Not so Golden Oldies......

It appears we’ve all been misquoting the old saying ‘manners maketh man’.  Among folk of a certain age it is clear the rule only applies to ‘young’ man.

I often hear people ranting about how rude youngsters are these days, but by far the rudest people I come across have long since been eligible for their bus pass. I reckon they have reached an agreement that once you’ve completed your hard life of work and politeness and retired, you can do whatever you like.

I’ve just come back from a bustling village where everyone was nipping in to grab something before dashing off to do whatever else it is that keeps us all so busy in the run up to Christmas.

I was standing a respectful distance back from the till, behind an old gent paying for his ball of fat for the bird table, when an equally elderly lady walked around me and put her goods down on the counter.

I assumed they were together. But cash handed over, change issued, he doffed his cap to the 12-year-old on the till and left.

Without old-batting an eyelid, the woman (notice, I’ve stopped calling her a lady) fiddled around in her purse, pulled 47 carrier bags out of her wheelalong trolley, spread them out on the counter before finding the one that was the right size for these particular purchases and spent the next twenty minutes organising them all in the correct fashion within the trolley.

‘I wonder, should I wear my invisibility cloak to fight crime or for more evil purpose?’ I asked the checkout girl, as I grew old waiting my turn.

She shrugged apologetically.  The old shopper didn’t flinch.

It’s not the first time by a long chalk. 

Last Christmas I was taking a week’s worth of empties to the bottle bank like a good eco-minded citizen when I was attacked by a little old fella in an anorak and a trilby.

It was party season and the ‘green bottle’ holes were stuffed full. I was trying in vain to squeeze mine in, when he waltzed up and proceeded to put all of his glass – brown, green, Horlicks and blue Curacao - in the same hole.

‘Er, excuse me,’ I said politely, ‘I think you’re supposed to separate them. That’s why the holes are colour coded.’

‘All ends up in the same place,’ he said, carrying on chucking them all down the ‘clear’ chute.

‘I don’t think they do,’ I tried again. ‘Otherwise why would they make us split them this way?’ (Actually, I think he was right as we have just been told we’re now allowed to toss all our glass in the recycling bin at home along with the pizza boxes, beer cans and milk cartons, but that’s a puzzle for a different day).

‘It’s people like you,’ he said, ‘who clog up all these bottle banks anyway. They are here for domestic use only.’

When I pointed out that mine was just as domestic as his, he retorted, ‘Well then you drink too much,’ and stormed off leaving his empty boxes on the floor with my jaw.

I first met an elderly neighbour of mine, (who I hope will forgive me for this as we’re now firm friends) when she walked her dog around the back of my house on a private pathway. My children and some of their friends were there with our dog, who barked his head off at the intruders. The first I knew of it was when the five-year-old girls ran into the kitchen, wide-eyed, to report, ‘There’s an old lady in the field who’s just told us to control our bloody dog or bugger off.’ I marched out guns blazing and told her that she was in the wrong and should mind her language around my small children. ‘I’m 83 years old,’ she replied, as though that made it ok.

Recently I was sat in my parked car waiting for a friend when a sturdy old chap strode up to his car, put the key in smartly without any fumbling, jumped in and turned on the ignition. This was no frail-boned, last-legs kind of a chap. He then reversed into my car.

I wound the window down and waited a moment, planning to be charming about the whole thing and say it wasn’t a problem. (I drive an old banger and to be fair I can never tell if anyone has hit me or not). But he simply kept going forwards and backwards trying to budge his way out of his space. I’m certain he hadn’t the faintest idea I was even there.

The third time he bashed into me I got out and went and tapped on his window. He wound it down crossly and said, ‘What?'

I told him I had been in the car behind and that so far he’d hit me three times. ‘Then you are parked too close,’ he declared,  before nosing his way out and driving away before I could point out that I'd arrived before him.

In a way I find all this comforting. I am nice and kind to people at all times. I would have let the old lady go in front of me in the queue if she’d asked. I walk my elderly neighbour’s dog for her when the weather is bad so she won’t slip.

But it’s nice to know that in about twenty odd years I will be able, as the poem says, to wear purple and fart in public. I’ll never have to wait in a queue again and if people irritate me I’ll swear at them.

It’s something to look forward to.

Out with the new, cherish the old......

In the middle of Chichester, in the midst of the doom and gloom of recession, arguments about parking and who’s going to pay for the Christmas lights (no-one this year, so there won’t be any), a shop has just opened its doors which is truly different, which will lift your spirits and which will remind you why they call it Great Britain.

Tall claims you may think for a little shop – but there is something so uplifting, so hopeful, so bright and so utterly ingenious about Number Forty Three that I promise you it is justified. I guarantee you have never seen anything like it before. If you don’t smile the minute you cross the threshold, there is no hope for you.

The two friends behind Number Forty Three are artists and designers and their simple remit is to find things that are tired and dull and make them extraordinary and beautiful. Their aim is to offer an alternative to Britain's throw-away culture. The gifts and furniture in this shop are not antiques. They are things the rest of us would throw away, despite the great shape and the solid construction, because they are boring and old. On the price tags, it says ‘loved again’. (Even the price tags are made from slips of gorgeous old fabrics and written by hand).


And like all the very greatest ideas, everything you see makes you go, ‘Why didn't I think of that?’

The first clue that Number Forty Three is extraordinary is the traditional, understated grey sign outside listing opening times; it states that they are open Tues - Sat, ‘sometimes’ on Sundays. Next to Monday, it says simply, ‘tired’.

But it is as you enter the shop that the place really makes you smile. The walls are papered – not as you and I would with sheets in a carefully chosen design reaching from ceiling to floor but irregularly in different designs and sizes, a strip of this lime green pattern here and a longer length of that aubergine swirl there. The reason most of us don’t decorate like this, is because we’d get it wrong and it would look hideous, but this is done exquisitely and without confusion. (They will come and do your house for you, by the way, or 'upcycle' your old furniture for you).

Number Forty Three is laid out so that you are welcomed into the space as though it was someone’s living room. The owners are friendly and relaxed, chatting about their work because they love it, not because they are pushing the hard sell. They may well be visibly revamping in the workshop at the shop's far end. The rescued furniture has been repaired, painted and if necessary, reupholstered in the same colour scheme as the walls. There are armchairs, benches, towel rails and tables. There are curtains, picture frames and lampshades. There are necklaces and cardigans and shoe horns.
 

What makes Number Forty Three so enchanting is that its owners have quietly employed great skill and discernment in their work. It is eclectic, but not cluttered. What looks like a charming, quirky idea has actually taken a long time and a great deal of talent to make it work. While you may wander in and think, ‘Why didn't I think of that myself’, you quickly realise you wouldn’t be able to do it. It is clear you are talking to people who really know what they are doing and are good at it. Their workshop is in the shop, like a proud kitchen chef, who knows his skills are worthy of display.

That is the reason you will not just pop in once to Number Forty Three and marvel from a distance as though you were in an art gallery. You will come time and again to see what they are doing, what new pieces they have transformed. You will bring your own favourite oldies to be revamped, you will be greeted with genuine enthusiasm and you will buy. And no-one will have what you have.

Poppycock

This morning a friend of mine bought a poppy and was told he couldn’t have a pin to attach it with in case he hurt himself.  

This man, by the way, is 45 years old and has flown jet planes in war zones all over the world. He has a degree in engineering, jumps off tall buildings on a Saturday morning and has rowed a canoe single-handed up the Amazon to meet tribes who’ve never seen white people before.

Oh, and his granddad was back on the front line a month after being blown up in the second world war.

I promise I’m not going to get obsessed with the health and safety thing but, er, what now??

Of course we need to take care of each other and make sure gas boilers don’t explode and old people don’t fall down cracks in the pavement, but this isn’t even funny any more.

We are creating a generation of children who can’t leave their homes without crash helmets and elbow pads to walk to school.  Conkers are considered an extreme sport. Remember that shocking family who made headlines in the tabloids recently for allowing their children to cycle to school alone? We are talking about people who must grow up and run this world.  In future people will be asked to present risk assessments who have never been allowed to take any risks. How is that possible?

My mother will deny this because her memory is failing her, but I promise you when I was 11, my friend Susie and I used to pack a picnic, hop on our bikes, cycle the couple of miles to the harbour, catch the little ferry to the other side, cycle around a bit more and hang out with the swans on the other side until we ran out of food. Or it got dark. Without helmets.

Many years later, I cycled alone around barely inhabited Scottish islands for months. Without a helmet. Without a mobile phone, even, because as my lovely daughter pointed out, 'they weren't really invented in those old days'. I pitched my tent by the road a lot of the time and slept alone in the middle of nowhere and no-one worried that they didn't hear from me for days, because how could they? Even if I'd written a letter, there were hardly any post boxes and certainly nowhere to buy stamps. I did the same in Africa. 

But I admit it's getting to me. Would I want my children to do that now? Please God, no -but I suppose they might one day. And it will be worse because now you can phone from the middle of the rainforest so if I don't get a text every few hours I'll be sending in Timothy Cholmondely-Walker from the British Embassy to find them.

Talking of helmets, I came across another guy who had been racing at breakneck speeds in the pouring rain at Silverstone and went for a cuppa in the cafe afterwards – where they wouldn’t let him pour his own tea because ‘it’s too dangerous’. I’m not making this up.

Those brave soldiers who gave their lives for us would be turning in their graves, ashamed that we can no longer even wear a poppy to remember them because we are scared of a little prick......

Today, I will mostly be wearing foodstuffs......

Last week, in the name of hard manual labour, I found myself lying on a massage couch covered from head to foot in sea salt, melted chocolate and finally gold, thank you very much.
I had been asked to cast my eye over a new five-star hotel – the Iberostar Odysseus – on the Greek island of Kos. (I know, dirty work, but I do it for you, dear punter, so you don’t end up in crap places).
This latest baby in the global Iberostar chain is properly on the beach - not in the way that lots of hotels say they are on the beach, when what they mean is they’re on the wrong side of a thirteen lane highway that runs parallel to the coast.

I remember staying at one of those once. As the crow flew it was indeed about 100yards from the nearest beach. Unfortunately to reach the sea (ferry port), you had to walk four hundred yards west to catch a bus which then headed three miles east along the dual carriageway, up to a bridge over the highway, round a roundabout, back down the other side and go west again where the bus stopped, 50 yards from the hotel. The bus stopped twelve times and took half an hour. And only ran twice a day, so if you missed it in the morning you couldn’t go to the beach until after lunch. In those days we drank too much Tequila and stayed up till stupid o clock so we always missed the morning bus.


Hallelujah, the Odysseus was where it was supposed to be. Here my room was 50yards from the waves. I walked through glass doors to my personal deck and down my personal steps to my personal plunge pool, where there was nothing to see except palm trees, sun loungers on lawns, the ocean – oh, and Turkey.

The Odysseus is about 3.5 miles from the Turkish mainland. In August, the Greeks swim there and the Turks swim back. It’s a friendly race and the same 16-year-old girl has won for the last three years. She’s Greek, as the Greeks are quick to point out. (The Greeks and the Turks are friends now, they tell me, but ‘we shake hands rather than hug’).

Despite its infancy, the Odysseus pretty much sold out its 267 rooms in July and August and straight away you can see why. Fantastic kids club for family jaunts and full conference facilities for business folk and thanks to a wide, open, single-level layout, an atmosphere of calm for both. 

And the most stunning (and certainly the longest) beach front pool I’ve ever had the joy to swim in. I ploughed its 190m length – nearly twice that of an Olympic pool - before breakfast (name a food stuff, you could have it - cheeses, meats, fruits, pastries, full English and a mountain of oranges ready for squeezing) as the waves broke to my left and the sun shone over the hills above Bodrum.

In the evening, it was also the perfect spot to lounge with a Greek mojito (made with Metaxa) from the little beach bar and watch the sunset over the Greek island of Pserimos, population 23. (Our captain told us of another island we could visit nearby with a population of only two. An Italian lady and her Greek husband. Well, ex-husband actually. So, in fact, population, one. The government had given them land and farming rights and paid them to stay there on their own little island. Sounds like paradise but in the end you’d have to get on really, really well, wouldn’t you?)

If you’re not shackled to the dreaded school holidays, skip high season and go in May, June, September or early October. The weather is warm enough to sunbathe, sit outside all evening, and dive off boats between islands for a swim with the dolphins. You don’t have to book restaurants and child care eight years in advance and it's cheaper. The Odysseus has three adult pools (one indoor) and two children’s and there was never anyone else in the pool with us.
If you venture away from the hotel (sounds mad, but it’s kind of tempting to stay put!) you can actually stroll down the beautiful old cobbled streets of Kos town without feeling like you’re battling the tube at rush hour in a heat which in August often reaches 40°. You can properly explore the ancient castles, markets and harbours without getting fourteen Germans, a Saga coach trip and most of the British school population in your photo.

Of course, with hotels like the Odysseus, you’d be forgiven for plonking your bags and staying in. From the minute you enter the stylish lobby, you can’t help but relax.
Especially at the Spa. Now I’m not an expert on these things, but the Aphrodite Spa did make me feel like a bit of a goddess. First of all I was scrubbed from shoulders to toes with Aegean sea salt and almond oil until I was raw as a monkey's bottom and then ushered into a shower to rinse it all off, which stung. Back on the couch I was smothered from head to toe, back and front, in a melted chocolate concoction and then wrapped in crisp, white sheets, covered in towels and left to cook for fifteen minutes. I fell asleep worrying about how the hell they were going to get the sheets crisp and white again. When I woke they sent me back to the shower again to wash off the chocolate. Guiltily I asked the young Greek girl how they would clean the sheets in this island where it hasn’t rained since February and all the olive trees were dying. She smiled and said, ‘yes’. (If you're looking for a natter in English this isn't the place, but for my money, the more charming for it). Finally I was massaged with a local lemon oil infused with real gold ‘to make you shimmy’. I did glow as I left but, as I was staggering like a drunkard rather than dancing sexily, I think they meant shimmer. My skin felt amazing - last time it was this soft I was having my nappy changed.

After my tough day of lying down I was famished. There are three restaurants – a beach tavern, a la carte Grill and buffet. I selected a cold salad of stuffed courgettes and vines, olives, and calimari, and thought it would be rude to turn down the excellent local wine. Next to me a family was tucking in to home-made fish fingers, chicken and noodles.
Somehow, the Odysseus pulls off that tricky feat of being all things to all people. It ran a full programme of activities, without destroying its atmosphere of peace and quiet. Daily volleyball matches ran alongside corporate days, rental bikes zoomed past business men arriving in black cars. Children built sandcastles while below them companies occupied the conference suites. Nothing was too much trouble and everyone was happy.
Next October they’re running a Greece v Turkey windsurfing race. Fear not, I will selflessly return to check it all out for you....

Details:
Iberostar Odysseus, Tigaki, Kos
Tel: 0030 22420 49900
Email: odysseus.hotel@iberostar.com.gr
Garden rooms: 14th May 2011 from £718, two people sharing, half board.

Eat less, move more.....

I've crammed a load of different things into my life. I have charmed a certain number of people into believing this makes me multi-talented, widely travelled and well read. There are others – a group which includes my mother, at least one sister and a husband – who attribute it to a short attention span, which I think is just mean.
Today I was mostly wearing my nutritionist hat, attending a fascinating conference on diet. It was fascinating mainly because this was a gathering of the globe’s most highly qualified and experienced experts, flown in from all corners of the world to help combat obesity – and I’ve never heard such a load of old cobblers.
Now I’m very sorry, but after many years of working in the fitness industry, I’m certain this is not something the World’s Best Brains need to spend millions researching and three days discussing. I sat through lectures by Doctor Bangonalot who told us that the only way to shed pounds was to measure every meal’s carb-protein ratio correctly. Another dietician with a whole alphabet of letters after his name and twenty years experience had flown from New Zealand to announce that the only proven method was to eat nothing for six months. Er, what now? Nothing? Nothing. At all.
The third speaker declared she’d developed a ground-breaking system. She’d been working on it full time for the last three years, thanks to a massive government research grant (don’t ask, I can’t bear to tell you). She had reached the conclusion that the most effective way to lose weight is to go to a supportive club like Weight Watchers but – and here’s where you get your money’s worth people – combine it with her own unique exercise programme. Which was available to buy.
I may be a Jack-of-all-trades rather than a global master of one like these folk, but three hours was enough for me, never mind three days. I high-tailed it out of there, grabbing a complimentary chocolate from the lobby (I promise I’m not joking) on the way out.
A few years ago I had an idea for my own diet book which I planned to bring out in time for the Christmas market. Now I’m seriously going to do it.
Because my diet is the only one that really works long term. I call it the ‘Eat less, move more’ diet. My plan is to create a book with a truly sumptuous cover that you want to treasure forever, maybe a gorgeous design or that heavy moleskin that you get on upmarket travel journals.
Embossed on the cover would be the immortal words, ‘Eat less, move more.’ Inside the paper would be of the best quality, and the fly sheet would say it again, in gold maybe. ‘Eat less. Move more’.
The rest of the book would be blank. Because that’s it, isn’t it? I could put it a few other ways; ingest fewer calories than you burn; eat a cake, run a mile; use more energy than you take in; but it’s all just words and I can’t be bothered to think of any more (unless I get a few hundred grand in a research grant, which is a possibility).
I know there are psychological factors and occasional medical conditions that affect people’s weight but, honestly, hand on heart, that is not what these people were talking about.
My charming book will make the perfect gift for loved ones this Christmas. It will be useful in so many ways - diary, recipe book, photo album – and an absolute bargain at just £23.99.
If I sell enough in the run up to Christmas, I’ll treat the family to extra champagne, a couple of free range geese and Christmas pudding. In the right carb-protein ratio of course.

Chrysler proves that size matters

I've never been very interested in cars. As long as they start every time and are big enough to get the dog in the boot, I’m largely happy. And if they hardly burn any fuel, my cup runneth over.
I don’t care what make or colour they are and I don’t care what the registration is. My daughter is at a school where these things matter more than world peace. In fact they will only be your friend if you fulfil the make/colour/registration criteria and I don’t, which is why none of them ever asks me to lunch.
Recently some mums from the school world collided with some friends of mine from the real world and somehow my name was brought up in a work capacity. The School Mums were gobsmacked. ‘We had no idea,’ they said. ‘But then she is so very quiet, isn’t she?’ At which point the sparkly wine came out of my friends' noses.
When I arrived at school next morning, a PTA stalwart called out, ‘Morning! You’re a dark horse, aren’t you?’ I assumed she was talking to someone else. She hurried to catch me as I walked past her to my old jalopy. ‘We must have coffee sometime’, she trilled. ‘I really don’t feel like I know you very well at all.’
She must have struggled to believe the previous evening's stories as I gawped idiotically at her and then, because the lock on my door was bust, crawled in through my car boot to the driver’s seat.
So when I agreed to review Chrysler’s new Grand Voyager, I wasn’t expecting to be impressed. I’m not a petrolhead, I’m a mum; torque and acceleration from 0-60 are nowhere near as important to me as which bits will collapse if you hit a truck and whether you can get a hoola hoop in the boot.
I remember driving the BMW X5 when it first came out. I was expected to be in awe of this top-spec, top-priced new car. My verdict? Lovely stereo - but for listening to music, not so comfy. And driving it was horrible. The thick struts at the back made lane changing in London an extreme sport – I couldn’t see a thing. There were loads of gadgets that made life harder and more complicated, rather than easier. It took three days and an electronics degree to change the radio station.
When my Chrysler arrived, I wasn’t excited. It looked like a very big, silver American car. So far, so exactly as expected.

But inside – O.M.G as my daughter would say. I can only think that, for once, the designers on this family car must, in fact, have had a family. Because they have thought of EVERYTHING.
The reason for having a car this size is because you are carrying lots of people and / or stuff. To make life easier the side doors slide open remotely, as does the boot, so you can actually get in - or out - while carrying school bags, shopping, children, dogs and double basses (which, by the way, will fit in the boot). And once inside, you forgive how enormous the car looks on the outside because, uniquely, it is that big on the inside as well. My giant dog could lie down between the back seats.
In the middle row of seats there is hidden, under-floor storage which - hallelujah - is actually big enough to put stuff in. So often this sort of space is a gimmick, loved by kids who can hide their pencil case and sweets in it, but in reality, not a lot of use. In the Chrysler, heading off for the weekend, someone peering through the windows would think we were taking nothing with us. The 140-mile trip was by far the most comfy ever, not least because we weren’t all jammed in amongst our bags, despite there being five children in the two back rows of seats. Add to this the fact that the car is very quiet, genuinely lovely to drive and temperature controlled (it was a very hot weekend) and we could have doubled the distance without a complaint.
There are two other major plus points about the new Grand Voyager that make it the perfect family car. Despite its size, it used no more diesel than my little hatchback. And to clinch it, when we arrived at our destination, a narrow lane with a sharp bend off a main road, this enormous beast turned almost on its own axis to manage the turn. The handling is amazing. You can park it in spaces two inches bigger than the car.
Of course the thing that makes me happiest is not always the same for the rest of my family. The in-car entertainment system is seriously neat.
The Grand Voyager has two rows of remote control, drop-down TV screens. The dashboard control panel is quick and easy to use. I’m technologically very dumb but in a couple of minutes I’d popped the post code into the sat nav, flipped over the panel to put in the DVD and the children had their headphones on and were enthralled. I set the controls back to the radio for myself and off we went.
Talking of what makes me happy, one of my favourite gadgets on this car was the automatic fish eye camera. The same central screen on the dashboard becomes a camera whenever you start to reverse. So in addition to its brilliant all-round visibility and big wing mirrors you can clearly see the cat sunbathing on the drive behind your wheels the instant you engage reverse gear.
This car ticks all my boxes, including the boxes I didn’t know I had. If you’d asked me whether I wanted to fold the entire back row of seats into a flat boot by pressing a button, I’d have shrugged. But when you arrive back at the car carrying a saddle, a couple of guitars and an overnight bag, you don’t need seats, you need space – and you can get it without having to put your prom dress on the ground. It has ‘cigarette lighter’ points by the back seats so the ipads (or lap tops if you’re carrying adults) don’t run out of batteries en route. It has a detachable, pretty decent torch clipped into the boot. I could go on but you get the picture.
Admittedly I didn’t test whether you can hurl this beast around a hairpin at 100mph or screech to a halt in snow at the same speed. I didn’t drive it into a wall and see if it collapsed. But it is a quality build and if what you need is comfort, space and adaptability I think you would really struggle to find anything better. My children didn’t speak to me for days after we handed it back.

Sick and tired, but not of life

At 3am last Monday morning my youngest starting throwing up and didn’t stop until there was nothing left and she passed out.
We spent the rest of the week staring out at the world from beside her hospital bed. Oddly, on the other side of the windows, everyone carries on as normal while, for us, life is suspended.
I organise people to look after my other daughter and fret that she’s being passed around like a parcel. I cancel work. I cancel everything I can think of and the other things I just miss. I forget the vet’s appointment, washing sits in the machine for days and birthdays pass unnoticed.
Outside, shops open and close, the market starts and finishes, people moan that it’s cold (is it?) and a netball match is played on the courts opposite.
Inside, the temperature is the same the whole year round. It is never dark. Nurses move beds into wards at midnight and doctors stick needles in my daughter’s hand at 2am. You sleep at three in the afternoon. The oxygen monitor beeps...

Ever since our daughter was a baby we’ve had to keep a sharp eye on the dreaded common cold which, without fail, would send her to hospital.
While other kids carried on going to nursery school – maybe the really drippy ones took a morning off – she’d end up with double pneumonia and be on constant oxygen for a week, confined to bed.
Visits to the loo meant attaching her to a mobile tank the same height as she was and trailing it along the corridor on wheels.
She had her third birthday party on the children’s ward, by then our second home. The nurses let her invite her friends, gave her a teddy (Howard) and made her a cake which she wasn’t well enough to eat. They threw her a party in the playroom and attached her mask to the wall so she could get out of bed. She lost at musical bumps because the attachment wasn’t long enough for her to sit on the floor.
As she’s got older (bigger, stronger) the effects of the cold have reduced and until this week it was three years since we’d been admitted.
But on Sunday I had the old sinking feeling as she lay on the sofa getting hotter and hotter, refusing to eat and not talking. She needed all her energy just to pull in oxygen.

An early night and doses of Calpol failed. By 2am she was looking at me with strangely glazed eyes and asking if it was the second world war and if she would die.
At 8.30am I nipped to the GP to get her oxygen levels checked and they told me to get an ambulance straight to A&E.

My daughter was chuffed to bits. She loves being in hospital. To her, it means back-to-back DVDs in bed and people running to do your bidding 24 hours a day. If you’re well enough, you get to paint in the playroom with the lovely Shelley - and if you’re not, they bring paints to your bed.
At school people are pleased with you if you are organised, learn your tables and concentrate. (Not things she’s great at). In hospital they are pleased with you if you are sweet, brave and don’t complain. (All things she’s very good at. The upside of the endless pain and needles is that she is very, very brave).
No-one swaps you out of the netball match unfairly or tells you off because you struggle with long division. (My suggestion that we use the time together to practise her tables was met with an expression actors should study as a perfect way to illustrate ‘I’ve never heard anything so utterly ridiculous’).

In hospital, she is cheerful in the face of adversity and they love her for it. There is a lot of crying on the ward and she is never miserable. They recognise her, greet her like a celebrity and love the fact that she still has Howard with her.
Her nutrition-obsessed mother relaxes all food rules and is happy that she manages to eat something, anything. Big Mac? Sure. Coca-cola with that? No problem. Eating in bed? Go for it, baby.

For me coming home is an immense relief. My shabby, messy home is utterly beautiful and I love everything about it. I vow I will never wish for time to sit still again.
For her – not so much. Healthy eating and only on the ground floor, sleep at the proper time and up at the proper time. No more painting in bed. Wear clothes.
It’s tough, normal life.

Sick and tired, but not of life

At 3am last Monday morning my youngest starting throwing up and didn’t stop until there was nothing left and she passed out.
We’ve spent the rest of the week in hospital where it struck me, not for the first time, how strange it is that outside the windows, everyone carries on as normal, not realising that, for us, time is suspended.
I organise people to look after my other daughter and then fret that she’s being passed around like a parcel. I cancel work. I cancel everything I think of and the other things I just miss. I forget the vet’s appointment, washing sits in the machine for days and birthdays pass unnoticed.
Outside, the shops open and close, the market starts and finishes, people moan that it’s cold (is it?), a helicopter lands and takes off again and a netball match is played.
Inside, the temperature is the same the whole year round. It is never dark. Nurses move beds into wards at midnight and doctors stick needles in my daughter’s hand at 2am. You sleep at three in the afternoon. The oxygen monitor beeps...

Ever since our daughter was a small baby, we’ve had to keep a sharp eye on the dreaded common cold virus which, without fail, would send her to hospital.
While other kids carried on going to nursery school – maybe the really drippy ones took a morning off – she’d end up with double pneumonia and be on constant oxygen for a week, confined to bed.
Visits to the loo meant attaching her to a mobile tank the same height as she was and trailing it along the corridor on wheels.
She had her third birthday party on the children’s ward, by then our second home, and the nurses let her invite her friends, gave her a teddy (Howard) and made her a cake which she wasn’t well enough to eat. They threw her a party in the playroom and attached her mask to the wall so she could get out of bed. She lost at musical bumps because the attachment wasn’t long enough for her to sit on the floor.
As she’s got older (bigger, stronger) the effects of the cold have reduced and until this week it was three years since we’d been admitted.
But on Sunday I had the old sinking feeling as she lay on the sofa getting hotter and hotter, refusing to eat and not talking. She needed all her energy just to pull in oxygen.

An early night and doses of Calpol failed. By 2am she was looking at me with strange eyes and asking if it was the second world war and if she would die.
At 8.30am I nipped to the GP to get her oxygen levels checked and they told me to take an ambulance to A&E.

My daughter was chuffed to bits. She loves being in hospital. To her, it means back-to-back DVDs in bed and people running to do your bidding 24 hours a day. If you’re well enough, you get to paint in the playroom with the lovely Shelley and if you’re not, they bring paints to your bed.
At school people are pleased with you if you are organised, learn your tables and concentrate. (Not things she’s great at). In hospital they are pleased with you if you are sweet, brave and don’t complain. (All things she’s very good at. The upside of the endless pain and needles is that she is very, very brave).
No-one swaps you out of the netball match unfairly or tells you off because you struggle with long division. (My suggestion that we use the time together to practise her tables was met with an expression actors should study as a perfect way to illustrate ‘I’ve never heard anything so utterly ridiculous’).

In hospital, she is cheerful in the face of adversity and they love her for it. There is a lot of crying on the ward and she is never miserable. They recognise her, greet her like a celebrity and love the fact that she still has Howard with her.
Her nutritionist mother relaxes all food rules and is happy that she manages to eat something, anything. Big Mac? Sure. Coca-cola with that? No problem. Eating in bed? Fabulous.

For me coming home is an immense relief. My shabby, messy home is utterly beautiful and I love everything about it. I promise never to wish for time to sit still again.
For her – not so much. Healthy eating and only on the ground floor, sleep at the proper time and up at the proper time. No more painting in bed. Wear clothes.
It’s tough, normal life.

A DRAINING EVENING OUT....

Last night I spent four hours (mostly on my knees) and the fat end of a hundred quid at a service station. Got home around 1am.
And if by some remote chance you’re thinking, ‘What’s weird about that?’, here’s the thing. It wasn’t totally hideous. Not the best night of my life, but it had its moments.
The plan was an evening at a friend’s place in Gloucestershire, the outdoor pizza oven was lit, the wine was chilling, the sunset promised to be glorious. It was a fun stopover on the way to a few happy days surfing in Wales.
I pulled in to a service station for petrol – and filled up with diesel.
I don’t know why I did it. My other car is diesel, I had a lot on my mind, I have no brain? – whatever - it was done in a flash. The cashier assured me it happens every day and gave me the number of a lovely guy who would undo the moment’s madness for a mere £150. He'd probably arrive within an hour. I’d already spent £30 on diesel and I’d have to spend another £30 afterwards on petrol. Total: £210.
No.
I’m an easy-going, laid back kind of a girl most of the time, but I can be, as someone kindly pointed out recently, the stubbornest ass you’ll ever come across. Every now and then my brain simply says, ‘No’. And that’s it.
My girls learned very early in their little toddler lives that I don’t say no much, but when I do, there is no point arguing. If I say it, I mean it.
I was in France when the volcanic ash cleared the skies of Europe. We had booked onto Eurotunnel and usually you get two hours either side of your booking time to catch the train.
We'd driven from Morzine – eight hours, two adults and five children in the car and only one quick petrol stop (actually diesel, but you know what I mean). They’d been angels, not a cross word between them, despite being wedged in a car rammed with all the bulky bags you need for skiing.
We arrived ten minutes after our allotted check-in time which is usually fine. But because of the sheer number of people who suddenly couldn’t get home any other way, we were told we’d have to wait four hours.
I turned around and looked at the children. They'd been in the car since 10am. Leaving the port at midnight meant they would finally get out of the car and into their beds around 2.30am the next day. My brain said 'No'.
The guy in the terminal was useless when I told him my predicament. To be fair he’d probably had countless people saying the same thing all day.
I tried several more people, equally unsuccessfully, including a random stranger who said he’d ring a ferry and see if we could get back quicker that way. No go.
Everyone else tried to be positive about buying nasty burgers and chips and wandering round the duty free, but I had decided I was going home and nothing was going to stop me.
I found the office of the Chief Big Cheese, banged on the door and sobbed that I had one child with a broken arm who needed a doctor, who’ d sat in agony all day and another with the runs and I haaaad to get hooooommme.
I think they gave me the ticket just to get rid of me, but whatever – we were on the next train out of there.
The same thing happened in the service station. My brain simply said, ‘No.’ There was no way I was paying that much money for nothing. There had to be another way.
I rang the guy who looks after my van for advice. ’Do it yourself’, he said.
I laughed. I just about know where the engine is, but that’s as far as it goes. I was wearing a new coral-coloured sun dress and sparkly flip flops.
‘It’s easy,’ he said. ‘Undo the jubilee clip – you’ll need a screw driver - on the fuel pipe which is next to the carburettor and the fuel will just pour out. Reattach, refill and away you go.’
(For the record, ‘screwdriver’ is the only word in that sentence that means anything to me, and I don’t have one.)
But after more talking, nipping out to the van and coming back in to talk again (because you can’t use a mobile phone by a petrol pump), I was game.
First I rolled the van backwards – the only way I could move it off the sloping forecourt without starting the engine – until it was bang smack in the entrance but away from the pumps.
Then I bought all the petrol cans in the shop. I knelt down behind the van and unscrewed the fuel pipe with a pair of nail scissors (screwdriver indeed).
And then I spent the next four hours waiting for around 40 litres of fuel to trickle out of my van into my washing up bowl before periodically transferring some of it into the cans and some of it onto my new flip flops.
My angels bought crisps, played cards and hangman, took themselves off to Little Chef for a pancake and never once said, ‘When are we goooooooooooooiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggggg?’
Three truckers bought me coffee and one donated his ten litre petrol can (or is it diesel in a lorry?) when I’d filled all mine and Shell had no more to sell me.
I heard the life story of the cashier – far more interesting than mine as it turns out and therefore another possible story. I have his number.
A bunch of guys on a stag night pulled in, filled up, got out, did a little dance and one sprained his ankle and had to be carried back to the stretch limo. Out of action before they even reached the night club.
I did 120 squats (30 an hour) and discovered that the massive ‘£19 a room’ advert for Travel Lodge only applies if you book online two weeks in advance. What use is that? If you come in because you have seen the £19 sign it will, in fact, cost you £55.
My eldest daughter hoola-hooped around the forecourt as darkness fell with her new LED hoop, and at 11.30pm we put the beds up and the girls went to sleep on a slope. I think the punters thought we were part of a travelling circus. (Well, you are a bunch of clowns, said my sympathetic mother).
Still a few travellers stopped by and I got used to people staring at me, standing in the middle of the entrance in the dark surrounded by my little green petrol cans.
At midnight, I reattached the pipe, screwed the jubilee clip into place, filled my van with petrol and drove home. My girls had been asleep for over an hour.
I had been so stupid, I stuffed up my children’s trip, spent £30 on fuel I’d have to dump and £20 on petrol cans I would never use again, but as I drove home, having completely drained a car engine, flushed through the pipes and refilled my lovely van, I felt bizarrely proud of myself.
If anyone has any use for 30-odd litres of diesel with a bit of petrol mixed in, can you give me a shout? You’re welcome to it. And Andy - I owe you more than a pint.

CAN I BORROW YOUR PANTS?

I've been working from home for years and weirdo clients have been thankfully few and far between. I teach one-on-one, so I use very sensitive antenna before I shut myself in with a client. I've weeded out a couple of what I call 'shivery' males before they've made it through the door and one lady who, bless her, just bored me so much I decided I'd rather not have the money.
But recently I had one who was so outrageous that she made me stand stock still for a good thirty seconds with my mouth hanging open and no sound coming out. Twice.
I have engineered my working life so I am in the canny position of being able to see my clients arrive. This means no time is wasted - which as many of you will know, I can't bear. It's the reason I'm always late everywhere; if there are two minutes spare before I'm due to pick up the children I genuinely think I can just nip to the post office and get my mailing done on the way. Rather be late, than be one of those mothers who arrives at school twenty minutes early and sits in the car doing nothing to make sure they can park as close to the school gate as possible. How do they have time for this? And if they have so much time on their hands, why the bloody hell don't they walk all the way there and leave the car spaces for people like me who have no time at all? I suspect the irony is lost on them. Mind you, they are probably just as baffled by me as, day after day, I arrive as they leave, flying in to the school yard looking like I've just got up, hair on upside down, car parked four miles away because I'm last and all the good places are taken.
So the best thing for me about working from home is that no time is wasted. I am washing up until the split second a client pulls into my drive. And if they are late, I no longer sit checking for split ends, swinging my legs in a studio somewhere with nothing to do but wait. I clean the bathroom, load the washing machine, do a bit of light weeding - any number of little chores can fill the time. I used to get mad as hell when I drove for half an hour, sat in a studio for twenty minutes, had a 'no-show' from someone and then drove half an hour home again, gnashing teeth, time completely wasted, to take it out on the children.
The other day, I was clearing the breakfast table when this particular client - I'll call her Lottie - arrived. She got out of her car and I went to my studio door to greet her - but there was no sign of her. I went back to peer through the kitchen window and sure enough, her now empty car was parked in the driveway. As I watched, puzzled, she emerged from behind my garage, clutching something and headed for the studio door.
I let her in and our session began. 'Actually,' she said apologetically, moments later. 'Would you mind if I just used your loo?' A few minutes later she was back. A little longer than the average tinkle perhaps but nothing remarkable. About half an hour later, she suddenly blurted out, 'I'm sorry. Would you mind if I had a shower?' My jaw dropped for the first time. She explained that she had a urine infection (Sorry. If you're of weak disposition, look away now. It gets worse). She was late arriving at my house because she'd been 'trying to go', but the pain was stopping her. When she arrived she was so desperate, she'd nipped behind the garage but by this time she had 'let some go' (her words) so had taken off her wet knickers and washed them in my sink. Where I clean my teeth. And hung them up in my bathroom to dry.
'But I still feel a bit....you know....between the legs,' she said. 'I think I'd feel much better if I had a shower.' I was so gobsmacked I nodded weakly and off she went.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not without sympathy for the poor woman. I just think that if the problem is that bad, you cancel, no? Off she went for her shower and I pottered about. Polished a mirror. Dusted a couple of shelves. Wondered if she would want to carry on after her shower or if she'd need......surely not....oh dear God surely not.....
Lottie stuck her head around the shower room door. This is a client. I barely know her.
'I don't suppose I could borrow a pair of your knickers, could I? Only I'm going on somewhere straight after this and I wouldn't really feel comfortable going without underwear.'
My mouth fell open for the second time. Not metaphorically. I stared at her, with not the faintest idea of what to say. I actually can't remember what I did say. I think I babbled some load of old rubbish and then walked away.
I waited in the studio until she came out, smelling of my shower gel, hair washed, smiled like a cabbage patch doll at whatever she said next and waved her off with the same fixed grin.
And then I texted her saying I thought it might be best if she found another teacher.

THE FOX ISN'T CUNNING, HE'S CHICKEN

My luck has run out and I am heartbroken.
For years, friends have marvelled at the way my lovely, funny hens roam willy nilly all over my garden and the fields behind and (I’ve just discovered) my neighbour’s flower bed, without the local foxes catching on. Everyone else's get eaten regularly but mine just seem to bumble on.
Every now and then, someone pulls into the drive saying, ‘Sorry to bother you, but are those your hens wandering down the road?’ I go out and call them and they come running back to me, bowling along as fast as their fluffy little legs will carry them, clucking around my ankles for flapjack or whatever else today’s treat may be.
The kids pick them up and carry them around, chatting to them and stroking them. They love collecting their little eggs and working out how many Bantie eggs makes ‘three medium’ in a cake. When we have barbecues, they cluster around our feet hoping we’ll drop tasty bits of sausage, bread or steak (not chicken, obviously. Unless you’re my mum who can’t see why not).
For the last two years we’ve let the broody ones sit, so at least four of our hens have hatched here. The children have heard the tiny peeping sounds inside the eggs and watched as the bedraggled creature struggles out, fluffs up and becomes a chick within minutes. We’ve even done that thing of reviving them in a bed made of a hat stuffed with a tea towel on the Aga when the mother rejected them.
Sometimes they’re left alone for a bit while I work and as soon as I get home they come straight to me, half-flying, half-running in their haste to get to me. (They’re not great at either, so a combination of running, jumping and flapping seems to work best). I sit on the garden step and tell them what I’ve been up to. One of them hops onto my knee and the others just hang about and listen.
My dog sunbathes happily on the lawn while they forage around him. Even my naughty kitten, who used to love chasing them all over the place till we came charging out of the house, adding our shrieking to their squawking, soon learnt somehow that they are different to other birds and he is not allowed to eat them.
The only problems I’ve ever had have been with dogs. Once a friend arrived, opened her car boot, her Jack Russell shot out and before we even blinked, he had the rooster, Dom, between his teeth.
I lost my second cockerel when a neighbour’s dogs escaped from their garden and came as a pack to hunt hens. Brave little Bolly tried to fight the Alsatians but he never stood a chance.
It’s always the roosters that go first. When an attack begins, the girls scatter and hide and the plucky, beautiful cockerel runs towards the source of danger to defend his girls. He has no tools for the job and it’s heartbreaking.
This time of year is always tricky because a) the foxes are breeding and b) chickens go to bed at dusk. In the winter dusk is about 4.30pm, when there are still loads of noisy people around. But in June, there are three options.
1 – don’t go out till after dusk which right now is about 9.45pm
2 – chase the chickens to bed before you go which takes about three hours.......
3 – risk leaving them out and shut the coop when you get home.
Not long ago I was away for the weekend and a friend was house-sitting for me. On the Saturday night he found himself with exactly this problem and, bless him, he spent hours trying to shepherd my flock into their coop long before they wanted to go.
I laughed my head off when this eminent psychiatrist described running like a Neanderthal around the garden, arms trailing on the lawn, clucking like a mother hen himself, until they were all safely tucked in.
But I’m not laughing any more. I had the same problem myself last night and, instead of chivvying my beautiful hens into an early bed, I left them out in the sunshine.
In the early, dark hours of the morning, I came back to batten down the hatches, peeping in as I always do for a quick head count, to make sure no-one’s missing. The coop was empty.
I searched the garden with a torch and a lump in my throat. Like I said, chickens go to bed at dusk. Without fail. They’re not like the cat, now a naughty teenager who, given half a chance, will stay out on the tiles all night and rock up with the milk in the morning, yawning and demanding food before crashing out on the sofa for the day.
I knew they weren’t just somewhere else. I cried when eventually I found two of the chooks playing dead, one on a garden chair and one in a flower pot. I cried as I put them back gently into the feather-filled coop they had quite clearly run from. And I cried when in daylight this morning I saw the amount of feathers covering the garden and the field. The black feathers in the garden showed where, once again, my valiant rooster, Frizzle, had tried to protect his girls.
Friends have marvelled at my lovely hens, because they thought the fox hadn’t twigged they were there. Now I think the bastard, cowardly fox had known all along, but there’s always lots of people and noise at our house, not to mention the dog. I think he waited for the one occasion when there was no-one to hear, no-one to stop him and then he just went in unchallenged. The dog must have been going mad, locked in the house.
I feel terrible. I don’t know how to protect the two that are left without shutting them in all day. Because I know he’ll back.
And I feel so guilty. I'm so sorry. I should have made sure they were safe before I went out, but I was in a rush as always and I didn’t have time.
And soon my children will be back from school and I will have to tell them. I don't deserve it but wish me luck......

JUMPING (CAREFULLY) ON THE HEALTH AND SAFETY BANDWAGON

The Health and Safety police have stopped me cleaning, made me sit in a room for an hour doing nothing and forced me to throw perfectly good food in the bin and I can’t take it any more.
I know there have been whole rain forests of rants written about the pettiness of certain aspects of health and safety regulation but I’m afraid I’m going to jump on the bandwagon (not while it’s moving , obviously, that could be dangerous and I haven’t done the course in how to jump on moving bandwagons).
For a couple of years now I’ve been cooking lunch at our little village school following a campaign to make hot food available again for primary age children, something I think is really important.
When I was at primary school I had either cooked lunch in school where I regularly got told off by Mr Yeldham for pouring the custard from a height of three feet (seriously dangerous) or trotted home (by myself, aaaaahh!) where mum boiled me an egg with soldiers and I loved it.
And as a mum myself I’ve often felt that a couple of sandwiches and an apple weren’t enough to get my little ones through a six hour day in the middle of winter.
So when I was offered the opportunity to help get this programme of hot food in primary schools off the ground, I grabbed it – and largely I’ve loved it. I know for some of the kids, school lunch is the only decent food they get all day. And I adore the children.
Not long ago, one particular little lad, age six, came to me at the end of service and said, hands on hips, deadly serious, ‘Can I tell you something?’ ‘Of course you can.’ I said.
‘You are the best chef in the whole world,’ he said. ‘I’d die for you.’
I persuaded the same little fella to try melon one day, something he’d never had. He struggled valiantly for a while and when all the other kids had left the dining room, I went and sat with him and said, ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?’
‘I like the top,’ he said. ‘But I don’t really like the bottom.’ I explained it was ok to leave the skin and gave him a sticker for trying something new.
There are five- year- old twins who will go to any lengths to hide the abandoned contents of their lunch boxes to be allowed some of my food; we’ve found tangerines stuffed inside the radiator, sandwiches in their skirts and muesli bars in their socks.
I’ve been there for the birthdays, new kids, blossoming (and failing) little romances, best friends and falling-outs, even parents dying. I will miss their little faces, lopsided compliments and funny comments terribly.
When I started, mine was about the ninth school in the programme and the company I worked for was also relatively new to this particular market. My opinion and experiences were relevant and common sense was expected. Now it is not even allowed.
I know that for any company these days, health and safety is important – and nowhere moreso than in catering. But I am not allowed to clean the top of my fridge because I haven’t done a course in Using a Step Ladder. So it stays dirty. Where’s the sense in that?
And God forbid the children should pour their own custard, from any height. What if they spilt it and then slipped on it (of which more later...)?
If I have fifteen children eating lunch, I must put fifteen chocolate muffins in bowls (unwrapped) with a handful of blueberries in each. Because that’s what it says on the menu. No matter that I’ve known half these kids since before they were born and I can tell you categorically that two of them won’t eat their muffins, three of them will be cajoled into trying a couple of blueberries and another six will tip the whole lot in the bin.
I accept that in this age of litigation, it is necessary to sign every line I write in my daily log book, (despite the fact that there’s mostly only me working there) in case the company needs to prove that it was me who tested the temperature of the fridge, accepted the delivery, or washed the floor.
But as more and more schools join the scheme the rules are getting more and more ridiculous.
I came close to leaving when they introduced the Daily Briefing. Occasionally on busy days, when I have a helper, we chat about how we’re going to split the tasks. ‘How about you serve the meat and I’ll do the veg?’ we say.
This is apparently no longer good enough. It doesn’t ‘cover us’. If a child complains they weren’t given sweetcorn, it is important that you can pin down who is responsible.
So now I have to summon my helper to the Daily Briefing. We record in the log book what time it starts. We say ‘How about you serve the meat and I’ll do the veg?’ Then I have to write in the log book what I said and at what time, and then I sign it. Then she has to agree that she has been briefed and also sign the book. And date it. And put the time next to it.
But I realised I was finished when one of the area bosses came down to teach me about the Spill Box.
I must now place on my windowsill every morning a bin liner, into which I must carefully place a pair of gloves from the glove cupboard and a piece of kitchen roll. If I spill anything, this procedure must be followed: I must go to the Spill Box, pull on the gloves, take out the piece of tissue (not a different piece, mind), and wipe up the spill. I must then dispose of the gloves and the tissue, record the entire incident in my log book and replenish the Spill Box.
‘Phew,’ I said, when they finished instructing me. ‘Thank goodness for that. For two years I’ve had no idea what to do if a bit of custard fell to the floor. I’ve just been falling flat on my face. Now I will be able safely to clean it up.’
I think I’ve jumped just before I was pushed.......

Can't cope without my nosey neighbours

This morning I had a call from the dentist. My immediate thought was that I had missed an appointment, which wouldn’t surprise me at all.
No matter how hard I try, I am one of those people who constantly misses stuff. Doctor’s appointments, kid’s parties, netball matches – anything out of the ordinary routine is liable to slip through the big, holey net that is my brain.
I write endless lists, I stick neon Post-its on the fridge, I set the alarm on the mobile - which is on loud AND vibrate in my pocket - and scribble notes on my hand, but somehow stuff still slides past me.
There is a version of this put about by my friends (ok, by me), which is that I pack far more into my day than anyone else which makes it far harder for me to remember stuff than anyone else.
Recently when two friends were talking about some remarkable thing I’d done for one of them (oh, rest assured, you’ll hear the whole story) they agreed that I was a loyal and trustworthy friend who could always be relied upon to go the extra mile whenever needed.
There was a pause and then one of them frowned slightly and added, ‘ Well...actually....she’s never there quite when you need her, but she always gets there eventually.’
There are good and bad angles to living in a small village, which will not be world-shattering news to anyone who’s ever done it. The upsides are obvious. When someone’s poorly we walk their dogs, make them shepherd’s pie and put out their bins. There is always someone to water your plants while you’re on holiday. If you break down by the side of the road because you’ve filled your diesel car with petrol you can be sure that within minutes someone you know will happen along and pick you up. And if you go to bed leaving the keys dangling from your front door, you’re unlikely to wake to a living room cleared of TV, stereo and laptop (unless it’s a Bank Holiday weekend).
The downside is that everyone knows exactly what I’m doing at any given minute of any day -sometimes they seem to know more about what I’m doing than I do.
Then suddenly the other day, it hit me like a squash ball between the eyes. I suddenly realised that it’s not sometimes – it’s always. It has taken me ten years, but it just dawned on me that I should stop moaning about this and be grateful that effectively there are hundreds of people living on my doorstep who are managing my daily diary far better than I am.
I finished one batch of writing the other day and went to walk my dog; I hadn’t got far when I bumped into a lady I know vaguely from church.
‘Hello,’ she said with a surprised smile. ‘I didn’t expect to see you this afternoon. Thought you were picking up your cousin from the station.’
Which, of course, is exactly what I should have been doing. Quick about-turn, short jog home, grab a few flowers on the way, smooth the bed sheets and poof up the pillows in the spare room, plonk the flowers in a vase - and I was on the platform with a welcoming grin only a few minutes later than planned, giving cousin no clue whatsoever that I’d completely forgotten she was coming to stay. Thanks to the lady (whose name I can’t remember) from church.
My daughter’s riding teacher texts me on the morning of her lesson to say, ‘Just checking you’ve remembered it’s Friday.’ Her guitar teacher does the same thing on Monday. My Aga man rings me the night before a service to remind me to turn off the oven before I go to bed. It was relatively recently that I discovered that these people don’t do this as a matter of course for all their clients. Just me. Because they know that if they don’t, I’ll forget.
So when the phone rang this morning I should have known better. The dentist’s lovely receptionist wasn’t calling to moan that I’d missed my appointment, she was ringing to check I’d remembered that I have one tomorrow. For which I am very grateful, because of course, I hadn’t.
(Note to editors and clients: None of the above applies to work matters, for which I am always on time and which I never forget about. )

A FEATHERY FEAST

Last week my friend’s retriever ate a seagull. A whole, white, unblemished, fresh-from-the-sky seagull.
When I agreed to walk Max, I asked if he had any particular quirks I should know about. Like my dog, for example, who is utterly sweet natured and adorable unless you’re a Jack Russell on a lead, in which case he’ll eat you.
‘Oh yes,’ said my friend Rachel. ‘He retrieves things.’
Bearing in mind that Max is a retriever, the discovery that he was a bit of a beachcomber didn’t worry me. Even when she added that he guards his trophies jealously.
‘You’ll never get anything off Max,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry. He hardly ever seems to suffer any ill effects,’ she added somewhat cryptically.
When I was growing up a friend of mine had a retriever, a really soppy old thing who used to collect fresh eggs from the hen coop at the end of her garden and bring them to the kitchen. He would hang on to them gently until someone held out a hand and only then would he release his precious cargo, undamaged.
So when, at crack of dawn this morning, Max shot across the sand to the water’s edge and pounced on something, I barely noticed. I hardly batted an eyelid when he came right up to me, proudly bearing the very large bird.
I remained happily ignorant until we’d walked about halfway around the point. Max barked and scarpered if anyone approached him, but the bird was still clearly untouched.
Then all of a sudden, he vanished. I called but there was no sign of Max. I wandered on, confident he’d catch me up when he felt like it, but he didn’t.
Eventually, retracing my steps, I spotted him hiding in the sand dunes. He appeared to be shredding something. I hollered and he came lolloping towards me, stopping every now and then to shred a bit more. By the time he reached me, a large proportion of the beautiful, unblemished seagull was, how can I put it? Blemished. I’ll spare you the details but it wasn’t pretty.
Somehow I knew that offering him one of the peanut-sized treats I had in my pocket wasn’t going to distract him. I cajoled, I did my authoritative voice, I chased after him flapping my arms (not sure why), and I stood stock still, pointing sternly at the sand and saying, ‘Leave it!’ in a voice an octave lower than my usual one, which I’m told makes people more likely to listen to you. Margaret Thatcher did it apparently.
None of it worked. I turned my back on him and strode off, hoping that withdrawing my affection might make him realise the error of his ways, ditch the shredded bird and charge after me. (What? It works with men). Instead he stuck close to my heels, bearing the increasingly gory remains of seagull proudly for everyone to see. By this time I realised that the seagull had had its chips anyway and I gave up fighting and concentrated on pretending he wasn't with me.
By the time I got back to the car park, there was no longer any sign that the seagull had ever existed. No beak, no feet, nothing.
For a week I picked up doggy-doo with feathers in it. Seriously. Perfectly formed and healthy looking, if you must know, but stuffed full of feathers.
And Rachel was right. Max suffered no ill-effects whatsoever.

Missed it, Mister Plod

Last night I was wrenched from sleep by a very, very loud bang. ‘What the hell was that?' I mumbled through closed eyes. 'Sounds like the dog exploded.’

Ignoring my half-conscious nonsense, the hero of the hour was out of bed at a speed I’d never seen him achieve before. He was away down the stairs with half an arm in my Estee Lauder robe (one of those free gifts they throw in to make it look like the obscenely-priced perfume is, in fact, excellent value) before you could say ‘burglar’, leaving the front door wide open.

Only mildly curious, I snuggled back down and would have gone back to sleep easily had it not been for the icy draught creeping up the stairs.

I read somewhere once that the best way to keep warm is to lie still. I think it was a survival guide in case you got lost on a snowy mountain. Apparently that way, your body only has to heat up the immediate centimetre surrounding you, like the Ready Brek glow, whereas if you wriggle about, the glow gets confused and tries to heat up the whole world, leaving you with lots of cold bits.
Well let me tell you, if you rely on this information at night on the Matterhorn, you’re going to die. I have now tried it, and it doesn't work. I lay stiff as a corpse for a good five minutes but it made not a jot of difference. Then I wiggled about a lot, thinking (as I had done originally, when reading this silly advice) that raising your body temperature has to be a better way to keep warm.

Eventually, furiously, I stomped downstairs planning to slam the door loudly enough for the village hero to get the message but not loudly enough to wake up the kids. It’s a delicate skill but I've done it so many times I've nailed it.

Having got there, it dawned on me belatedly that he'd shot off unhesitatingly in the middle of the night and that maybe I should be concerned. I poked my head out and, seeing nothing but darkness, tugged my t-shirt a bit further over my bottom, donned wellies (good look that, t-shirt, wellies and yesterday's make up) and crept out into the drive. I called but there was no reply. No sign of him.

I ventured to the end of the drive. In the gloom I could make out shadowy figures milling around a few doors down and, yes – there was definitely a man in a fluffy robe.

There had been some kind of car crash. Hoping it was nothing too grim, I put the front door on the latch and went to investigate.

It astonishes me that there aren't more accidents outside my house. We are positioned in a 30-mile-an-hour zone mid-way between two hairpin bends, but the speed some of the lads (sorry, but it is always lads) manage to crank up in the few short yards in between them is breath taking.
Turns out this one cranked it up a bit too much and lost if halfway round the bend, taking down a garden wall and ploughing his car into the ditch.

He was not hurt but was beside himself, not least because it wasn't his car. His cousin, who’d lent it to him, was also beside himself when he turned up, but not nearly so friendly. He was determined to get his car out of the ditch. I can’t tell you what he said to us when we suggested he go home and sort it out in the morning.

After a great deal of shunting, grumping and swearing (which our hero stayed out of for fear of getting my robe muddy), the lads managed to extract their battered motor from the ditch and drove off very shakily in the direction of home. This all took about an hour.

Two minutes later, the village police raced up and screeched to a halt. Leaping out they addressed the assembled neighbours.
‘Hear a car slammed into the ditch,’ they announced excitedly (not much goes on around here as a rule).

The men in dressing gowns looked at each other and then back at the bobbies.
‘Yes,’ said one of them, pointing slowly in the direction from which the police had just arrived.
‘That would be the one you just passed going two miles an hour in the opposite direction with the headlights hanging off and the doors bashed in....’

You know all those TV dramas where the policeman says to the reluctant witness, ‘...but you must have seen something unusual’?

You know they call me sledgehammer

Two weeks before Easter, Hubby came home and knocked down the wall between garage and conservatory with a sledgehammer.

Next weekend we have around forty friends and their small children coming for drinks and nibbles – and the living room is full of rubble.

Holding back my inner fishwife I am forced to admit (only to myself, obviously) that the fall of the wall is almost entirely my own fault.

Bored of waiting for my extension to be finished (started), I went to look at a house for sale yesterday. A very pretty (small, dark) cottage with a large (completely boxed-in) garden – and immaculate.

Now I’ve looked at immaculate houses before and, by and large, they’re not really my thing. To get the best price the vendor has completely recarpeted the house in top-quality, chocolate shag pile and fitted a spanking new kitchen which you really couldn’t justify ripping out but couldn’t live with for longer than it took you to open the front door – so you can’t buy the house.

But this one wasn’t like that. It was immaculately kitted out in my style (although I accept that to put the word immaculate and the phrase ‘my style’ in the same sentence would flummox most people who know me). I even loved the lamp shades - which I have an almost medical thing about – and which they were leaving. And the beautiful curtains. And the garden was stunning. My kind of stunning.

So the following morning I took hubby by the horns and suggested he go look at it.
His eyes rolled into the back of their sockets and his head hit his Shreddies. He peered at me through the milk in his fringe, clearly bewildered.
‘I didn’t know you wanted to move,’ said the poor man. ‘And besides – that place doesn’t fit your ‘criteria’. Surely??’

He had a point. It didn’t. My criteria are a standing joke in our family. They are the sort of requirements that are perfectly reasonable if your budget is well over a million – no neighbours within any kind of listening or spying distance of the garden, which by the way has to be south facing, masses of space and light, at least three reception rooms because I work from home, not on an estate as I have hens and camper vans and am a bit shabby so would upset all the stripey lawn set, and ideally on the sea front (even more ideally on a beautiful beach but not one that anyone else can go on, so people can’t watch me sunbathing and strangers’ dogs can’t wander into my lovely garden and eat my hens). On our modest budget though, my criteria are notoriously hard to meet. Where we live now meets all of them except the sea front bit and took ages to find.
So I understood his confusion. But then he blew it. ‘After all the plans we’ve made for the extension, all the work I’ve done....’

And there it was. The red rag that broke the camel’s back if you’ll excuse the mixed metaphor.

We moved here a few summers ago. I thought the extension would be finished for the first Christmas. Then I thought it would be finished for the next Christmas. Then the next. Hubby listened quietly and patiently as I babbled and blubbed about how long it was taking and then left for work, apparently ignoring my frustrated ranting.
I was wrong, as usual. Five thirty on the dot he came home with a sledgehammer and knocked down the wall. By bedtime the extension was, well, started. I can't really complain.

And by the time he and daughter number one had spray painted daffodils and sunshine on the decorator’s curtain separating my drinks party from the garage my teeth were no longer even gritted.
I’m looking on the bright side. It will be a great ice-breaker and a great party. And by this Christmas the extension will be finished........

One goes mad in a storm

I was battling across the dunes in a full Force 9, balancing a two-year-old child on my hip, when it dawned on me that my dog had vanished.

He never does that. He's one of those clingy labs that walks to heel almost all the time and stares accusingly at you when you stop to chat for a second as if to say, 'Er, hello? We're supposed to be walking here. Clue's in the title.' The clingy thing is the reason that I was out in this storm in the first place. My house backs onto open fields and I'd spent a good half an hour shooing him out of the door in the hope he might just go for a wander on his own, but he was having none of it. Just lay on the floor, watching me and the baby playing in the warmth of home, with his huge beseeching, hard-done-by eyes, until I gave in.

Now, having dragged us out in a howling gale, he seemed to have got over his neediness and buggered off. Muttering evil curses (under my breath so the baby wouldn’t hear) I turned our streaming eyes back into the wind and headed off to search for the dog. I discovered him, nose rammed up the back of a dalmation who turned and looked at me with his eyebrows raised (Yes, his. Male. Everytime). Luckily his old owner thought it was cute.

‘Such fun!’ she shrieked madly. Enid Blyton on A class. I tried to explain that normally I wouldn’t bring a runny-nosed child out in this kind of weather, but dogs must be walked, and there was no-where to leave her.

‘I TOTALLY understand, it's a complete nightmare’, screamed Acid Enid. Unlikely, as she had to be at least eighty. But it turned out she meant about the dog walking problem. She spends most days working in London, can’t possibly take the dog with her and her current dog walker is emigrating.

‘I could do it for you,’ I heard myself say. Whaaaaaaaaat??? Again! Why can’t I ever, EVER keep my trap shut? I haven’t even got time to trot round the block with my own poor fat lab these days, what the hell was I thinking?

But she was so grateful (and had me pinned down to walkies times, feeding details and key hidey holes so fast) that I didn't have the heart to back out. And then she asked my name and my fate was sealed.

One problem with moving back to the little village where I grew up, is that my husband's family are big news around these parts. I've never - seriously, never - introduced myself to someone without them saying, ‘You’re not one of THE Pines, are you?’ I know it’s childish and I shouldn’t mind but sometimes I can’t help replying petulantly, ‘No, I’m actually one of THE Campbells who, I think you’ll find, historically speaking, are slightly more significant than the local ironmongers.’ At which point everyone loses interest and wanders off.

Back home, I consoled Baby that her hypothermia hadn't been totally in vain as it turns out this is a paid thing. And later, warily, I mentioned my new dog walking job to my own particular member of the big-shot local dynasty, thinking he may (like me) think I’d lost my marbles. Should have known better. As soon as he hears there’s cash involved he’s all for it. Even offers to do the school run so I can be off earlier.

It’s the filthy lucre. Gets them every time.

In Hollywood the girl never ends up with wet pants

I’ve been swept off my feet. Have to confess it wasn’t entirely unpleasant at the time, but neither was it the fairy tale ending you get in the films. I had the handsome stranger, the deserted beach and the beautiful sunset – but all I have now is a sore bottom that is just about bearable when I’m upright - but sitting? Not even an option. It’s a real pain in the a*** (oh I’m sorry, but it was just too glaringly obvious to pass up).

Until kite surfing took over our waves, there was a sport that quite often took over our sands – the buggying version. In a nutshell, this involved half-sitting, half-lying on a go-kart while the wind dragged you along the beach. At least that’s what it looked like to me. I’m sure people are rolling their eyes in horror at my description but you get the picture.

You don’t see so many buggies along our little stretch of coast these days, but I’ve just discovered the hard way that they haven’t vanished completely.

It was during my evening stroll along the shore, sands deserted, beach my own. The tide was so far out you could hardly see the water and the day’s torrential rain had cleared the sky for an awe-inspiring sunset, long orange fingers stretching across the sky in every shade you can possibly imagine.

I spotted the lone buggy some way off and watched idly as its occupant struggled to keep going in the direction he chose rather than the one dictated by the wind (still not sure how they do that).

These buggies are capable of serious speed, but as this one was going against the wind it was actually moving far slower than me.

I strolled past and, once the buggy was behind me, I forgot it. I was lost in thought, gazing at the sunset, dreaming of summer and how romantic it would be to be paddling hand-in-hand when - wham - I was flat on my back, gagging for breath like a codfish.

For a minute I could see nothing and then, as the stars cleared, a face came into focus a few inches above mine. Not a bad looking face at that. Sent, maybe, to make my sunset fantasy a reality?

‘God, I’m really sorry,’ said the face. He did sound extremely sorry. ‘I don’t know how I did that. The damn thing just picked up speed suddenly and I lost it. Are you all right?’

I wasn’t, as it turned out. Only when my dog, belatedly remembering who feeds him, plodded back to find out what was holding me up and slobbered all over my face, did I discover I couldn’t move.

‘Let me help you,’ said the Face. Given that it was a very nice face and it was attached to a very nice body, I let its strong, brown arms help me.

Upright again, I wiggled various body parts without too much pain and decided the most damage had been done in the dignity area. Reluctantly I said I didn’t need him to take me to hospital. I also turned down his offer to teach me to kite buggy. He laughed, slightly hysterically, when I suggested he learn how to do it himself first.

I limped slowly home, nursing my bruised pride and wet pants. In Hollywood when this happens the heroine never has to limp home alone with wet pants.

Insomnia in winter

It’s four thirty in the morning and on BBC1 an old woman is celebrating making £241 at a car boot sale to put towards a two week Kenyan safari. (That won’t get you a one night safari at Longleat, my love). ITV, in a desperate competitive bid for my viewing, is offering me eight chances to win thousands of pounds if I can think of a word to follow ‘half’. Wit?

Who calls a TV quiz at 4.30am? Maybe the phones are ringing off the hook with nurses returning from the night shift not quite tired enough to go to bed yet. Or taxi drivers needing to wind down from the excitement of drunken clubbers and airport runs. And, I suppose, insomniacs like me who, fed up with tossing and turning are giving up on sleep and resorting to flicking through channels of rubbish you wouldn’t watch during the day, let alone in the middle of the night.

It’s starting to get to me now. I’m relatively new to insomnia and waking at 4.30 wasn’t so bad when it was light and the longest, hottest summer in 30 years. As long as you know it’s coming, you go to bed straight after the kids and there’s something quite magical about sitting outside with a cup of tea, wearing next to nothing and watching the sun come up. For a few blissful, silent moments I was the only person in the world. Some mornings, I’d wander around the field in my PJs, mug in hand, followed by the dog, the cat and a couple of brave chickens – even the deer didn’t bother to run away from us. Other days I’d run down to the beach, enjoying the feeling that, for once, there was no rush; I’d get back, shower and then sit in the garden with my breakfast while behind me the house slept on.

But being an insomniac in winter isn’t nearly as much fun. Now 4.30am is black and most definitely night time. There is nothing I want to do but sleep. I’ve always been one of those people who falls asleep the minute their head hits the pillow, but we’ve been burgled and since then my brain struggles to shut down. I’m a light sleeper, woken by a leaf falling two miles away, so I was deeply shocked to discover that people could wander around my house in the middle of the night and not wake me up.

I’d also thought having a big scary dog would help. But it turns out that my loyal hound and best friend will bark ferociously at hedgehogs, plastic bags and passing Jack Russells, but if strangers let themselves in in the middle of the night and help themselves to my best stuff – not to mention my mobile phone charger for which they had to physically reach over his bed – he won’t even get up. So the only solution is not to go to sleep at all in case the vermin return.

When I was travelling we used to sleep in all sorts of dodgy places – pavements, beaches, rooftops, station platforms – and we'd stuff everything that mattered half way down the sleeping bag and lie on it so no-one could nick it. Not comfy but relatively safe. Never thought I’d still be doing it, years later, under the Hungarian goose down, inside my own home.

But now I think I’ve cracked it. I’ve come up with a better solution than staying awake 24 hours a day. I've put traps around the house to trip up the burglars, a neat little trick I learned from my mother who used to do it to catch us coming home after curfew. This way, just in case I drop off briefly, the thieves will fall over folded garden chairs as they enter, sending them crashing to the quarry tiles (the chairs, not the burglars. Though actually that would work too). If that doesn’t scare them off, they will have to negotiate their way around a trail of marbles, various toy farm buildings and Barbie’s camper van (oh yes, even Barbie and Ken camp in our family). At which point they will discover that the interior door is locked and bolted from the far side and the only other entry is blocked by the dog’s bed. I'm working on the theory they won't know he's a big pansy. Who needs an alarm?

Talking of alarms, I’ve just noticed it’s about an hour until I have to get the girls up for school. So, now of course, I will fall into the deepest possible sleep known to mankind just in time for the alarm to go off………

I wonder about so much crap......

The two women coming towards me this morning were kitted out like an ad for Barbour. Full-length waxy mac, matching hat and shiny green wellies. I wonder if they actually scrub their boots - or just lob them in the bin and get new ones when they get a bit mucky. Like Elvis replacing his car when the ashtray was full.

They were almost surreal these women, looked very wrong here in the windswept dunes with their tidy hair and lipstick. They were totally oblivious to the wild beauty of their surroundings, showed no awareness of the sea or the fragility of the land which arouses such passion in me. They were talking about Rosemary and something she had done that simply wasn’t done.

I nodded and smiled as I passed, leaving my dog, Jack, to do his submissive thing with their Alpha males. He has a little ritual; on first spotting a superior dog-being, he lies down patiently and waits. As Superior Dog draws level he lolls over stupidly and puts his head on his front paws, bottom stuck up in the air. There are two ways this ends: either the dogs tear around like headless chickens, best friends for three minutes, or Jack rolls over and sticks his legs in the air and gets sniffed.

This morning he rolled over and I walked on. I’d gone maybe twenty yards further along the boardwalk, built to protect my beloved dunes, when I stopped dead. There in front of me, right bang smack in the middle of the path was a huge pile of still-steaming dog poo.

This really gets my blood boiling. Not many things rattle me, but when I’m famous and a Sunday magazine asks about my favourite restaurants, beauty tips and pet hates, dog poo is going to be right up there at the top of my rant list.

I stuck a bright smile on my face and turned to the immaculate women. One of them was on the phone. The other was shrieking (at a pitch only dogs could hear) to get her dog – Sebastian – to lay off licking Jack’s nether regions.

‘Excuse me,’ I called sweetly. ‘Would you like to borrow a poo bag? I’ve plenty and there’s a bin just up ahead of you.’ The Shrieking Lady stopped in mid squeal and froze. Her friend muttered something into the mobile without taking her eyes off me, hung up and very slowly slid it back into her pocket. I thought they were going to put their hands up. I glanced down to check that I was, in fact, waving a small plastic bag at them and hadn’t accidentally pulled a Colt 45 from my anorak and headed bravely towards them. To their credit they didn’t actually run away although their top halves very definitely leaned backwards.

One of them held out a beautifully – fortunately – gloved hand and took the bag from me. I smiled encouragingly as she stooped to pick up the poo and then watched as she walked the fifty yards to the poo bin. ‘There,’ I wanted to say, ‘was that so hard?’ but I made do with ‘It’s so terribly pretty around here, don’t you think?’ and walked on, shaking slightly and wondering why I felt the need to toff up my vocab.

I wonder all sorts on these morning walks. It’s a great way to start the day. I wonder how the hell to help my littlest learn her tables, what I would do if I were Cheryl Cole, whether I could be a foster mum and how Little Miss High and Mighty down the road will react when she finds out that Brad is leaving Angelina for me.

I wonder whether Elvis really did that thing with the ash trays, whether I can run 10k to help fight cancer, and if I should get bleachy highlights or stick with mousey.

It’s my precious time, in a place that means a lot to me (I wonder if I should scatter my ashes here?) so it rankles when people stride through it, barely notice it and leave mounds of crap behind them.

I’d barely gone another twenty yards when there in front of me was another seriously big pile. Same sort, if you know what I mean. Same diet, same time frame, same kind of dog.

I turned to where the women were still standing, still watching me as though I was some kind of weirdo. My silly grin reappeared and out came another poo bag but I just didn’t have the balls to go through the whole process again.

‘Not to worry,’ I called in the same silly, plummy voice, waving my little bag. ‘I’ll get this one’.

And off I tootled, in the opposite direction to them, away from the poo bin, stuck with carrying the bag of smelly crap all the way around the point and back.

I wonder if I’ll ever learn to keep my big mouth shut.