The Aged Ps Give Thanks

Mother rings to update me on her Christmas shopping.
"So we've got you the Clarins--"
"Don't tell me!" I plead.
"What do you mean, don't tell you?" Mother snaps. "I'm telling you that I've got you what you asked for. I'm telling you because I thought you'd be pleased."
"Yes," I sigh. "Thank you. I am pleased."
Mother has done this to me every year since I can remember: she always tells me exactly what my Christmas present is the minute she has bought it. It is a miracle I believed in Father Christmas for as long as I did. (Which, in fact, was for a shamefully long time. I have an excruciatingly clear memory of walking into the bathroom and demanding to know whether or not Father Christmas existed. "You have to tell me," I informed them. "Otherwise one day I will have children of my own and I will wait up all night for him to come and then what will I do when he doesn't?" I was in my first year at secondary school when I asked this.)
"So that's Christmas all done and dusted," Mother announces with satisfaction.
"Great," I say. And there was I thinking it hadn't started yet.
"Yes, Christmas shopping isn't much fun, is it? So I'm glad it's all over for another year. London was hell. Y'father and I went to The Savoy to treat ourselves after battling down Oxford Street - urgh! Far too many people. But then there are too many people in this country, as I'm always saying--"
"Yes, you are," I cut in hastily before I get the "it's all the fault of the immigrants" rant. "So, The Savoy - that must have been nice?" I ask.
"Well, it would have been," Mother sniffs. "Except that they were only doing a Thanksgiving meal! Thanksgiving, I ask you? Since when did we give a stuff about that?"
"Oh, I suppose everything gets Americanised these days," I mumble.
"Huh! I hope they don't think we're going to start celebrating Thanksgiving. Halloween's bad enough. What on earth are we supposed to be giving thanks for?" Mother snorts.
"That's easy!" Dad has picked up the other phone and barks into my ear, giving me the fright of my life. "We should be giving thanks we got rid of the bastards."
The Aged Ps collapse into hysterics.
I wonder idlly whether Dad has thought of applying for the job of Jeremy Clarkson's script writer. But I manage not to let this thought slip out. I don't want to be giving him any ideas.
"Well, there's certainly no reason to give thanks for anything around here at the moment," Mother says, recovering from her hysteria. "The country's going to the dogs. What about the strike? Load of old . . ."
And off she goes, chuntering away to Dad about the fecklessness of the unions and the Have-It-All Culture of People Today.
I listen wearily while a picture forms in my mind of the same conversation rearing its ugly head over the mince pies and brandy butter in four weeks' time.
Suddenly I'm not feeling a whole lot like giving thanks, either.

Guess How Much I Love You

I am staring into the greying waters of the evening's washing-up, turning over in my mind the problems I am having with the final draft of my manuscript. Suddenly I experience a strange sensation around my waist: something has encircled me and is tightening its grasp. I shriek.
"Mu-uum! It's only me," says a voice.
I twist my head round to see Daughter, who has now released me. There is a distinctly wounded expression on her face.
"What were you thinking of?" I demand. "Creeping up on me like that - you scared me!"
"I was only giving you a hug," Daughter protests. "I'm just, like, happy?" she explains, looking anything but, "And I had this urge to cuddle you. Cos I, like, love you. I guess."
I am filled with a deep sense of suspicion. Daughter never hugs family members, least of all me. And she never, ever says "I love you". She reserves such overt displays of affection for her female friends and performs them in the manner of an actress in an American soap, flinging her arms high in the air and encircling her victim while squealing loudly.
The hug I have just received was entirely different: it was a genuine warm snuggle, designed to convey feelings of true love and affection.
"What has happened to bring on this sudden rush of feeling for your mother?" I ask.
Daughter shifts uncomfortably and blushes, then hands me a piece of paper.
"We got our Activities Week choices confirmed today," she says.
The clouds part, the light dawns; all becomes clear. I open the letter. Daughter has got her first choice of trip - to go to Barcelona in July for a whole week. I am asked to "please return the acceptance slip with a deposit of £XXX as soon as possible" and am thanked for my "continued support". Support of what? I wonder. Looking at the itinerary which includes shopping (of all things), I am assuming they mean "support of the Spanish economy". I doubt very much that my "support" has anything to do with furthering my daughter's education.
"Well, I'm glad you're happy," I say, signing the slip and handing it back to Daughter, my arms out to hug her in return.
She takes the piece of paper and then backs away from me with a freaked-out expression. "OK, calm down," she says, putting a hand up in defence. "There's no need to get all touchy-feely on me."
Of course, how stupid of me. She doesn't love me that much.

Hell On Earth or Goodwill to All Men?

I have had my head so deep in writing the final draft of my latest book that all contact with the outside world has stopped. Also domestic tasks have ground to a halt. This has not gone unnoticed by the rest of the family, but not in a way that could be described as helpful.

“I haven’t got any hockey socks,” says Daughter.

“Nor you have,” I reply from behind my laptop.

“You haven’t signed my homework diary,” says Small Boy.

“Nope,” I say.

“I don’t have any pants,” says Husband.

I lower my head behind my laptop and hide.

The laundry pile has mated with the washing up pile and is reproducing at an alarming rate.

The animals are on the point of declaring war. I forget to feed Psycho Cat and she retaliates by pulling the carpet away from the stairs in such a way to ensure that I trip and injure myself enough for it to hurt for several days, but not enough to prevent me from ever feeding her again.

I give the dog the shortest of walks and am repaid by baleful looks and much getting-under-my-feet at every available opportunity.

I forget to let the chickens out in the morning.

I forget to shut the chickens in at night.

Fortunately Mr Fox is evidently consumed with writing the final draft of his book too, so we have not been paid a visit.

In the midst of the chaos, the Aged Ps ring.

“How are you?” asks Dad.

“Well, OK. Just a bit hectic,” I reply. “I’m finishing my book.”

Mother picks up the other phone. “I hope you’re ready for Christmas,” she barks. “It’s only five weeks away, you know.”
“Christmas?” I repeat. Surely the words “it’s five weeks away” tell you everything you need to know about why I am not ready for it yet, I say. But only to myself.

“Yes. Christmas,” says Mother. “I need to know what you all want.”

Mother does this to me every year, and every year I manage to forget that this is what she does. She makes asking me what I want for Christmas sound like asking me what form of execution I would prefer.

“I – I don’t know,” I say, staring, dead-eyed, at the wall for inspiration. “Nothing.”
“You can’t want nothing,” she says, disgusted. And then in the same breath, “Mind you, people make far too much of a fuss over Christmas these days. It’s all spend, spend, spend. And it starts earlier and earlier every year. Really, with the state the economy is in, it should be banned.”
“I agree,” I lie. I actually love Christmas, but I love it at Christmas time, not in the middle of November.

There is an uneasy pause. I never agree with Mother on anything. The fact that I just have seems to have thrown her.

“So,” says Mother, eventually. “Would your husband like Max Hasting’s new book on the Second World War? It’s called All Hell Let Loose.”

Sounds like a description of the sort of time we have as a family at Christmas, I think.

“Er, I’m not sure. I’ll ask him,” I say.

“Because I would like it for myself, actually,” says Mother.

“O-kaay,” I say.

“So what do you want for Christmas? Because I need to know,” she persists.

I think about saying “Peace on earth and goodwill to all men” just to annoy her. In the end I say, “Clarins face wash?”

This, it would seem, is the right answer.

I put the phone down with a sigh of relief and return to my deadline, Christmas forgotten about until the next time she calls.

Which will be tomorrow when she will announce that she has bought Husband the Max Hasting’s book and that he can give it to her if he doesn’t want it, and that she hasn’t been able to find Clarins face wash in Sainsbury's, so she's bought me a copy of the Max Hasting's book too.

Joy to the world, and all that.

No Ruffled Feathers Here

The form for the District Fanciers' Annual Show has been filled in and the National Federation of Poultry Clubs has been sent a cheque for £2.50: one pound for the entrance fee plus £1.50 membership.
I am rather worried about the "membership" part. What does this mean for Small Boy's future? Will he be put on some register of "fanciers" and be required to disclose this information at a future date? I hope it won't cause problems with career choices later in life. Does that sort of thing come up on a CRB check, for example?
I hoped that once the form was in the post we would hear no more about Chicken Fancying until the dreaded dark December morning when we have to go to the show.
But no, Small Boy is on a mission, and when he is on a mission, no one is safe.
"So," he informs me, sternly. "Today is the day that I have decided we must do A Dry Run on Titch so that she can get used to being groomed."
"Don't you mean a Wet Run?" I ask, sniggering.
Small Boy gives me his best withering look. "No," he says. "A Dry Run is when you practise something. And we must practise grooming Titch. Otherwise," he reminds me, "she may Get Overwhelmed on the day."
Small Boy then proceeds to repeat all the advice his has gleaned from William about how best to do this.
"All right, all right!" I fling up my hands in surrender. "I'll get a washing up bowl, you get the baby shampoo, cotton buds and Vaseline."
That is a sentence I have never had to say before. I am hoping it will be a while before I ever have to say it again.
"And I need your hairdryer," Small Boy calls casually over his shoulder, before disappearing into the bathroom.
"My WHAT?"
Small Boy reemerges with armfuls of toiletries and one of my best towels. "Well we need a hairdryer obviously, otherwise Titch might get hypothermia like one of William's chickens did."
"WHAT?" I realise I am repeating myself in a high-pitched and slightly weird way, but really: chickens with hypothermia? Then I realise this is William we are talking about. "How did one of William's chickens get hypothermia?" I ask wearily.
"Well, it was all because he washed it and did all the things we are about to do to Titch," explains Small Boy, "and then he didn't dry it, so it got too cold and they had to take it round to their next door neighbour to dry it out in the Aga."
I have visions of Small Boy putting Titch in the bottom oven and forgetting all about her until the next day when the aroma of roast bantam floods the house.
"I'll get the hairdryer," I say quickly.
We then wash the chicken. I say "we", but actually Small Boy proves to be quite proficient at washing his little hen and she, in turn, proves quite content at being washed. She sits in the plastic bowl, blinking blissfully and emitting soft chirruping sounds. She also, bafflingly, seems to enjoy the experience of the hairdryer which I have the job of wielding while Small Boy holds her.
We finish off the Poultry Pampering session with a manicure and a nice blob of Vaseline on her comb. I make stupid comments along the lines of, "Would madam like some product on her feathers?" to which Small Boy snorts derisively and tells me to "shut up as you are not funny, Mum."
We stand back to admire our handiwork. And it has to be said that Titch does look rather fine. She seems to know it, too, and struts her stuff in front of her coop-mates, giving them the eye.
"Look at me!" she seems to say. "I'm a show bird, me."
I only hope she cuts the mustard with the District Poultry Fanciers. I won't know what to say to her if she doesn't.

Reasons Not to be a Chicken Fancier, Part Two

Small Boy is taking this chicken fancying business far too seriously for my liking. Things have escalated since the letter from the National Federation of Poultry Clubs mysteriously landed in our letter box. Unbeknownst to me, he took the letter into school and photocopied it for his gang of collaborators, whom he had already contacted by email to make sure of getting them on side.
"Just exactly who've you told about this chicken show?" I demand, when he comes running out of school, excitedly telling me that "everyone" (that word again) wants to come too.
"Just William," he says, appropriately. Then he looks a bit sheepish and says, "and Matt and Jamez."
("Jamez" is actually "James", but apparently "Jamez" is "more cool".)
"In other words, all your friends who also happen to have chickens?" I point out.
"Er, yeah. Obviously," says Small Boy in his you-are-a-der-brain voice. "No one else would be interested."
I sigh. "I hope you realise that their parents may well be as cross as I am about getting up in the dark on a December morning to wash a chicken and take it to a show fifteen miles away?"
"William's already asked his dad and his dad has already called the man who runs the show," Small Boy announces triumphantly.
Luckily, William's dad is a mate, otherwise I might have a few choice things to say about William's dad. He also knows a lot about chickens, so I had better be extra nice to him. He may have some top tips on how to groom the bird (no pun or euphemism intended).
"OK, so IF we were to show Titch, how are you going to set about making her beautiful for the show?" I ask.
I immediately regret my answer.
"First we wash her in warm water and baby shampoo," says Small Boy, the glint of the fanatic flashing in his eyes. "Then we get one of those cotton things on sticks and clean under her claws and around her feet, and then we gently clean her face. Oh, and we mustn't forget to make her comb look nice and shiny."
"And how do you propose to do that?" I ask.
"With Vaseline, obviously," says Small Boy.
Obviously. Silly me. How in heaven's name have I managed to survive forty-one years on this earth without knowing that you make a chicken's comb shiny with Vaseline?
"And, dare I ask, won't all this intimate attention upset poor Titch?" I venture.
Small Boy looks at me as though I need to go back to the School for Idiots and resit my A-levels. "Obviously," he says with heavy sarcasm, "obviously we don't just leave it until the last minute otherwise she will get Overwhelmed."
"Overwhelmed?" I repeat. I try to picture an overwhelmed bantam, but fail.
"Yes," says Small Boy. "And that is why we need to practise before the day." He fixes me with a stern expression. "And you are going to help."
That's my weekend sorted then. Oh joy.

My Son the Chicken Fancier

It is Small Boy's turn to receive a letter. He waves it at me, just as Daughter did with the Activities Week schedule. My heart plummets.
"What is it this time?" I ask. "A trip to Outer Mongolia to study the lemurs?"
"No," says Small Boy, exasperatedly. "You don't get lemurs in Outer Mongolia. They only live on Madagascar. And Bristol Zoo," he adds, a familiar faraway look developing in his eyes.
"Anyway, the letter . . . ?" I ask quickly. Whatever is in the letter, it has to be better than a lecture on lemurs, or indeed any other species and their endemism.
"Oh yes, the letter," says Small Boy, snapping back to the present as though coming out of a hypnotic state. "Read it. And I am going to do it, whatever you say," he adds threateningly.
I take the folded sheet of white A4 and see that is it from The National Federation of Poultry Clubs. My mouth goes dry. How on earth has my son become involved in The National Federation of Poultry Clubs without my knowledge? This is possibly more shaming than being caught wandering around London with a security tag sticking out of my bottom.
I look at Small Boy, questioningly.
"I want to show Titch in the True Bantam class of the District Fanciers Association at the annual show," he announces, holding his head high.
"You do?"
"Yes. And it's only one pound, so you can't say no," he says.
My heart melts at that. One pound! How can I possibly say no to that.
"You do know you'll have to groom Titch if you're going to show her?" says Daughter, scanning the letter.
"Groom a chicken!" I wail. "You can't groom a chicken!"
"Of course you can," says Small Boy. "I don't actually know how . . ." he admits, wavering momentarily. "But William knows, so I'll ask him. Maybe he could come for a sleepover so we can groom her together?" He is beaming like a fundamentalist loony convert to a weird and wacky cult. (Appropriate really, given the circumstances.)
Titch, the bantam in question, is a Lavender Pekin. She is a decidedly cute hen, but putting aside all feelings of horror at the idea of an association of "district fanciers", I can't see her holding her own amongst the posh chickens at the show anyway. I picture her sitting forlornly in a cage, waiting to be judged while the posh chickens cluck and throw out bitchy comments about her lack of professional grooming. Plus, I have been to an agricultural show before (under severe pressure, I might add) and I know what the judges are like: white-coated, bowler-hatted (yes! bowler-hatted!), mean-faced people with no regard for a poor chicken's feelings.
"I don't think it's a very good idea," I say. "I don't like the implied criticism in being judged by one's looks. And what if Titch doesn't like being groomed? And what about the other hens, Chi-Chi and Hazel?" I add, scratching around desperately for other reasons to get out of this crazy plan. "They will feel hurt that you are not showing them."
"Mum," says Small Boy, fixing with his you-are-bonkers expression. "They are hens. They won't know."

I tell Husband about Small Boy's plan later that evening. "How am I going to get out of this?" I ask in despair.
He is glaring at the letter and looks up, stabbing at the print. "I'll tell you how you're going to get out of it!" he exclaims. "Have you seen what time you have to be there? Nine thirty on a Sunday morning! And it's at least forty minutes drive from here - and that's after you've got up early to groom the flipping bird. You can't do it the night before."
That does it. There is no way I am getting up early on a Sunday to help my son groom a bantam hen before breakfast, with or without William's help.
"And more importantly," says Husband. "I'm not sure we really want to be encouraging our son to become a Chicken Fancier. Do you?"
I don't know. He would look quite cute in the bowler hat . . .

But Everyone Else is Going!

Daughter is waving a letter at me. She has her I-am-in-pain-I-want-this-so-much face on. "So can I go? Everyone else is going--"
Those words send a chill through my veins. They are rarely a good sign. "Everyone else" has a pair of jeans that cost more than my whole wardrobe; "everyone else" has the latest Apple gadget whenever a new one comes out. And "everyone else" goes to sleepovers where "everyone" gets no sleep and "everyone" gets up to all kinds of mischief. In short "everyone else" has a much better life than my daughter.
The letter is from Daughter's school outlining what trips are being organised for Activities Week in the summer. In the Junior School participation was voluntary, there was no choice of activity and the trip on offer usually had some educational merit. It also did not cost an arm and a leg. Now that she is at Senior School she has the choice between going to Barcelona for a week to go round galleries and shops (yes, really - shops!), going on various walking or climbing activities, learning circus skills at school or going on walks in the countryside near school. It is pretty clear which trip she tells me "everyone else" is going on. It is also pretty clear which trip she therefore is going to put all her efforts into persuading us to say yes to.
I arrange my face into an expression of regret mixed with stern discipline and prepare to launch into a speech about money not growing on trees and the country going through stringent cut-backs and this not being a time for frivolity and--
"I know what you're going to say," says Daughter before I have had chance to draw breath. "But I'll do literally aaaannnnything if you let me go to Barcelona. What jobs can I do? Tell me! Tell me!" She is actually wringing her hands. The I'm-in-pain expression is looking alarmingly real.
Husband walks in on this Oscar-winning performance, so I fill him in.
"What if I said I'd do the gardening?" Daughter says, turning the full force of her charms on her father. "You know how much I hate gardening, so that really is a huge thing to promise to do," she pleads.
I swear she is batting her eyelashes now. How do girls learn how to do this?
Husband struggles to keep a straight face. "Well, I don't see why not." He watches as Daughter's eyes flash and her mouth opens in a wide grin. She is about to throw herself at him and squeeze him in to a bear hug when he adds, "But you'd have to mow the lawn every week through the spring and summer right up until the trip. And in the winter you'd have to do some of the clearing I've started on the bank."
Daughter's forehead creases and her grin morphs into a large disappointed "O".
"Every week?" Daughter repeats incredulously. "But--"
"Every week," Husband says firmly.
I am trying to catch his eye. Surely he doesn't mean this? How could he hold her to such a promise? He knows what she is like about tidying her room, putting her books away, picking up wet towels off the floor. She wouldn't even finish mowing the lawn the first time, let alone repeat the action week after week right through until next July. I stare at him, but he is resolutely refusing to look at me.
"Well," says Daughter finally, pursing her lips in disgust. "I don't think that's fair. Why should I do that much work just to go away for one week?"
"Oh, you don't think it's fair?" says Husband.
"No," says Daughter.
Husband finally looks at me. "That's funny," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Because everyone else does."

Government Evacuation Scheme: Bath

It is 6:00am. The alarm has gone off to warn us we need to evacuate the house. Husband has to catch a plane, Daughter has to catch a bus and Small Boy is a genuine evacuee for the day. He is going on a school trip as part of his WW2 project and has to dress as a 1940s evacuee, complete with label around his neck, cap on his head, and Just-William-style shorts and wrinkled socks on his legs. I am the only one not being evacuated, as I have to stay in the war zone with the dog. I feel a bit queasy as I attach the brown paper label to Small Boy's collar.
"You're not going to cry, are you?" he asks, disgustedly. "I'll be back by tea time."
I can't help it. He looks an even smaller boy in this get-up. It's the knitted tank top that does it. How can mothers have waved their tiny children off in this manner, I think. I have to hide my face in a tea towel until I have gained control of my emotions.
*
I always groan when school gives us the task of dressing the kids up in ludicrous outfits. "As if I haven't got anything better to do!" I grumble. To which my family's answer is, "Well, you haven't."
This time it was quite fun, though. I used the school trip as an excuse to drag my kids off to my favourite market town which is famed for its vintage shops and cafes.
"Urgh! We are NOT going shopping!" Small Boy protested. "It's halfterm!"
Small Boy views going into any town to go shopping as being on a par with having his toenails ripped out. In fact, he would rather have his toenails ripped out, as the pain would be over more quickly.
"Yes, we are going shopping," I told him firmly. "We are going to look for a woollen top for you to wear on your Evacuee Trip."
And we found one. It turned out to cost me rather a lot more than I was thinking of spending, but then I told myself I could possibly wear it at some time in the future.
"It's far too big for him," Daughter said. She eyed me with suspicion. "You're not planning to wear it yourself at some time in the future, are you?" she asked.
"Of course not!" I lied, laughing nervously. "Cafe, anyone?"
*
So, here we are at 6:15am on Friday morning, putting together the final touches of Small Boy's costume and packed lunch, which, I note with relief, does not have to have a 1940s theme. I am not sure that the remains of the Trick or Treat stash which I am throwing into a lunchbox, together with a tuna roll, a Braeburn apple and an Innocent smoothie, would have been easily available with rationing coupons.
"Seeing as we're up so early," says Small Boy cunningly, "and Sister has gone and Dad has gone and it's just you and me," he adds, widening his eyes to their most puppyish size, "can I have a Full English?"
I look at my little son with his brown label around his neck and feel the tears welling up again.
"Of course," I say softly, before remembering that I have no sausages, no bacon . . . no nothing really, except a couple of eggs. I rummage in the freezer and manage to produce a bagel.
"How about fried egg and bagels?" I suggest cheerily.
Small Boy seems to think this will do. The day's experience is looking less and less authentic already, I think as I rustle up his very un-Full, un-English breakfast and watch him play on my iPhone.
Five minutes later he has demolished the breakfast and is running around the table in circles. I am still barely awake, and so I send him upstairs to brush his teeth and get ready to go.
I am just getting myself together when Small Boy remerges with his clothes askew. I inspect him and howl in horror.
"What have you done!?" I shriek, grabbing him by the collar.
The carefully faked evacuee label that I spent ages making last night is streaked with water marks and toothpaste.
"I didn't mean it!" mumbles Small Boy, looking up at me mournfully from under the peak of his very fetching outsized tweed cap.
We have to leave in two minutes. I grab a brown envelope, scribble on it in felt tip and mutter furiously, then cover the whole thing in plastic laminate to prevent disintegration after further spillages. It is hardly comparable to Kate Reddy faking mince pies in the early hours of the morning after getting off a long-haul flight, but I am feeling aggrieved nonetheless.
"They didn't have laminate in Second World War times!" wails Small Boy.
"They didn't have Haribo Tangfastics and Maltesers either - and nor will you if you don't shut up and get a move on," I snarl.
Suddenly the idea of being left to brave the Blitz with only the dog for company seems rather a good way of spending a Friday. I could sit under the kitchen table and watch Miranda on my laptop while eating the remains of the Tangfastics.
"Now come on, grab your gas mask," I tell him. "Or we'll miss Chris Evans and the Candyman."
If we'd have had them during the Second World War, the Germans wouldn't have even wanted to invade, I think grimly, slamming the door behind us.

How to Be A Grown-Up

I am very excited. Husband has stepped into the breach and kindly agreed to pick up the kids so that I can go to London Town to see friends.
The children are quite indignant about this.
"So does Dad actually know how to come and get us?" they ask. "Like, does he even know where our school is?"
I assure them that he does.
I am less worried about how they will cope without me than I am about how I will cope being on my own for a whole day. Stepping out of the provinces is such a rare occurence for me that I have palpitations for days beforehand just imagining what it will be like to sit on a train ON MY OWN. I make copious lists of what to take for the journey: iPod, earphones (I have been known to take the iPod without the earphones, which was very distressing as it meant I had to listen to The Public chattering around me), a book, a notebook, a pencil, phone, food, money, ticket, passport-- Oh no, I don't need a passport to leave the West Country. Although if devolution persists, no doubt it will not be long in coming. We'll definitely be needing one to enter Cornwall before the decade is out.
I realise that I am rambling, which is another sure sign that I am nervous about leaving home for the day. I pace up and down the kitchen, checking my watch every few minutes to see whether I can leave to catch the train yet. I am avoiding looking at the dog, as she has guessed that something is afoot and is giving me very reproachful looks.
At last it is time! I grab my ludicrously over-packed bag and run out of the house, freed for a few hours from the life sentence of picking up socks.
Escaping is not as easy as all that, though. First I must walk through a muddy, cow-pat bedecked field down a near-vertical incline to get to the station. This is a walk I regularly and happily do wearing wellies, but today I am wearing two-inch high wedge heels, because today I Am Going To Be A Grown-Up in London Town.
Sadly, I did not think that part of being a grown-up is remembering to think about which kind of footwear would be appropriate for such a walk. I also forgot that the last time I walked through this field to get a train to London I was wearing cream trousers. I slipped and covered them in green grass stains, but did not have enough time to go home to change so had to sit with my mac draped awkwardly over the stains until I reached Paddington where I ran to the nearest shop, bought a pair of jeans and changed into them hurriedly in the loos. It wasn't until the end of that day that an anxious stranger pointed out the jeans still had a security tag sticking out of the back. I had been sashaying around the capital all day, thinking I looked like the cat's whiskers, while all the time I had a large plastic grey lump hanging off my backside, announcing to the world that I was a shoplifter, and a pretty rubbish one at that.
I tell myself to slow my pace and teeter, cautiously yet precariously, down the slope. I am feeling quite pleased with myself that no disaster has occurred, when I lose my concentration for a second and go over on my ankle. Pain sears across the instep of my foot and my ankle makes a popping, crunchy sound. Too late to do anything about it, I tell myself grimly. Nothing is going to prevent my escape.

After two trains are delayed and I miss all my connections, the throbbing in my ankle is getting worse and I am beginning to feel that maybe these are all signs that I am better off at home, ironing pants and defrosting mince. However, I make it into Paddington Station eventually, and the sights and sounds of the bustling metropolis are enough to dispel any grumblings of doubt. I meet up with some old friends, two of whom have known me for a scary amount of time and have seen me do worse things than fall over in a field full of cow pats. We laugh and reminisce and drink too much red wine and I manage not to fall over or off anything. The wine serves to anaesthetise the pain in my ankle and I walk back to the station at the end of the evening thinking, "I used to do this all the time. I used to catch trains and tubes whilst wearing high heels and feeling a little bit inebriated without giving it a second thought. I need to do this more often." I pledge to organise another trip to London as soon as I can.
However, such plans soon lose their appeal once faced with the reality of the return journey: two and a half hours on a slow train, a change on a cold, rain-swept platform and a further twenty minutes on a train to my local station. I alight with the realisation that my ankle is now crunching painfully with each step, and I now have to walk back UP the dreaded slope. In the dark. As I slip and dodge my way through the cowpats with only a wind-up torch to light my path, convinced that there is a bull lurking at the bottom of the field, I think that maybe I am just not cut out for life in the fast lane.
 I certainly won't be wearing those heels again for quite a while, anyway.

How to Write (Apparently)

"I've been reading your blog," says Daughter accusingly.
"Oh?" I say, avoiding her narrowed eyes.
"Yes. And what I want to know is, are you going to write down everything we say and do?"
"I might," I say, edging away.
"Only, it's quite funny actually," she says. I glance at her nervously, wondering if this is some kind of trap. "Yeah, and I was thinking that you should make it into a book maybe."
"Oh, I don't think so," I say. "It would have to have a story arc, you know, a beginning-middle-end kind of plot that pulls it all together." I wave my arms around vaguely.
But Daughter is shaking her head. Teenagers always know more than their parents. It's a Law of Nature. "No, you don't need a plot," she tells me confidently. "None of the books I read have plots. You could write it like a diary sort of a story, so all you'd need to do is write what you're writing now, and just put the date above each bit."
"Sorry," I say, puzzled. "You say none of the books you read have plots? Do you mind me asking exactly what you are reading at the moment?"
This is a constant source of argument between us. Apparently all the books I recommend are "like, sooooo boring and you're always going on about books because you are a writer but you don't understand what I like".
But I am knocked off course this time by a big grin from Daughter who announces, "Well, at the moment we are reading Frankenstein in English. It's by this woman called Mary Shelley who ran off with this Percy Poetry Guy--"
"You mean Percy Shelley?" asks Husband, not even bothering to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.
"That's the one!" exclaims Daughter brightly, not even registering the sarcasm anyway. "So, this Mary Shelley, she's written this book about a man who makes a monster and the idea came from taking body parts from the people she had loved in real life."
"Urgh!" I say. "I don't think that's right."
"Yes," says Daughter, frowning at my interruption. "She had all these people in her life who died, including her children and her parents and pretty much everyone, and so they are who the monster is based on. And did you know that people always think the monster is called Frankenstein, but it's not. It's just Frankenstein's monster."
"Yes, I did know that," I say.
"Oh, well I bet you didn't know it wasn't really green," she says triumphantly.
"Oh," I say.
"So where is your copy of the book?" asks Husband. "Maybe you could read some now."
"No, I can't. It's at school. They keep it there and we only read bits and bobs in lessons," says Daughter.
Husband and I exchange dubious looks.
"So are you going to finish it this term?" Husband asks.
"No," says Daughter carelessly. "We're not going to read ALL of it. Just the important bits."
I raise my eyebrows and open my mouth to make a comment, but Daughter beats me to it, "So!" she says, holding up a finger to shut me up. "That just goes to show that it doesn't matter if a book has a plot or not, as you don't always read it all anyway. So you can write your blog as a book. Easy."
She shoots me a look of triumph, swivels on her heel and exits, stage left.
As is becoming the case more and more these days, Daughter has had the last word.