'I'd like to hear your take on my mad neighbour,' announces Dan from his hands-free in the car.
'Mm?' I slacken my pace. Dan doesn't like wind interference or heavy breathing.
'She's taken to giving farm tours, towing visitors round behind the tractor. She's put a sofa in the wagon and they sit there, drinking wine and admiring her Portland rams.'
'Sounds rather fun.' I flop down on a park bench overlooking the Serpentine. Pigeons are flapping around a toddler, intercepting the chunks of bread he's throwing to the unlucky ducks.
'So then this Bentley appeared in her drive, and it was still there the next morning. The next day there was an Aston Martin - still there the next morning - then the next day, a Ferrari. There's been a constant stream of them. All there the following morning. So then she comes up to me today and says, "I'm going away on holiday, if you see a man in a white Range Rover hanging around, he's one of my Gentleman Callers and you can tell him he's not welcome here any more, because he's not."' Dan lets out an exuberant belly laugh. 'So what do you think, Lize? What can it all mean? Is she a prostitute?' He says it with an endearing touch of naivety, suggesting one who expects to be laughingly given a logical alternative explanation.
'Of course she is!' I snap my fingers and glare at Dolly, who is sniffing around the toddler's buggy, hoovering up stray breadcrumbs.
'Really? "Gentleman Callers!" What else can it mean?'
'Nothing. She's definitely a prozzie. Although she probably doesn't refer to herself as such. She probably calls herself a high-class ... farm hand.'
'Farm hand!' guffaws Dan.
'But what I'd like to know is how come they've all got such posh cars. I've never met anyone like that around Candlebury.'
'I presume she's signed up to ivegotanincrediblyexpensivecar.com. I did go on match.com to see if I could find her, but it's full of fairly average people, isn't it?'
'Yees,' I agree absent-mindedly. My mind has sped into fifth gear. Ivegotanincrediblyexpensivecar.com! Maybe this is the answer to my dire straits.
'I did somehow end up on Rate My Prostitute once,' Dan continues conversationally, 'and I was interested to note that what makes a good prostitute is off-street parking and a nice cup of tea.'
'Well that's the answer to why she's so popular! She probably pulls them in with a picture of her drive. "Come and indulge in a lavish forecourt..."'
'"...and a nice cup of Earl Grey!"'
Bang go my chances of being a high-class call-girl, though. No forecourt. It's impossible to park round here after 6.30pm.
Hmmm. Will just check out ivegotanincrediblyexpensivecar.com. Oops. Google Chrome couldn't find it. Well, that was too much to hope for. Google 'dating site for rich people with posh cars.' Here we are! www.millionairematch.com. With a big red button saying, FIND A MILLIONAIRE NOW! Click.
Tuesday, 24 September 2013
Thursday, 19 September 2013
New school blues
Lily has moved seamlessly from her St Trinian's country prep school for 100 horse-fancying, rara-skirted girls with names like Cecilia and Tatiana, to a London comprehensive for 1,400 black-suited Jaydens and Kayas.
I, conversely, have been on the back foot since the beginning of term, owing to a) the unfeasibly early mornings after a blissful year of lie-ins, and b) leaving it to the last minute to get her school uniform. The nice jackets had run out at M&S Marble Arch when we got there at 3pm the day before school commenced, forcing us to go to the dreaded official outfitter, whose official jacket combines the stiffness of cardboard with the type of manmade fibre that sparks fly off if you get too close.
The chummy assistant handed Lily an official ready-tied tie that fastens round the back with Velcro.
'Oh God,' I muttered. 'Don't they have real ties these days?'
'Don't want any peanutting,' cackled the assistant.
'What?'
'Few incidents,' she nodded knowingly at me, miming a tie-tightening throttle. 'Not many, mind, but two or three, back in the old days.' She pulled open a drawer. 'Not as bad as these,' she added, holding up a clip-on tie for another school where even quick-release Velcro is clearly not enough.
Oh lord. This isn't Candlebury.
Since then, Lily has taken up her newfound independence with a hitherto unknown burst of self-motivation, which involves setting her alarm for 6.30am, stomping downstairs at 7.10am (at which point I rouse myself and stumble down in my dressing gown to act like the dutiful mother), standing up to eat a quick bowl of Special K Red Berries while stuffing books into her backpack, before heading out across the park to team up with pals in order to walk back across the park to catch the bus to school.
'The thing is, Lily,' I venture on day 2, 'it's not very ergonomical, this little journey of yours.'
'Y'waaa?'
'The way you go to school. You're walking two sides of a triangle across the park and back. If you walked straight to the bus stop you could shave 20 minutes off your journey and spend another 20 minutes in bed.'
She gives me one of her steely withering looks, picks up her door key and heads out without so much as a 'bye, Mum'.
On day 3, Lily glares up at me as I appear on the stairs. 'You don't have to get up every morning,' she says. I shudder. My mother was already down, table laid, bacon and tomatoes sizzling in the pan, when I was Lily's age.
On day 5, as I attempt to hug her unyielding little body goodbye, Lily says, 'Do we have to go through this every morning?'
Oh God. I am officially redundant.
I, conversely, have been on the back foot since the beginning of term, owing to a) the unfeasibly early mornings after a blissful year of lie-ins, and b) leaving it to the last minute to get her school uniform. The nice jackets had run out at M&S Marble Arch when we got there at 3pm the day before school commenced, forcing us to go to the dreaded official outfitter, whose official jacket combines the stiffness of cardboard with the type of manmade fibre that sparks fly off if you get too close.
The chummy assistant handed Lily an official ready-tied tie that fastens round the back with Velcro.
'Oh God,' I muttered. 'Don't they have real ties these days?'
'Don't want any peanutting,' cackled the assistant.
'What?'
'Few incidents,' she nodded knowingly at me, miming a tie-tightening throttle. 'Not many, mind, but two or three, back in the old days.' She pulled open a drawer. 'Not as bad as these,' she added, holding up a clip-on tie for another school where even quick-release Velcro is clearly not enough.
Oh lord. This isn't Candlebury.
Since then, Lily has taken up her newfound independence with a hitherto unknown burst of self-motivation, which involves setting her alarm for 6.30am, stomping downstairs at 7.10am (at which point I rouse myself and stumble down in my dressing gown to act like the dutiful mother), standing up to eat a quick bowl of Special K Red Berries while stuffing books into her backpack, before heading out across the park to team up with pals in order to walk back across the park to catch the bus to school.
'The thing is, Lily,' I venture on day 2, 'it's not very ergonomical, this little journey of yours.'
'Y'waaa?'
'The way you go to school. You're walking two sides of a triangle across the park and back. If you walked straight to the bus stop you could shave 20 minutes off your journey and spend another 20 minutes in bed.'
She gives me one of her steely withering looks, picks up her door key and heads out without so much as a 'bye, Mum'.
On day 3, Lily glares up at me as I appear on the stairs. 'You don't have to get up every morning,' she says. I shudder. My mother was already down, table laid, bacon and tomatoes sizzling in the pan, when I was Lily's age.
On day 5, as I attempt to hug her unyielding little body goodbye, Lily says, 'Do we have to go through this every morning?'
Oh God. I am officially redundant.
Tuesday, 23 July 2013
A bravura barney
Dolly and her little friend Secco are scrapping at my feet, Heart FM is blaring some ghastly song and Lily is watching a trailer for some wham-bam action-packed movie on the iPad. Not my idea of a harmonious summer holiday.
'What are you watching?' I demand.
'Pacific Rim.'
'It sounds ghastly. What's it about?'
'It's the near future. And from below the Pacific Ocean, giant monsters known as Kajoo rise to conquer the world. Our only defence is the Jay-gers, huge robots controlled by two human pilots whose minds are locked in unison. Ultimately however it's a losing battle and in desperation the authorities turn to an untried novice, Mako Mori, and a washed-up pilot, Ra-lie Becket...'
'Typical Hollywood!'
'... who are tasked to drive an apparently... ob...sol...ee...'
'Obsolete. It means something that's out of date, defunct, has-been, useless, like every piece of technology you buy, the minute you get it out of the shop...'
'...experimental Jay-ger. With the apocalypse imminent...'
'Quelle surprise. Typical Hollywood.'
'... this unlikely pair make a bra....v.....V-U-R-A...'
'Bravura - accomplished, brilliant...'
'... last stand.'
'You see? Typical Hollywood film - imminent disaster, pair two unlikely heroes together, they're going to be totally incompetent, fall out, the whole thing is almost going to go wrong, and then miraculously they're going to pull it out of the bag and save the world. Totally predictable.'
'Well I find it totally predictable when you watch Pride and Prejudice,' Lily says coolly, switching trailers.
'There's nothing predictable about Pride and Prejudice!' I retort. 'You're just saying that to be annoying.' I catch her eye and she laughs.
But actually, I reflect, she's right. The dark difficult bloke always has a heart of gold and the dismissive heroine always ends up with him. Unlike real life. Typical Jane Austen.
'What are you watching?' I demand.
'Pacific Rim.'
'It sounds ghastly. What's it about?'
'It's the near future. And from below the Pacific Ocean, giant monsters known as Kajoo rise to conquer the world. Our only defence is the Jay-gers, huge robots controlled by two human pilots whose minds are locked in unison. Ultimately however it's a losing battle and in desperation the authorities turn to an untried novice, Mako Mori, and a washed-up pilot, Ra-lie Becket...'
'Typical Hollywood!'
'... who are tasked to drive an apparently... ob...sol...ee...'
'Obsolete. It means something that's out of date, defunct, has-been, useless, like every piece of technology you buy, the minute you get it out of the shop...'
'...experimental Jay-ger. With the apocalypse imminent...'
'Quelle surprise. Typical Hollywood.'
'... this unlikely pair make a bra....v.....V-U-R-A...'
'Bravura - accomplished, brilliant...'
'... last stand.'
'You see? Typical Hollywood film - imminent disaster, pair two unlikely heroes together, they're going to be totally incompetent, fall out, the whole thing is almost going to go wrong, and then miraculously they're going to pull it out of the bag and save the world. Totally predictable.'
'Well I find it totally predictable when you watch Pride and Prejudice,' Lily says coolly, switching trailers.
'There's nothing predictable about Pride and Prejudice!' I retort. 'You're just saying that to be annoying.' I catch her eye and she laughs.
But actually, I reflect, she's right. The dark difficult bloke always has a heart of gold and the dismissive heroine always ends up with him. Unlike real life. Typical Jane Austen.
Friday, 19 July 2013
My child prodigy!
12:25
Lily and I are in a state of high tension and suppressed expostulation. At least I am. She is doing a music scholarship today, under huge duress, for the local comprehensive school (which has a music speciality and, as I keep telling her, is sending its musicians on a trip to Brazil next year).
In teenhood, I discover, bribes and threats cease to work. We are a step short of mutiny. I try to remain calm in the face of her refusal to
b-r-e-a-t-h-e and warm up her voice before launching into her song. I don't rise when she plays her piano piece at double-quick time and stumbles over the tricky sections. But when she plays the sax, I can't help entreating her to stand with both feet on the ground instead of looking like she's leaning against a bus shelter. She glares and refuses to budge.
'Li-ly!' I take on the voice of a robot. 'Stand-up-straight-and-breathe-prop-er-ly!'
'What-ev-ah.' She holds her glare. We burst out laughing. 'Are you still doing your blog?' she asks.
'Just what I was thinking!' I say. We have turned into parodies of ourselves.
13:40
Lily's almost out of practice time. This is disastrous. I gather up her music and the iPad, hoping she'll get a chance to play something she recorded earlier in more harmonious mood, and we get into the car-sauna, whose front windows have seized up.
(As I read through my blog prior to publishing, Lily is standing over my shoulder. 'Can you put in brackets, "Lily thinks we should get an Audi A3, preferably in Phantom Black." I am her obedient servant. This will soon be Lily's and not Eliza's blog. 'Dash, not comma,' she instructs. Sorry. An Audi A3 - preferably in Phantom Black. 'That's a hyphen,' she points out. 'It won't do dashes,' I reply. 'Oh, damn,' she says.)
14:05
Purgatory. I am in a soundproofed room full of steel pans. Hate not being able to eavesdrop.
14:15
Hmmm. Suppose I'd better not play the steel pans just in case the room's not as soundproofed as it seems.
14:38
The door opens. Caught in the act! The head of music smiles knowingly. 'I loved her saxophone playing and she has a lovely voice, good breath control and a great range. I'm able to offer her free singing and saxophone lessons.'
I hardly dare ask the question. 'Does that mean she's got... a scholarship.'
The head smiles and nods.
'Can I ask... Is it a half- or a full scholarship?'
'Full. She wouldn't get the free individual lessons without it.'
Yess! My child is a prodigy! Lily and I head out arm in arm.
'Well that was easy,' she says.
'Shhhhhhh!'
15:05
Lily goes up to her room. I open Facebook to post a status about her success, but I can't find her in my Friends. Curious. I call up to her room.
'Darling? What's going on? I'm trying to tag you in my status and it can't find you... have you Unfriended me?'
'No.'
'You must have - you're not in my Friends.'
'I didn't!'
'Well how else can you have disappeared?'
She comes stomping downstairs. 'Someone else must have done it. It happened once before. Look in Friends.'
I look, and a Friend request pops up from Lily.
'There, you see!' she says triumphantly.
The time of the request is one minute ago. In other words, at the point when I was shouting up the stairs that she must have Unfriended me. I draw her attention to her hasty attempt to re-beFriend me. She can't help grinning as she flounces back up the stairs.
15:15
From the green dot next to Lily's name in my Friends list, I take it that she is on Facebook.
'Pooface,' I write in Facebook Chat.
Sent from Balham
Sent from Balham
Sent from Balham
Lily and I are in a state of high tension and suppressed expostulation. At least I am. She is doing a music scholarship today, under huge duress, for the local comprehensive school (which has a music speciality and, as I keep telling her, is sending its musicians on a trip to Brazil next year).
In teenhood, I discover, bribes and threats cease to work. We are a step short of mutiny. I try to remain calm in the face of her refusal to
b-r-e-a-t-h-e and warm up her voice before launching into her song. I don't rise when she plays her piano piece at double-quick time and stumbles over the tricky sections. But when she plays the sax, I can't help entreating her to stand with both feet on the ground instead of looking like she's leaning against a bus shelter. She glares and refuses to budge.
'Li-ly!' I take on the voice of a robot. 'Stand-up-straight-and-breathe-prop-er-ly!'
'What-ev-ah.' She holds her glare. We burst out laughing. 'Are you still doing your blog?' she asks.
'Just what I was thinking!' I say. We have turned into parodies of ourselves.
13:40
Lily's almost out of practice time. This is disastrous. I gather up her music and the iPad, hoping she'll get a chance to play something she recorded earlier in more harmonious mood, and we get into the car-sauna, whose front windows have seized up.
(As I read through my blog prior to publishing, Lily is standing over my shoulder. 'Can you put in brackets, "Lily thinks we should get an Audi A3, preferably in Phantom Black." I am her obedient servant. This will soon be Lily's and not Eliza's blog. 'Dash, not comma,' she instructs. Sorry. An Audi A3 - preferably in Phantom Black. 'That's a hyphen,' she points out. 'It won't do dashes,' I reply. 'Oh, damn,' she says.)
14:05
Purgatory. I am in a soundproofed room full of steel pans. Hate not being able to eavesdrop.
14:15
Hmmm. Suppose I'd better not play the steel pans just in case the room's not as soundproofed as it seems.
14:38
The door opens. Caught in the act! The head of music smiles knowingly. 'I loved her saxophone playing and she has a lovely voice, good breath control and a great range. I'm able to offer her free singing and saxophone lessons.'
I hardly dare ask the question. 'Does that mean she's got... a scholarship.'
The head smiles and nods.
'Can I ask... Is it a half- or a full scholarship?'
'Full. She wouldn't get the free individual lessons without it.'
Yess! My child is a prodigy! Lily and I head out arm in arm.
'Well that was easy,' she says.
'Shhhhhhh!'
15:05
Lily goes up to her room. I open Facebook to post a status about her success, but I can't find her in my Friends. Curious. I call up to her room.
'Darling? What's going on? I'm trying to tag you in my status and it can't find you... have you Unfriended me?'
'No.'
'You must have - you're not in my Friends.'
'I didn't!'
'Well how else can you have disappeared?'
She comes stomping downstairs. 'Someone else must have done it. It happened once before. Look in Friends.'
I look, and a Friend request pops up from Lily.
'There, you see!' she says triumphantly.
The time of the request is one minute ago. In other words, at the point when I was shouting up the stairs that she must have Unfriended me. I draw her attention to her hasty attempt to re-beFriend me. She can't help grinning as she flounces back up the stairs.
15:15
From the green dot next to Lily's name in my Friends list, I take it that she is on Facebook.
'Pooface,' I write in Facebook Chat.
L:
Me:
Yh. It's like. Sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo annoying!!
Yh u wish!!
Monday, 10 June 2013
Communicating with the Young
I know, it's been all quiet on the Gray front. At least it has as far as my blog is concerned, but that's because life itself has been anything but quiet! More of that, possibly, in due course. :)
Yes, I am now an official smiley and sad-face user, now that I communicate with the Younger Generation. I cannot hold back the tide. Lily has joined Facebook. She has a phone. We Like. We text. We :(. We :). She also :Ds and :ps and :/s, whatever they may mean.
Our text conversations go something like this:
L: Heey!
Me: Heeey!
L: Lol
Me: Lol
L: Quit copying!!
Me: Darling it's called mirroring.
[Pause while I open up Facebook to see what she's up to. Hmmm. Wish she were a little more discriminating with her Likes...]
Me: Nice profile pic darling. How was your English exam?
L: Arghh!!!!! It was awful!!!!!!!! I hate xams!!! They r EVIL THINGS THAT SHD NEVER HV BEEN INVENTED!!!!!!!!
Me: :( I'm sure you did OK darling.
L: Only got Latin left!!!!
Me: Good oh. Anybody been in tears or tantrums?
L: Me @ the beginning lol.
Me: :( Which exam?
L: Latin :(
Me: Hang on, you said you only have Latin left, so doesn't that mean you haven't done it yet?
L: Ohhh got confused. Lol. Hahaha. I cried before the xams it's called postexamsyndrome
Me: Darling 'post' as you'll know from Latin is AFTER... Preexamsyndrome perhaps?
L: Don't burst my bubble!! I thought I had made up a gd name there!!! :p
Me: If you cry After the exams you could call it Postexamsydrome... :)
L: *epic annoyed face w a thought saying Can't she accept my name for my illness??
Me: :) Right honey pie. Enough texting and facebooking! Pls do some vocab revision and remember to be precise in your translations. Not just a roughly right one! :)
L: Can I just say...
L: I did a translation (cuz I wanted to) harder than CE AND she said I did WELL!!!
Me: Lily! Do NOT put yr phone no on yr FB page. Delete that post quick.
Me: Well done re Latin. I know u r v g at it
L: Is this u?? 447749347296??
Me: It is me your mother. Who else did you think it suddenly was? The 44 is the English country code. if u r in UK u use a 0 instead but on mobiles both work
L: Ooohh!!!!! Can I get an oyster card??
Me: Yes but it takes 2 wks
L: Dowh :(
L: Cb I gt a tube account?
Me: What?
L: utube
Me: Ah. If u can set up without yr pic or age then yes. After the exams!
L: Kk thanx. Also can I get the NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL 30 YEARS album??
Me: Stop Lily! Go and R E V I S E!
L: Lol
L: Haha
Me: Good luck darling xxx
L: :p
Yes, I am now an official smiley and sad-face user, now that I communicate with the Younger Generation. I cannot hold back the tide. Lily has joined Facebook. She has a phone. We Like. We text. We :(. We :). She also :Ds and :ps and :/s, whatever they may mean.
Our text conversations go something like this:
L: Heey!
Me: Heeey!
L: Lol
Me: Lol
L: Quit copying!!
Me: Darling it's called mirroring.
[Pause while I open up Facebook to see what she's up to. Hmmm. Wish she were a little more discriminating with her Likes...]
Me: Nice profile pic darling. How was your English exam?
L: Arghh!!!!! It was awful!!!!!!!! I hate xams!!! They r EVIL THINGS THAT SHD NEVER HV BEEN INVENTED!!!!!!!!
Me: :( I'm sure you did OK darling.
L: Only got Latin left!!!!
Me: Good oh. Anybody been in tears or tantrums?
L: Me @ the beginning lol.
Me: :( Which exam?
L: Latin :(
Me: Hang on, you said you only have Latin left, so doesn't that mean you haven't done it yet?
L: Ohhh got confused. Lol. Hahaha. I cried before the xams it's called postexamsyndrome
Me: Darling 'post' as you'll know from Latin is AFTER... Preexamsyndrome perhaps?
L: Don't burst my bubble!! I thought I had made up a gd name there!!! :p
Me: If you cry After the exams you could call it Postexamsydrome... :)
L: *epic annoyed face w a thought saying Can't she accept my name for my illness??
Me: :) Right honey pie. Enough texting and facebooking! Pls do some vocab revision and remember to be precise in your translations. Not just a roughly right one! :)
L: Can I just say...
L: I did a translation (cuz I wanted to) harder than CE AND she said I did WELL!!!
Me: Lily! Do NOT put yr phone no on yr FB page. Delete that post quick.
Me: Well done re Latin. I know u r v g at it
L: Is this u?? 447749347296??
Me: It is me your mother. Who else did you think it suddenly was? The 44 is the English country code. if u r in UK u use a 0 instead but on mobiles both work
L: Ooohh!!!!! Can I get an oyster card??
Me: Yes but it takes 2 wks
L: Dowh :(
L: Cb I gt a tube account?
Me: What?
L: utube
Me: Ah. If u can set up without yr pic or age then yes. After the exams!
L: Kk thanx. Also can I get the NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL 30 YEARS album??
Me: Stop Lily! Go and R E V I S E!
L: Lol
L: Haha
Me: Good luck darling xxx
L: :p
Wednesday, 1 May 2013
From full-time Carer to Don't-Carer
Yes! Am new fabulous guest blogger for Care.com! My passport to fame and fortune! Hmmm. Had better check what Care.com is. Ah. The world's largest online destination for care. As in babysitters, nannies, childminders, carers for the elderly... Which is all marvellous. (Carer for the elderly! Just what I need. Only ten years to go....) Childcare, though? The thing is, at 13 years old, my daughter apparently no longer needs Care.
Let us wind back the clock to the beginning of term... Lily returns to The Manor with great excitement (our Easter holiday in Nepal was clearly purgatory for her, given that she slept all morning, Facebooked or Garage Banded all afternoon, and only spoke to order lasagne from the menu in the evening). She and her pals are milling around their dorm, where Violet Winkworth is acting Lady Bountiful and doling out Weetos. But what's this? Tallulah Barker is sitting on a mattress with a Tesco's bag over her head.
Let us wind back the clock to the beginning of term... Lily returns to The Manor with great excitement (our Easter holiday in Nepal was clearly purgatory for her, given that she slept all morning, Facebooked or Garage Banded all afternoon, and only spoke to order lasagne from the menu in the evening). She and her pals are milling around their dorm, where Violet Winkworth is acting Lady Bountiful and doling out Weetos. But what's this? Tallulah Barker is sitting on a mattress with a Tesco's bag over her head.
My maternal carer instincts spring
into action. 'Take that plastic bag off your head!' I cry. 'It's dangerous! You
could suffocate.'
Neither Tallulah nor her friends
appear to hear me, and so I do as any mother would, snatch off the bag,
whereupon Weetos spray around the dormitory.
There's a stunned silence. Tallulah
looks at me in sullen incredulity. I turn to see a pink-cheeked Lily staring at
me. I pan around the dorm, taking in the newly teenaged faces gazing at me with
open jaws or giggling nervously behind their hands. I look at the plastic bag and the scattered Weetos, and it occurs to me that Tallulah was innocently
pretending to be a horse, eating from her nosebag. Possibly.
Feeling like the butt of a Bateman
cartoon (The Woman Who Snatched the Tesco's Bag from the Teenager's Head), I
mutter an excuse and hasten from their midst.
So, it has happened. My daughter is
Officially Embarrassed. Of me. By me. And I have played into her hands,
persisting in my role as Carer instead of Don't-Carer.
The thing is, the transition from
hands-on to hands-off is hard to make when you have been the sole carer for 13
years, devoted to your child's every need and move. Aside from the early
years when Lily genuinely did need me (at least I think she did, though it's
hard to remember a time when she wasn't more resilient and independent than I),
I have spent days and weeks researching and booking activities, arranging
sleepovers and playdates and parties, helping her with homework, deliberating
which school would be the best for her, coaching her for exams, driving her to
and fro.... For all these years, Lily came first. As any child should.
But now, not only does she
apparently not need me, I am an embarrassing blot on her horizon. How do other
mothers do it? Step back and stop running and ruling their children's lives? While
a) not feeling personally wounded and b) retaining a modicum of influence and,
dare I venture, respect? Or is such a notion laughably old-fashioned?
'It gets worse,' say my friends of
14- and 15-year-old daughters. 'They're 100% focused on their peer group. And
boys.'
Oh God. And this is precisely the
time that Lily is due to return to live at home in London.
Actually, I've done rather
marvellously since I moved back to
London last summer. I used to be driven demented by her lack of communication. Now I don't email her much any more, given that she rarely reads or responds to my missives. Nor does she phone home. Our last email exchange, over the course of three days, went like this:
Me: Lils darling, try calling me ... wd be nice to have a chat.
xxxx
Lily: But with what??
Me: A phone? Using your phone card?
Lily: Phone cards too confusing plus none of the phones actually work properly…
Me: Lils darling, try calling me ... wd be nice to have a chat.
xxxx
Lily: But with what??
Me: A phone? Using your phone card?
Lily: Phone cards too confusing plus none of the phones actually work properly…
I don’t wanna use other peeps
mob…
Can a get a phone this
term???
Then I can keep in touch my friends and I
can talk to after school…
Its wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
easier!!!!
BIG TIME!!
Yes. Well, given that she's supposed to be concentrating on her Common Entrance, 'keep in touch my friends' is precisely the thing I've been trying to avoid.
But once she's back at home
full-time, will I be able to reinvent my Carer role? What will we be? Flatmates?
Landlady-lodger? (Is that Lily's tinkling laughter I hear? 'Yes, you'll be the
lodger, I'll be the landlady! Ha ha ha.'). I shall be beyond doormatting. I
shall shrivel up and slide between the gaps in the floorboards and be found
years later, when somebody buys the house.
'Y'wha?' Lily will say. 'Oh, yeah. I
wondered where Mum'd got to.'
Ah. Mr Postman! A letter from my
darling! It’s marvellous the way The Manor makes them write home on Sundays.
'MISS YOU AND DOLLY!!' she signs
off. 'Lots of love from your doted daughter,' which I take to be an amalgam of
'doting' and 'devoted'. And then, in the small print, 'Can you send me a letter
instead of an email sometimes??'
Aw. My baby. I rush to my office, grab a biro and
pull out a sheet of A4 from the printer. 'Darling Lilykins...'
Wednesday, 17 April 2013
A haiku for Maggie Thatcher
You split the nation,
ruling with your rod of iron;
Now you've split for good
ruling with your rod of iron;
Now you've split for good
Thursday, 14 February 2013
Happy Valentine's Day?
10:48
Ah. Here he comes. Mr Postman. With a great red satchel full of red envelopes!
10:52
Gosh, he's spending rather a lot of time at No 6. I suppose it's their teenage boys. All those lovelorn schoolgirls...
10:55
Ah. He's crossed on to our side now. No 5. No 4.
10:58
No 3. No 2. No...
Hang on! What's going on? He's turned on his heel and is walking back down the street, his satchel slung nonchalantly - not to mention emptily - over his shoulder!
11:02
Maybe he's gone to fetch his trolley. The one with all the really heavy things in it.
11:09
Maybe not.
:(
Ah. Here he comes. Mr Postman. With a great red satchel full of red envelopes!
10:52
Gosh, he's spending rather a lot of time at No 6. I suppose it's their teenage boys. All those lovelorn schoolgirls...
10:55
Ah. He's crossed on to our side now. No 5. No 4.
10:58
No 3. No 2. No...
Hang on! What's going on? He's turned on his heel and is walking back down the street, his satchel slung nonchalantly - not to mention emptily - over his shoulder!
11:02
Maybe he's gone to fetch his trolley. The one with all the really heavy things in it.
11:09
Maybe not.
:(
Sunday, 3 February 2013
A New You!
Honestly. All the papers and magazines keep banging on about the New You as if it's the Holy Grail of existence. 90 Days to A New You! 30 Days to A New You! 21 Days To A New You! 20 Days To A New You! Any advance on 20 days? No. Going going gone.
Well it's all rubbish. Once you're past 40, you don't want a New You. You want the Old You.
Well it's all rubbish. Once you're past 40, you don't want a New You. You want the Old You.
Thursday, 31 January 2013
Muffin tops and spring cleansing
'I can't bear it,' I say to Lily on viewing myself in the bathroom mirror. 'I've got a muffin top.'
'Is it blueberry?' she enquires sweetly.
'Do you actually know what a muffin top is?'
'Not really.'
'Well this one's pinky-white and fleshy and fatty.'
'Yuk!'
'Precisely. What am I going to do?'
'You should go to the gym.'
The thing is, I hate gyms. The only time I had a personal trainer, and paid him jolly good money I may add, he gave up on me.
'I give up,' he said. 'When we work on a muscle in your calf, your thigh hurts. When we work on your triceps, your neck aches.' I only stayed with him because of the final stretch at the end of the session, where I'd be on my back with my knees up to my stomach and he'd lie on top of me, gazing deep into my eyes with his beautiful green-flecked eyes.
He turned gay soon afterwards.
Ah well. It's a toss-up between the 5:2 and the Alkaline Diet. Except. Darn. Just remembered that delicious lemon drizzle polenta cake Lily made at the weekend. Ah well. I'll start tomorrow.
'Is it blueberry?' she enquires sweetly.
'Do you actually know what a muffin top is?'
'Not really.'
'Well this one's pinky-white and fleshy and fatty.'
'Yuk!'
'Precisely. What am I going to do?'
'You should go to the gym.'
The thing is, I hate gyms. The only time I had a personal trainer, and paid him jolly good money I may add, he gave up on me.
'I give up,' he said. 'When we work on a muscle in your calf, your thigh hurts. When we work on your triceps, your neck aches.' I only stayed with him because of the final stretch at the end of the session, where I'd be on my back with my knees up to my stomach and he'd lie on top of me, gazing deep into my eyes with his beautiful green-flecked eyes.
He turned gay soon afterwards.
Ah well. It's a toss-up between the 5:2 and the Alkaline Diet. Except. Darn. Just remembered that delicious lemon drizzle polenta cake Lily made at the weekend. Ah well. I'll start tomorrow.
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