently resists going to bed and another (I'm thinking it's the same child) who lives in a superhero fantasy world.  As I write, I am poised to hit "send" on an email I have drafted to the show's producers.  In summary, I think Jo Frost is spying on my family. 

What's your swimming style?

I am back on course with my exercise regime.  After a month of hedonistic indulgences, (there are only so many times you can say "yes" to double cream, before the thighs take on the appearance of jellyfish moving beneath the surface of the skin)  I am determined to maintain my weekly swim and regular walking.  I have also publicly pledged to join a Pilate's class in September, which means I now have to.  I've said it out loud.

However, this is by no means an attempt to attain "Yummy Mummy" status.  I am as guilty as anyone, for making fun of the "Yummy Mummy" phenomenon.  I just don't possess or understand their motivation in dressing up simply to drop their children off at school.  And before you ask, yes I have taken into account working mothers who have to look smart.  The Yummy Mummy is a different breed altogether.  We are talking stripper heels, faux fur, full make-up, coiffed hair.  There are also the "alternatives" who dress as though they are going to a rock concert, but in their own way have tried just as hard.  They have cascading, tousled curls, wear leather, ripped jeans, expensive, heavy duty leather boots, Kate Moss kohl lined eyes and armfuls of friendship bracelets.  I don't have the time, uninterrupted cash flow or inclination to compete in that arena for mundane activities.

If I'm presented with a choice between looking fabulous at dawn break, complete with glowing skin, silky hair (hair that moves in slow motion, without falling out of place) and toned glutes clad in leg-enhancing, stylist-selected trousers, as opposed to three presses of my "Snooze" button first thing in the morning, then I will opt for the latter every time.  My current short-cut secret weapons are sunglasses and maxi skirts.  They have served me well during what will no doubt turn out to be our last few days of summer, disguising the dark circles below my eyes and even darker eleven o'clock shadow enveloping my legs.

This does not mean that I do not secretly aspire to be considered "Yummy" (please someone, coin a different phrase!)  It's just that my primary focus is on achieving the perfect balance of curves and toning in order to look great in whatever I pick up off the floor and throw on in a morning (maybe the new phrase should be “Slutty Mummy”).  I would like to have that natural sense of style which sometimes evades me now I am thirty-something.  Whereas a few short years ago, I was wholly confident in my outfit choices, these days, I am plagued by doubt.  My husband's standard patter ("It's fine") doesn't really cut it any more and my worst fear is being perceived as "mutton dressed as lamb".  I have also recently put on a few pounds and whilst I am quite happy with this, as certain items from my wardrobe now fit rather than hang, nonetheless, I want to ensure that the extra pounds are sculpted to my body like perfect consistency clay, rather than resembling mashed potato in a stocking.

Today, the weather was perfectly conducive to a swim - the sort of sultry weather that makes you want to disrobe and plunge into the cold depths at the foot of a waterfall or take a moonlit skinny dip in the surf with a group of golden gods.  For the sake of convenience, I opted for the local public swimming pool's adults only session.  This is local council speak for pensioners combining their weekly gossip with exercise (if wading like baby elephants for half a length before returning to the comfort of the side counts for exercise).

Taking advantage of the weather and wearing my latest maxi dress; firmly rooted in the seventies with its halterneck top and yellow and brown abstract floral pattern, I quickly realised that my grasp of seventies Californian soft-rock chic did not apply to my swimming attire.  The material of my swimming costume is slowly perishing from the frequent chlorine onslaughts and has shiny, thread-thinning patches in several places (I pray to God these are confined to the front!)  I had thought that the one piece costume was a safer option after last week's Tankini outing, which nearly resulted in me swimming out of my swim shorts when attempting to elegantly propel myself through the water from the side.   How wrong I was!

The second failing in my swim style is my choice of goggles.  I have yet to find the perfect pair.  Admittedly it is near impossible to look stylish in a pair of goggles, but my growing collection fall into two categories; the ones that work but leave circular imprints around my eyes for the next twelve hours and today's selection; the ones that work for approximately thirty seconds before gradually filling up with water from the inside.

For once, my bikini line was firmly in check, although I can't vouch for the quality of my fake tan.  As for my colour enhanced locks, I can't bear to wear a swimming cap.  Contrary to all testamentary evidence in support of swimming caps, they do not work for me.  There is always a bulge at the back which allows for seepage.  Also they are bloody uncomfortable and promote a shrunken head appearance.  Therefore, I let my hair flow freely, which it does, usually obscuring my face when I come up for air.  This, combined with my water filled swimming goggles, today caused me to panic momentarily because I couldn't see where I was going and I took in water, which induced a coughing fit.

The final humiliation for me today, was again hair-related.  I had forgotten my comb in my haste to get to the pool on time.  I was also unable to find any cash for the hairdryer (which in any event would struggle to blow the head off a dandelion clock) and so I was forced to wear my hair in a towel turban.  Unfortunately for me, this was not a towel colour co-ordinated to compliment my outfit, secured with a brooch, but the only clean towel I could lay my hands on, namely my son's Micky Mouse towel.

So, that was my morning swim.  The exercise has released the happy hormones.  However, in terms of style, particularly swim style, I remain very much a work in progress.